Ah man. Just when you’re starting to embrace the guy. Just when feelings inside you are starting to be invoked that he should gain entry into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown; you realize once again that Pete Rose is a slimeball.
I can excuse away a lot of shit. I’m a gambler of sorts myself. I don’t think it’s a mortal sin. I get it. Pete liked to compete and after the game left him the best way to do it was bet on everything six ways from Sunday including Canadian Football games and games of Connect Four.
But what I can’t condone is that Pete Rose was into underage girls. I have a daughter. If this was my daughter there wouldn’t be talk of Pete Rose getting into the Hall of Fame; because I would find Rose and I would kill him myself with my bare hands. If I couldn’t actually kill him with my bare hands, I would find a way to maim him with a sharp object, bludgeon him with a trophy, or probably just shoot him. Seriously.
In some ways, the news is not new. The statement was filed as part of a defamation lawsuit Rose filed against John Dowd, the lawyer who prepared a report into Rose’s gambling on baseball in 1989. On a radio interview in 2015 on West Chester, Pennsylvania’s WCHE 1520 AM, Dowd said that Rose associate Michael Bertolini “told us that he not only ran bets but ran young girls down at spring training, ages 12 to 14. Isn’t that lovely? So that’s statutory rape every time you do that.”
So yeah, that said; why haven’t any of these dads just killed Rose?
Two quick stories on Rose, well one and a half.
1) I worked in college as an intern at the largest collections firm in the nation. I was a ‘runner’. I would go from the firm to the Cincinnati courthouse each day for the firm and do a bunch of shit that I actually didn’t know what I was doing. I never got the hang of it. But Pete’s little prick nephew was some kind of teller at the courthouse. He wore a little needledick tie each day. He was a snotty little fuck all the way through the summer. Everyone treated him like a prince because he was Charlie Hustle’s nephew. I hope he has found his way to the service industry where he belongs.
2) I think it was my first trip to Las Vegas, and I stopped in Caesar’s to see Pete Rose, the legend himself. It was my first ever close up encounter with him. I didn’t want anything signed because even half drunk and only being 21; I knew he had signed away his value years before and saturated the market with Pete Rose dipshittery signatures on anything that exists. I tried to see if Pete was personable. He wasn’t. Fair enough. He didn’t look anyone in the eye, especially me. My buddy asked Pete if he bet that day. He said yes he did. He eyed my shitty nextel phone which I had for the free “walkie talkie” feature and said “you get scores on that phone son?”. I replied yes and paid the $1.10 to quickly look at the internet to tell him that San Diego (and his bet) had lost. Without even a wince or single shroud of emotion, he just kept signing shit and moved about his day.
Rapey Pete Rose can kiss my white ass.