By now, thousands of baseball fans would have marveled at it, reading the inscription and grappling with the fact that out of more than 23,000 men who have played in Major League Baseball, Pete Rose holds the record for the most hits—4,256. That’s what could have and should have happened in a world where the Hit King was celebrated solely for his remarkable achievements, rather than for the controversies that marred his legacy.
For 30 years, it has saddened me to gaze at that empty space on the wall in Cooperstown, New York, reflecting on why Rose’s plaque has never graced this Land of Legends. The news of his passing at age 83 deepened that sadness.
I've often said that Pete Rose was the saddest baseball story I've ever covered, and I’d like to explain where that sadness stems from. Like so many who knew him, I can't help but feel that his story shouldn’t have ended this way.
Pete Rose was an exceptional baseball player, but he was also a joy to watch. He brought an infectious energy to the field, filled with line drives, headfirst slides, and a quick wit that could make anyone laugh.
He was a Rookie of the Year at 22, an MVP at 32, and still leading the league in hits at 40. The "Pete Rose Show" was a spectacle in itself. He achieved a remarkable 44-game hitting streak and surpassed legends like Stan Musial and Ty Cobb to become the all-time hit leader. He was a walking, talking baseball history exhibit, possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of the game.
In my lifetime, he was the most magnetic figure in baseball, and I don’t say that lightly. We couldn't take our eyes off him whenever he stepped onto the field, nor could we stop talking about him once he stepped off.
His smile was infectious, and he sprinted to first base after every one of his 1,566 walks. He could effortlessly switch to entertainer mode, capturing the spotlight in any setting. He commanded attention in every room he entered.
If only we could have spent the past few decades focusing on that side of him.
But then the truth about Rose's darker life began to surface. If only gambling had never entered the equation. If only he hadn’t associated with unsavory figures. If only he hadn’t faced troubling allegations regarding his treatment of women. If only he had realized he wasn’t invincible. If only he had taken the commissioner's inquiry seriously when Bart Giamatti approached him about the gambling allegations. If only that meeting had served as a wake-up call rather than the catalyst for a suspension that would define the rest of his life.
It’s been 35 years since I sat in a New York ballroom when Giamatti announced that he was banning "Mr. Rose" for life due to gambling on his own team. The murmur that rippled through the room that day on August 24, 1989, still resonates. How could this be happening? Pete Rose’s career was ending not on the baseball field but in a conference room.
That felt profoundly wrong—not because Giamatti’s decision was unjust, but because the man being suspended had made so many poor choices that led him to this fate.
But that wasn’t the end of the story. In the years that followed, Rose had numerous chances—maybe not to return to the sport, but at least to earn a place on the Hall of Fame ballot. We all know how that turned out.
Despite these opportunities, it seemed as though he consistently chose the wrong path. Time and again, he failed to take the steps necessary to redeem himself.
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| Pete Rose makes history with his 4,192nd career hit, surpassing Ty Cobb to become baseball's Hit King. |
In 2002, a pivotal meeting was arranged by Pete Rose's friends, Mike Schmidt and Joe Morgan, between the former player and Bud Selig, then the commissioner of baseball. It was a moment that Rose had to know would be his best opportunity to alter the course of his life ban from the sport.
During the meeting, Selig outlined the conditions under which the league would consider lifting Rose's lifetime suspension. Rose would need to cease all gambling activities, avoid casinos and racetracks, and, crucially, he would have to hold a press conference to publicly admit to betting on baseball. He would need to apologize to those he had betrayed and promise that he would never engage in such behavior again. After shaking hands on this agreement, Rose left the meeting.
However, instead of taking the necessary steps to comply, he headed straight to a sports book in Las Vegas for an appearance. This decision infuriated Selig and others present, sealing Rose's fate indefinitely. It’s difficult to argue that anyone but Rose himself was responsible for this outcome.
From that moment on, it became clear that Pete Rose’s induction into the Hall of Fame would never come to pass. I’ve known since then that there would always be an empty spot in the gallery where his plaque should have hung, and I’ve anticipated writing this column on the day he died.
But knowing this was coming does not lessen the sadness of his story.
It’s possible to feel that sadness while also recognizing that Rose was the architect of his own downfall. Why can’t both be true? I believe it’s sensible to hold two sets of memories about Pete Rose.
On one hand, there are the hits, the hustle, the records, and the unforgettable moments that made watching the Hit King a joy. Those memories will forever bring a smile to my face.
On the other hand, there’s the unfortunate turn his life took—one that brings a sense of loss for what might have been. I often wish he had made different choices.
It’s striking to think about the “lifetime” suspension handed down by Giamatti. Now that the term "lifetime" no longer applies, could there be a chance for Rose to be considered for the Hall of Fame? Why not? It has never made sense to me that the Hall would not find a way to honor the man who holds the record for the most hits in baseball history.
Why can’t we celebrate all those hits while also acknowledging the more troubling aspects of his story? If I were in charge of the plaques, I would strive to represent both sides of Pete Rose.
However, reality tells us that this is unlikely to happen. Many writers believe Rose has served his time, and if he were ever eligible, they would vote for him as the Hit King, despite reservations about his actions as the Bet King. Yet, contemplating this is futile; the chances of Rose appearing on a ballot are slimmer than Taylor Swift making an appearance on it.
Even if Rob Manfred or a future commissioner were to reconsider, what are the odds of any veterans committee electing him? Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens faced a similar fate two years ago, and their chances of induction remain bleak. Therefore, it seems reasonable to conclude that Pete Rose’s situation is unlikely to change.
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| Could Pete Rose eventually find his way to Cooperstown? As it stands, a clear path to induction remains elusive. |
With Pete Rose’s passing, the prospect of his Hall of Fame induction feels profoundly altered. Many of us have imagined what that day might have entailed—just think of the throngs of baseball fans gathered on the hills of Cooperstown, eagerly anticipating his speech.
What would he have said on such a momentous occasion? How would his fellow Hall of Famers have honored him? Would some have chosen to skip the event altogether? It would have been an unprecedented Induction Day—one that would have sparked discussions for years to come, much like the man himself.
Coming to terms with his absence will take time. Throughout my years of covering baseball, Pete Rose has always been a fascinating figure, bringing excitement to the sport. He was a go-to source for column ideas, especially during quieter moments, and everyone who encountered him has a story to share.
One thing is clear: I will always remember the life and legacy of Pete Rose—especially when I walk through the halls of Cooperstown and gaze at the spot where his plaque should have been.
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