Pete Rose is in the Hall of Fame for everyone who loves baseball, loves its very essence. Having a Cooperstown plaque, having the approval of select game guardians – those are artifices from a bygone era, when access to the sport was limited to agate-type box scores and grainy game highlights meted out weekly.
I am part of a fortunate class of graybeards, born in the late fifties, before baseball ceded its standing as America’s game, before every team’s bottom line was billions, who got to see truly great ones play with playground passion.
From the cheap seats of two Philadelphia stadiums, long ago razed, I saw Aaron’s sledgehammer thump and Clemente’s rifle. The magic of Mays and Billy’ sweet swing. The hellacious hump of the Koufax curve. Gibson’s snarl and Brock’s daring. Seaver’s leg drive and Marichal’s leg kick. The hiss and crackle of Ryan’s heater. The light-tower power of McCovey and the dual-league, MVP badassery of Frank Robinson. The snap of Lefty’s disappearing slider. The cannon crack of Schmidt.
And I saw the hustle of Pete Rose, the endless hustle, from game 1 to game 3,562. I saw him hit, and hit, and hit. I saw him win, and never tire of it. I saw him run through catchers and not look back, and soar into bases recklessly. I marveled at the sheer dominance of the Big Red machine, and understood that he was the critical cog of it.
I know a Hall of Famer when I see one. Rest in peace, Hit King.
Lefthand Communications 