Pete Rose applied to be reinstated to the Hall of Fame once more.
When I hear this, I sigh:
I do not like to cripple my life with legalism.
Let him in.
And I do not like to forgive unless I need to.
Keep him out.
I do not approve of throwing a ballgame, of shuffling a lineup to benefit a bet.
I find it unseemly.
And I do not begrudge Bart Giamatti for throwing out Rose for the rest of the player’s life.
Some hitter.
When I consider Rose’s face, I see his eyes fixed on a base, fingers stretching toward the bag in a headfirst slide.
He remained so competitive that he wasn’t content to manage a game.
He needed to influence it.
He still played during part of his management career.
Still, more.
Part of me tries to imitate him, living with that much fervor.
Love with no modifier.
Part of me denies support for the greatest hitter of all time.
A man now scorned for cheating, though he gave his heart away.
A man replaced by a generation of players I adore.
Many of them still cheat. Many of them still play.
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