Oh Pete Rose:
Who can say whether I’d gamble on my own games if I could. I know I shouldn’t. I might do it anyway.
Maybe I’d resign myself to sitting in a folding chair behind a conference table, signing clean baseballs for 99 bucks, like you.
I know it wouldn’t exactly look like I’d reconfigured my life, like those lawyers told me I ought to do if I ever wanted to coach in the major leagues.
I know I could be the belle of every ball, with everything I’d learned about hitting and everything I’d want to tell, knowing that no one could catch me.
If someone could that would be okay, too.
Okay. That doesn’t sound like something I’d say, if I were you.
If I were you, I still couldn’t work in baseball, because every commissioner wants to keep the integrity of the game intact.
I don’t know what integrity in baseball means.
Oh, Pete. I don’t believe I can bear the brunt of deciding whether to forgive you.
by 