Charlie Hustle

My first memory of Pete Rose was watching him play on my family’s 13” black and white TV in our living room in Cincinnati, Ohio. It was probably 1967. He was all energy and played the game with an intensity that demanded your attention. I was six years old, and I was mesmerized. More importantly, my father was too. Pete had been a powerful nexus between myself and my father. When I heard of Pete’s death, memories began to flood my senses, and demand my attention.

My father grew up in Montgomery, Alabama and attended the United States Military Academy at West Point. He arrived at the campus, in 1942, at the age of 18. Imagine walking onto that campus at the height of World War II as a young man ready to serve his country! He had learned “duty, honor, country” at West Point and he approached his obligations to his family in the same way. Dad was often stoic emotionally and put his energy into his work, and to providing for his family. He worked long hours and was often exhausted or ready to relax when he got home. There were not a lot of long talks or opportunities for Dad to impart his experiences and his philosophy on life.

So, when my father talked about his admiration for Pete Rose, I listened. He told me, “Jay, when you play ball, play like Pete. He is not the most athletic or the strongest, but he works harder and tries harder than any player in the history of the game.”  Dad continued, “Son, that is why they call him Charlie Hustle.” I took note of what my father admired and admired it too.

Thus began my love for Peter Edward Rose. No one ever ran to first base after getting a walk, but Pete did. Other players did not round first base as if they were heading onto second base, or slide into bases with a headfirst slide, like Pete did. He knew the game was about getting home, and he was in a hurry to make that happen. Every part of Pete’s game was designed to give him and his team an edge, to make the opposing team uncomfortable, and to will his team to victory. He played with more intensity, more often, than any man who had ever played the game.

Pete was a switch hitter. This meant he could bat right-handed against left-handed pitchers and left-handed against right-handed pitchers. This comes in quite handy when a major league pitcher throws you a curveball. If you bat right-handed and are facing a right-handed pitcher, their curveball starts out like it is going to hit you in the ear then breaks away at the last minute. If you switch to left-handed, the curveball from a right-handed pitcher is much less intimidating. You simply wait for it to curve over the plate without the fear of a potential concussion.

It takes a lot of time, dedication, and practice to become a switch-hitter. That was why it was, and still is, so rare in major league baseball. Pete saw the opportunity to get an edge, and he enthusiastically developed the ability to hit from both sides of the plate. This allowed his team to count on him regardless of whether the pitcher threw left-handed or from the right-hand side.

Pete would finish the major league season and, while the rest of the league went golfing or vacationed, he’d play winter ball in Venezuela. This enabled him to get better while others rested on their laurels. Pete could play almost all the positions in the field except pitch. He could bunt, steal bases, and run down fly balls. He could play infield or outfield. He could play first base, second base, or third base. He could bat left-handed or right-handed. He gave his manager as many reasons as possible to put him in the game.

In an age of cool ballplayers who posed after home run swings, and casually caught fly balls, Pete was anything but casual. He was on fire. Never stopping. Always moving. Loving the game and the competition, even more than we did. Always doing every little thing he could do to help his team win the game. He played every play as if it was the 9^th inning in game 7 of the World Series. His intensity was unmatched.

Cincinnati was a baseball town at a time when baseball was still America’s pastime. Pete, like me, was born and raised in Cincinnati. He was one of us. Football was just starting to emerge, and nearly every American boy dreamed of being a major league ballplayer someday. Cincinnati was the oldest franchise in the game and was given the traditional season opening game every season at their home ballpark. Schools would schedule half days so the students could get home in time to go to the game or listen to it by tuning their transistor radio to WLW AM 700. The sense of community was powerful and intoxicating. There is nothing better than opening day, or a tight pennant race late in the season, to bring a town together. People who were at odds about civil rights, busing, and war in Asia, were all able to join in common cause and root for the home team. Hope springs eternal on opening day.

My friends and I followed the Reds religiously. We would stand in front of mirrors and mimic our favorite players’ batting stances and styles. By the time I was 11, I could imitate every starting player’s batting style and mannerisms. We knew each player’s batting average and how many home runs they had hit. We lived, ate, and slept baseball. Pete Rose was the center of that universe in Cincinnati.

My mother would often take me to Reds events in the city. One of my favorites was the Dugout Club. This offered fans a chance to meet the players at our local department store, Shilito’s. We would all gather in a back room and meet various Reds’ players. They would answer questions from their fans and conduct a raffle to see who the honorary batboy for their next home game would be. Oh, how I wanted my name to be called when they announced the winner! I’d try to drop my entry into the raffle wheel in such a way that it would be easy to grab. We would get autographs and interact with the players. It was like our own private press conference. They didn’t even charge you to attend.

