Does Pete Rose belong in the baseball Hall of Fame? That is the question at the heart of HBO’s four-part documentary Charlie Hustle and the Matter of Pete Rose. At this point, Rose’s story is well-known (if you follow sports). Rose was a sure fire, first ballot hall of famer who retired as the game’s all-time hits leader only to be banned in 1989 when an investigation concluded (among other things) that Rose placed more than fifty bets on the team he managed at the time, the Cincinnati Reds. A few years later, and right before Rose was eligible to be put on the Hall of Fame ballot, the organization that runs the Hall determined that any player banned from the sport was ineligible for consideration as a member. And that has been the state of affairs ever since.
The documentary traces Rose’s life, from his childhood in Cincinnati to his days playing for (and leading) his hometown squad to two World Series titles, his later career adding a third ring with the Phillies and his return as player-manager (and ultimately just manager) of the Reds. Interspersed throughout are interviews with people who knew him, played with him (or against him), and the assorted cast of characters who knew the seamier side of his life.
But the hall of fame question looms over the entire enterprise and with it, broader themes of repentance, forgiveness, and punishment. I don’t know that the doc will change many minds. On the one hand, it is completely defensible to argue that the integrity of the game requires a bright line rule that getting caught gambling on a game’s outcome must result in a lifetime ban. After all, if fans think the game is rigged, it is no longer a sport, it is professional wrestling. Supporters point to the 1919 Chicago White Sox scandal as proof of the need for such a draconian penalty, even if it means exiling Hall of Fame players like Shoeless Joe Jackson. Rose bet on baseball while he was the Reds’ manager, therefore, he must be banned.
On the other hand are people who basically say that Rose has been punished enough. That the now 35-year ban from the sport is sufficient punishment for the crime he committed and that he deserves a second chance. They point out he has publicly admitted to gambling on baseball and apologized for doing so. There is also the matter of baseball’s decision to embrace gambling, or at least partner with legal bookmaking companies, as being slightly hypocritical viz a viz their stance on Rose, not to mention the fact that the Hall itself has enshrined at least some former players who were hardly choir boys.
And that is where the documentary is a sort of choose-your-own-adventure. Because Rose is still alive and agreed to be interviewed for, and granted access to, the producers, you can draw your own conclusions about whether you think Rose understands why he was banned, whether he actually feels remorse over what he did, and grapple with who he is as a person in deciding what you think; there is plenty of evidence supporting each side’s position.
After watching all four episodes, I do not think Rose thinks his gambling was that big a deal (he repeats at several points that he only bet on the Reds to win, not lose, as a way of showing he was not trying to fix games) but rather, is angry that because he gambled, he was levied such a stiff penalty. At one point, he says he would have been better off doing drugs or beating his wife because those crimes are treated less severely than gambling. At other points, Rose makes snarky asides about gambling, as when he attends the opening of a casino in Cincinnati and jokes that the Commissioner’s office is probably not going to like it. And he still gambles, albeit far less than he used to and will literally sign baseballs “I BET ON BASEBALL” (while pocketing a fee for the effort).
To the extent Rose has attempted to make amends, thereto he has been his own worst enemy. He privately admitted to then-Commissioner Bud Selig that he had bet on games but then profited off the admission by publishing a book (which was released the day of that year’s Hall of Fame induction ceremony) instead of doing a press conference for free. When the league granted Rose permission to attend a reunion of the 1980 Phillies team that won the World Series, he embarrassed himself by belittling and insulting a female reporter at the event. At other points, the producers catch Rose in simple lies about people he claims not to have known or actions he clearly took; the conclusion one draws is that this is a man who is unwilling to accept that he did something wrong and deflects, obfuscates, or lies to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths.
But if the people who can decide Rose’s fate watch the documentary, they might realize that Rose lives in a sort of living prison that merits parole. Rose is exiled from the thing he loves most. The ban he agreed to prohibits him from entering clubhouses or going out on the field for pre-game rituals like batting practice. His attempts to lobby MLB for reinstatement have failed, but the Commissioner points out that the Hall could simply reverse its decision to keep blacklisted players off the ballot and let Rose receive an up or down vote. The Hall responds that if MLB lifted its ban, Rose could be considered for membership. It is Kafka-esque, to say the least.
Meanwhile, the player whose signature move was sliding head first into a base now shuffles along, limping noticeably. The million dollar smile that once hawked after shave and frozen dinners now has gaping holes where teeth no longer exist. The shock of brown hair that would fly back as his batting helmet flew off has thinned considerably and is usually hidden under an ill-fitting Reds cap. Yes, he is profane and inappropriate, at one point using curse words when addressing a young boy who looked no older than 12, at another, commenting on a friend’s wife’s breasts, but there is something sad and pathetic watching Rose sit in a salon chair getting his hair dyed or doing Cameo greetings because he needs the money. If Bart Giamatti and his successors wanted to punish Rose, they could not have done a better job.
The once vibrant man who played the game at full speed every day is now a shell of who he once was. He is 83, a withered old man who will not change. For those expecting some additional, and perhaps more convincing show of contrition, it will not come. Indeed, when discussing his plea deal on tax evasion that netted him a five month prison stint, Rose admits telling the judge he sought counseling for his gambling addiction solely to garner sympathy and a lighter sentence. In the final minutes of the documentary, Rose appears embittered but also resigned to the fact that he may never make it to Cooperstown, whether he understand why, remains a mystery.
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