Pete Rose died on Monday, which caught me off guard. I never imagined he’d slow down long enough for something like that to happen.
I knew Pete well, and he always intrigued me. I’d never met anyone who attacked life the way he did—like every door he encountered needed to be knocked down, even if there was a perfectly good doorknob in front of him.
For all of his 83 years, not just during his legendary baseball career, Pete lived like he was double-parked. He’d sprint to first base the moment the ump called ball four. Vin Scully once joked to his listeners, “Pete Rose just beat out a walk.” I even saw him sprint off after striking out once.
He was the only player I ever knew who would calculate his batting average before even rounding first base—just to give himself something to do. I always felt that was why he got into gambling. Playing baseball like it was some sort of daring escape wasn’t exciting enough for Pete. He needed more thrills, more adrenaline, more ways to outplay someone.
In 1985, after a home game where he managed and played for the Cincinnati Reds, I went to his house. It was the year he’d gotten his 4,192nd hit, breaking Ty Cobb’s record and becoming baseball’s all-time hit leader. That night, after a whirlwind of managerial decisions, interviews, and a two-minute shower, we were driving home with Pete fiddling with the radio, looking for a sports-talk show to yell at.
We got home around midnight. His wife, Carol—an ex-Philadelphia Eagles cheerleader—was still awake and offered to make pancakes. I wanted pancakes, but Pete barely acknowledged her. He was already on the TV, trying to figure out who had won that night’s hockey games. “Goddamn Canucks!” he muttered.
That was Pete Rose: always in motion, always multitasking, never slowing down. He never overthought things because he didn’t have time. He was the kind of guy who’d slide into home plate first and worry about whether the catcher was standing there later. Potential consequences weren’t his concern—only the game mattered. It was his entire life. Teams, wives, decades, kids, grandkids—they all came and went, but baseball was constant.
While Michael Jordan took up golf and Jimmy Carter took up carpentry, Pete Rose stayed with baseball until his dying day. Just this past Sunday, the day before he died, he was at a baseball card-signing event in Nashville with some of his old teammates. I wonder who got his last autograph.
I once stopped by his autograph booth at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas on my way to the airport. For years, he sat there a couple of weeks each month, selling memorabilia. I had my luggage with me.
“But Pete,” I said, “the day you don’t bet is the day the bookies bet against you.”
“Nah,” he waved it off.
The whole debate over Pete’s Hall of Fame exclusion has always felt like a lot of noise. He’s already part of Cooperstown’s history—they can’t ignore his records, even without a plaque. You don’t need a plaque to recognize that this 17-time All-Star was one of the greatest to ever play the game. And Pete, he admitted everything and apologized years ago. What more could baseball possibly want?
Now, the sad reality is that Pete’s obituaries will lead with “banned from baseball.” But for 24 pedal-to-the-metal, jaw-dropping, thrilling years, he played unbanned. That’s what people should remember.
Pete Rose loved baseball, from his constantly tapping feet to the helmet that was always flying off his head.