Charlie Hustle
Peter Edward Rose
died Monday, September 30, 2024. He was eighty-three years old. I had a complex
relationship with Pete Rose, though I never met the man. Let me explain.
My introduction to
baseball began with my dad. Family legend holds that he began playing catch
with me in the backyard when I was three. Not long after that, I began
organizing backyard games with my pals in the neighborhood. Baseball became an
obsession for me, from sandlot ball to Little League, Peanut League, High
School, American Legion, all the way through my first year in Junior College.
Somewhere along
the way, it was etched on my baseball soul that you had to hustle. That meant
running out every ground ball or pop-up, running to your position at the start
of an inning, running back to the dugout after the third out, and giving one
hundred percent effort on every play. In my mind, hustle was a rule, every bit
as important as three-strikes-you’re-out.
When my sons, Matt
and Gabe, reached Little League age in 1987 and 1988 respectively, I began a
coaching “career” that spanned ten seasons. I had a program with four major
goals: have fun; teach fundamentals; teach teamwork and sportsmanship; teach
the value of hustle. I knew if we did those things well, winning and losing didn’t
matter much. And that’s where Pete Rose came into my life. I used him as a
prime example of the way the game should be played. He was “Charlie Hustle,” always
giving one hundred percent effort.
And what was the value
of hustle? I stressed two things with my players. First, hustle makes good
things happen in a ballgame. Second, coaches absolutely love hustle. Show that
you are a hustling ballplayer, and there will always be a place for you
on a team.
In August1989,
Pete Rose was declared “permanently ineligible” by Commissioner Bart Giamatti
for betting on baseball. Several players, including my sons, came to me and
said, “So, what do you think of Pete Rose now, Coach?” There was no defense. I
had to find a new example, a new hero to sell the value of hustle.
The baseball
pundits are likely to hold lively debates over Pete Rose’s legacy. How is it
that the man who holds so many all-time records, including the most hits with
4,256, is not in the Hall of Fame? Can we separate the near-perfect ballplayer
from the imperfect man? What about all those guys in the Hall who we know were
not choir boys? (Hello, Ty Cobb. Raise your hand, Babe Ruth.) And if we forgive
Pete and let him in, what about the steroid users like Barry Bonds, Mark
McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, and Roger Clemens?
Americans are
quick to forgive and offer a second chance if someone comes clean, confesses
his or her misdeeds, and offers a sincere apology. Maybe if Pete had done that way
back in 1989, we would have put it all in the rearview mirror. Let bygones be
bygones. After all, he racked up all those records before he started betting on
baseball. Didn’t he?
Pete couldn’t do
that. He kept up the lie. He said, It ain’t so! And when each new
scandal broke (cocaine, steroids, sign stealing), he said, See, I never done
none of that. He finally confessed in 2004. Everything the Dowd Report
alleged was true. And that was the tip of the iceberg. His personal life was
even more of a mess: tax evasion, paternity suit, statutory rape. He was a
deeply flawed human being.
But, man, wasn’t
he fun to watch? Ripping line drives from both sides of the plate, flying headfirst
into bases, playing infield and outfield positions with equal effectiveness, the
heart of The Big Red Machine, three times a World Series champ. And always, day
in and day out, the relentless hustle, hustle, hustle.
Pete Rose is dead,
RIP. Long live Charlie Hustle.
_____
