Give Rose Hall Pass, Not a Key

My Baseball Hall of Fame ballot arrived the other day, its thick manila envelope possessing the sort of dignity not usually found in a mailbox.

Every year, I carry it inside as if handling precious metal.

Every year, I close the office door, unfold it on my desk, and bask in the splendid block-lettered names with but a single regret.

I wish Pete Rose were one of them.

Because I would vote for him.

I would put him in the front row of baseball’s cathedral, honor him as one of its greatest hitters, give him his rightful reward as one of sport’s last legends.

I want Pete Rose on my ballot.

I just don’t want him managing my baseball team.

I don’t want him working with my minor leaguers.

I don’t want him running my marketing department.

I want him in baseball’s shrine, but I don’t want him anywhere near its clubhouses.

And I am not alone.

This is the crux of baseball’s problem this winter as it tries to create new interest by rescuing an old scamp.

Pete Rose belongs in the Hall of Fame.

He does not belong on a baseball field.

Yet, the Hall of Fame rules won’t allow one without the other.

And Rose won’t accept one without the other.

And his thousands of fans want whatever Rose wants.

So, Commissioner Bud Selig, after meetings last month, could be on the verge of bending to public pressure and giving him both.

Which would be like allowing a cheater to retake a test two periods later, all because you’re sick of hearing his playground buddies whine.

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It has been 13 years since Rose signed an agreement that banned him from baseball, and nothing about it has changed.

Nothing, except our memory.

A man once booed out of his hometown is now cheered everywhere.

A man who perpetrated one of baseball’s ugliest scandals is now painted as a victim.

Charlie the hustler is once again Charlie Hustle.

A complete face-lift, without one nick of the knife.

Not once has Rose acknowledged the contents of a 225-page agreement that painted him as a bettor, not only on baseball, but on the Cincinnati Reds he managed in the late 1980s.

Not once has he admitted to having a gambling problem, despite mounds of evidence to the contrary, or asked for help from the many who have offered.

A notoriously bad gambler, Rose has spent the last decade making the longshot bet of a lifetime.

He wagered that his silence, combined with the accompanying cheers, would wear down baseball as his foul balls once wore down pitchers.

He wagered that with enough headfirst slides into the public embrace, the truth would eventually be lost in the dust.

Amazingly, he might be right.

In October, Rose was given a standing ovation at Pacific Bell Park in San Francisco during a greatest-moments promotion.

It was the second World Series standing ovation he had received in three years, which is more than just about any active player who is not a New York Yankee.

It was also the second time that season he had played to a raucous crowd. An earlier charity softball game in Cincinnati had drawn 41,092.

When he’s not touring the country, selling his name to these adoring fans, he is hanging out in the Valley, greeting folks at his favorite lunch spot on Sepulveda, watching his daughter act and his son play basketball for Sherman Oaks Notre Dame High.

Still brash, sometimes tacky, Rose is always easy to find. But baseball has long tried to ignore him, even as he was peddling his autograph a couple of doors down from the actual Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y.

Then this winter, saddled with its worst World Series TV ratings, and attendance decreases in 20 of its 30 ballparks, baseball finally had to pay attention.

Rose and Selig met Nov. 25 in Milwaukee, their first official encounter since Rose applied for reinstatement five years ago.

Representatives of both sides have also met, apparently substantively for the first time.

This is not merely some farce to quiet the public, this is real.

Real scary.

Neither side will comment, but common sense would dictate that Selig not allow Rose to return to baseball without admitting that he has a problem and that he’s seeking help.

But those who have listened to Rose during the last 13 years can never imagine him admitting any such thing.

And if he did, after all this time and all that mud, who could believe his sincerity?

I am one of those who has listened. I have heard Rose speak in courtrooms, in memorabilia stores, at autograph shows, and last spring at the Beverly Hills offices of his new shoe sponsor.

Not once has he shown any regret, remorse, or inclination to acknowledge anything that appeared in a report that his signature once endorsed.

The Dowd report, even though written by a zealous investigator who has carried a grudge like a cop looking for a one-armed man, was clear in its findings:

* There were three betting sheets on Red games that bore Rose’s fingerprints and handwriting.

* There were 10 witnesses who’d said Rose bet heavily and often on the Reds.

* There were phone records of many calls between Rose’s Riverfront Stadium office and a bookie.

Ask him about those things today, and Rose will say he never had a chance to present his side of the story.

Yet, history will show that he dodged five hearings before finally agreeing to be banned from baseball.

That’s right. All this fuss about something to which Rose affixed his signature.

If he really wanted to contest the banishment order, why did he sign it in the first place?

And after all these years of denial, we should accept his admission now?

Friends of Rose say a decision could be reached in January. Here’s hoping that instead of collapsing, baseball gets creative.

Indeed, Rose clearly belongs in the Hall of Fame, alongside other stars with far more checkered pasts, particularly because there is no evidence he bet on baseball while playing.

So why can’t the Hall’s board of directors, which works closely with baseball, change the rules regarding ineligible players and allow it?

Why can’t there be an exception for one of the most exceptional players?

He would be voted in immediately, the fans would be happy, Rose’s cause would be weakened, baseball would be stronger.

Charlie Hustle belongs on a pedestal, his plaque on a wall.

But Charlie Hustler has no business in a dugout.

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Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com.