Pete would show up more often than you would think. He was becoming a star but, would prefer talking baseball with his fans rather than seeking private moments in his personal life. I can recall my mother telling me one morning that Pete was at the K-mart signing autographs. We immediately headed over where I found Pete, standing by himself, happy to see me. He had his left hand wrapped in a bandage because he had cut it open trying to catch a fly ball off the top of the jagged chain-link fence at the old Crosley Field. Pete was well known for sacrificing his body to try and make a play that enabled his team to win. Just me, my Mom, and the greatest hitter who ever played the game – shooting the breeze at the K-mart!

We would go to the games and see if the Reds could handle Hall of Fame pitchers like Juan Marichal or Bob Gibson. If we couldn’t make the game, I’d often listen to the game on the radio. Before the game would start, I would get a ruler and some notebook paper so I could make a “scorecard” to allow me to “keep score” of the game. I’d add each of the players’ batting averages, the position they played, and the earned run averages for the pitchers. It was about love for the game, history, and numbers. Three things most American boys can relate to.

Pete Rose ascended to the top of the baseball world, but his personal life was unable to keep up with the joy he displayed while playing the game he loved. Eventually he got suspended from baseball when it came to light that he had bet on baseball games as a player manager for the Reds. This happened very late in his career. Baseball had a cardinal rule on this, due to the 1919 World Series being “fixed” by the Chicago White Sox, in what became known as the Black Sox Scandal. Pete never bet against his own team but, he did bet, dying for the action that only playing baseball could provide. Bart Giamatti, the commissioner of baseball, suspended Pete, claiming he had “stained the game.”

Baseball lost its way on Pete and failed to rise to the occasion despite ample opportunity. Rose agreed to a ban in return for “no finding” that he bet on baseball. He then spent the rest of his life hearing how he had to apologize to the game for the “finding” that never occurred.  Pete did not help his own cause as he continued to gamble and associate with various people of dubious character. He affirmatively denied having bet on baseball despite there being ample evidence to the contrary. Still, he had broken the unbreakable record for most all-time hits held by the great Ty Cobb, and won more major league games than any man who ever lived. He defined the game and the era. No one could even try to make the case that Pete had ever given less than his complete effort to win every game he ever played in. Ineffectual lawyers, businessmen and fans all took turns pontificating about a game they pretended to love and a man they could only dream to be. My father and I were not amused. Rose was baseball.

How many fathers had told their son – play the game the way Pete plays it? When a man tells his son, how he hopes he plays the game they both love, it leaves a powerful impression. Pete’s enshrinement into the baseball Hall of Fame would have triggered nods between fathers and sons that would have been like scenes from the movie Field of Dreams. Grown men crying. Sons seeing pride and emotion in their father’s eyes. Relationships mended by a common love for a man who played a kid’s game. What a crime it was for baseball to steal this day of celebration and reconciliation from its fans.

My father was a rule follower. He was a proud member of the military and played by the rules. He saved for a rainy day. He was a decent man from a generation that believed in America and that hard work should be rewarded. He did not casually call people names or suggest how others should live their lives. He was polite and well spoken. He told the truth. He was from America’s greatest generation – and he gladly flew fighter planes for Uncle Sam. To put it mildly, most of us (me included), couldn’t carry his jock strap.

On the day Bart Giamatti died my sweet father called me up and said, “that will teach them to fuck with Pete”. I think that is the only time I heard him use the “F word” or casually demean another. I still smile, or shed a bittersweet tear, every time I think about that call.

Late in my father’s life we travelled to Cincinnati to see our hero get inducted into the Cincinnati Reds Hall of Fame. A picture of us in front of the ballpark on that day is a cherished possession. Cincinnati did what baseball was incapable of – they let us honor him. They let the fans decide how best to remember him. They got the hell out of the way and let people, fathers and sons, reconcile their memories. The love in the Great American Ball Park that weekend was real, and we need more, not less of it. Pete’s old teammates all came into town to share in the celebration. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when Pete strode to the batter box, one last time, and tipped his hat to the fans of the game he loved.

Rest in peace Charlie Hustle. You played the game the way it was meant to be played. You played in more major league games, and won more of them, than any man who ever lived. You never took a day off. You had more hits than the great Ty Cobb, and every other player who ever stepped up to the plate. Your headfirst slides represented the intensity and fierceness with how you played the game. America and its baseball fans were lucky to have you. Here’s hoping you successfully slid headfirst into home, one last time, and woke up in a cornfield in Iowa.

JESSE HEARIN grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio and has lived in Pass Christian, Mississippi for the last 25 years. He is a trial lawyer by trade but has always had a love for writing. His other interests include travel, reading, cooking, and horse racing. He is the proud father of three children and embraces the Gulf Coast lifestyle. Jesse enjoys meeting with other writers and learning from them and their individual styles.

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