Sure, Rose Got His Hit, but He Really Missed the Boat

Dear Pete Rose:

Congratulations on the Big Knock. By now you probably realize how bad you blew the whole scene, what a jerk you were.

Live and learn. And listen. Just in case you ever get yourself in this record-chasing situation again, I’ll give you some advice on how to handle yourself, how to go after a record like a real major leaguer, know what I mean?.

For instance, most players going for records, they’ll take two or three months to get that last hit. Choking? That’s not choking, Peter, that’s called maximizing the dramatic potential of a situation.

What you do is you attack that record with the verve and gusto of a dying man crawling across the desert. Bleed a little. Make it look tough. Stretch out the suspense. So what if the fans have all gone to sleep by the time you get the record? It’s your show, ain’t it?

Be sure to orchestrate the whole thing, too. Don’t get the Big Knock on the road, man! You almost set the record in Chicago instead of Cinci-doggone-nnati. I know, you feel like every ballpark in America is your home, just because the fans love you and cheer for you.

But playing that game in Chicago when you were supposed to be sitting! Where are your priorities? What’s more important--the timing of the Big Knock, or a silly little thing like a pennant race?

I gotta tell you, Pete, you were not cool.

The cool approach would have been, in the final days, to hide out from the media, do a Howard Hughes. Get yourself a snorkel and hang out at the bottom of the training room whirlpool tub.

The true superstar, when closing in on a record, limits press access to about 15 minutes a week, after his shower and before his blow-dry.

You? You felt lonely if you got to the ballpark and there weren’t 26 sportswriters wedged into your office and three TV cameramen hanging from the light fixtures. Did you make ‘em squirm? No, you did everything but send out for coffee and doughnuts.

Just not cool.

You never lashed out at the press for those three or four negative articles among the thousands of glowing accounts that have been written about you over the last twenty years or so.

Next time, dig up some obscure criticism some writer from a suburban weekly leveled at you nine years ago turn it into a crusade against the media. Don’t let the sportswriters get on your side next time, Pete. We are the enemy, babe!

Your whole approach was wrong. You forgot the key phrase used by record chasers! Never once did you say, “I’ll be glad when this whole thing is over with.” You’re supposed to say that, over and over, like a mantra.

It’s really simple. Next time, when asked to discuss your pursuit of the record, just pretend you’re talking about an upcoming gall-bladder operation.

Another hint: Don’t be afraid to knock your rival, even if he happens to be dead. Pete, you never once started a sentence by saying, “Ty Cobb was a fine ballplayer, but . . . “

You never took the opportunity to point out that Cobb was a chump, that he played in an era when the outfielders were required to tie their shoelaces together and wear their gloves backward, an era when your wife could have got 4,000 hits.

Worst of all, you failed to put the whole situation in the proper perspective for us. You had a chance to help us fans realize how silly and misguided we are for getting excited and emotionally involved in a simple kids’ game and some average working guy chasing a glorious record.

You could have set us straight, acted surly and unemotional and generally bored and testy about the whole thing. That would have made us lose interest. As it was, you had the whole country rooting for you like that was our own brother out there or something.

Then you got the Big Knock and you cried .

Good grief!

Is this cool? Couldn’t you have used this moment constructively, by yawning, or by giving a perfunctory tip of the hat and ducking into the dugout, or by grabbing the stadium mike and demanding a contract renegotiation?

You know, there are a lot of us who sometimes approach a day thinking: “I’ll be glad when this is over with.” We fight any inclination to get enthusiastic or excited about anything.

You could have been a role model for this kind of behavior. You could have sneered at us and kicked us in the fanny and showed us that baseball is just another business, reinforced our bleak and blase outlook.

Now that would’ve been cool.

But no.

You grabbed us all in a headlock and tousled our hair, slapped us in the rear and sent us out the door feeling good about ourselves and about life, if only for a little while.

Ask yourself, Pete--was this any way for a grown man to behave?

Anyway, now you know. Better luck next time.