Reflections on Pete Rose, the Hall of Fame and the spot where his plaque will never hang

I know exactly where Pete Rose’s Hall of Fame plaque should have been hanging — for the past three decades.

You’d have found it in the middle of a powerhouse cluster in the plaque gallery — nestled in between the plaques of Tom Seaver and Reggie Jackson. Among others.

Thousands of baseball fans would have gawked at it by now. I can still imagine them, reading that plaque and trying to comprehend that more than 23,000 men have played in Major League Baseball — and Pete Rose got more hits than any of them.

But that’s what could have and should have happened, in a What-If World in which the Hit King was known only for those 4,256 hits and not for … well, so much else.

For three decades, it has saddened me to gaze at that spot on the wall in Cooperstown, N.Y., and reflect on why Rose’s plaque was missing from this Land of the Legends. And on Monday, that sadness only grew, as the news spread that Rose had died, at age 83.

I’ve said and written many times that Pete Rose was the saddest baseball story I ever covered. Now let me explain where that sadness comes from. Like so many others who knew him, it comes from the inescapable thought that his story shouldn’t have ended this way.

Pete Rose was so good at baseball. But more than that, it was so much fun to watch him play baseball. He was a daily fireball of dust and dirt, line drives and headfirst bellyflops, quips and quotes that made you laugh out loud.

He was a Rookie of the Year at 22, an MVP at 32 and still the league leader in hits at 40. The Pete Rose Show was something, all right.

He got a hit in 44 games in a row. He passed Stan Musial to set the all-time National League record for hits. He passed Ty Cobb to lead the whole continent in hits. He was a walking, talking, baseball history museum. And he knew everything about everything that anyone could possibly have stuffed inside that museum.

He was the most magnetic baseball figure of my lifetime. And I don’t say that casually. I’ve thought about this for years. We couldn’t stop watching Pete Rose any time he set foot on a baseball field. We couldn’t stop talking about him when he stepped off that baseball field.

He had an infectious smile. He sprinted to first base after all 1,566 walks. He could turn on his nightclub act and entertain you any time that came in handy. He could make himself the center of the baseball universe. He was the most powerful presence in every room he ever entered.

If only we’d spent the last few decades talking about that guy.

But once the truth began to seep out about that other world Rose lived in, it would never be the same. If only there had never been such a thing as gambling. If only the Hit King hadn’t gravitated toward so many of the unsavory figures in that other world. If only he hadn’t left so many other troubling allegations in his wake, particularly involving his treatment of women. If only …

If only he’d understood that he wasn’t bulletproof. If only he’d taken it all more seriously when the commissioner, Bart Giamatti, asked to talk with him about these gambling allegations the commissioner’s office had caught wind of. If only that had been a wake-up call … instead of the impetus for the suspension that would define Pete Rose for the rest of his life.

It’s now 35 years since I sat in that ballroom in New York where Giamatti announced that he was banning “Mr. Rose” for life for gambling on his own team. I’ll never forget the murmur that rippled through that room as the commissioner uttered those words on Aug. 24, 1989. How could this be happening – Pete Rose’s career ending not on a ballfield but in a ballroom?

That felt all wrong — but not because Giamatti’s decision was wrong. Because the man he was suspending had made so many wrong turns and so many wrong decisions that he brought that fate on himself.

Except it turned out that was not the end of the story. Over the next 15 years or so, Rose had his chances maybe not to get reinstated and work in baseball, but to at least get himself onto a Baseball Hall of Fame ballot. Of course, you know how that worked out.

He had so many chances to save himself. But whatever it was he needed to do to make that happen, it felt as though he did the opposite. Over and over and over again.

In 2002, his friends, Mike Schmidt and Joe Morgan, arranged a secret meeting between Rose and Bud Selig, then the commissioner of baseball. The Hit King had to know he would never have a greater opportunity than this one.

Selig spelled out what baseball expected of him if the league was even going to consider adjusting his life sentence. Rose would need to stop gambling — all the gambling. He would need to stop hanging out at all those casinos and racetracks.

And finally, there was this: He would need to hold a press conference — to admit to his “crime,” to admit that yes, he’d bet on baseball, to apologize to everyone he’d betrayed and to promise none of this would ever happen again. They shook hands. And then …

Rose walked out of that meeting and headed directly for an appearance at a sports book in Las Vegas. The commissioner and those around him were furious. Rose’s fate was sealed forever that day. It’s hard to argue it was anyone’s fault except his own.

I’ve known since then exactly how this saga was going to end. I’ve known since then that Pete Rose’s Induction Day in Cooperstown would never arrive. I’ve known since then that there would always be that spot in the gallery where his plaque would never hang. I’ve known since then that I’d be writing this column, on the day he died.

But knowing this was coming doesn’t make it any less sad.

Can you feel that sadness and yet understand that no one was more responsible for how this ended than Rose himself? I believe you can. Why can’t both things be true? I think it’s possible — even sensible — to have two sets of Pete Rose memories.

The hits, the hustle, the records, the indelible moments, the laughs, the fun that flowed from watching the Hit King play baseball — I’m not banning those for life. I’ll think of them forever and smile.

But the turn the rest of his life took — why would I not look at that with sadness? I think about what should have been, and I wish he’d done so many things differently.

It’s strange to think now that he was suspended “for life” by Giamatti. And now that the “lifetime” part of his suspension no longer applies, does that mean that someday, there could be a door the league might open to allow Pete Rose a place in the Hall?

Why not? It never made sense to me that the Hall of Fame wouldn’t find some sort of way to honor the man who got more hits than anybody who ever stood in a batter’s box.

Why isn’t it possible to celebrate all the hits while honestly acknowledging the other side of the story? Why can’t his plaque do both? That’s what I’d do if I was the “Plaque Czar.”

But you know and I know that’s not what will happen. I’ve met many writers who feel as though Rose served his time, so if he ever appeared on our ballot, they’d vote for Pete Rose, the Hit King, even if they had issues with Pete Rose, the Bet King. But it’s a waste of time even to think about that. There’s a better chance of Taylor Swift appearing on our ballot than there is of Rose ever appearing on the writers’ ballot.

And even if Rob Manfred or some future commissioner were ever to change his mind, what version of any veterans committee would ever elect him? Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens found out two years ago that their door is still slammed shut. So why would we think Rose would be any different?

Could Pete Rose end up in Cooperstown? At the moment, it’s difficult to see a pathway. (Getty Images)

And now that he’s gone, it could never carry the same meaning anyway. I’ve always wondered what Pete Rose’s Induction Day would have looked like. Haven’t you? How many baseball fans would have spread out on those Cooperstown hills to hear that speech?

What would he have said that day? What would the other Hall of Famers have said about him? How many would have found something else to do that weekend? It would have been an Induction Day unlike any other — one we would have talked about for decades.

Just like the Hit King himself.

It’s going to take a little while for this to sink in. For as long as I’ve been covering baseball, there has always been Peter Edward Rose to make our lives far more interesting. He was always there, any time we needed a column topic on a slow day. And everyone who knew him had a story to tell.

Now there’s one thing I know for sure. I’ll never forget the life and times of Pete Rose — but especially when I walk through the halls of Cooperstown and stare at that spot where his plaque should hang.

Required reading

(Top photo of Pete Rose in 1984: George Gojkovich / Getty Images)