Close, but Not Close Enough

It is an odd thing, this starving man moving so close to the table he can hear the laughter.

He sits in a darkened hallway for hours at a time, gulping antacid tablets, staring down at his gold bracelet, smiling at strangers as if it hurts.

He sighs with an unhappiness that stretches clear down to his leather boots, yet is surprised when somebody asks the question.

Why?

Why on this green earth would Pete Rose spend induction weekend signing autographs only two blocks from baseball’s Hall of Fame?

“Why? Why?” Rose says. “Hey, nobody here is a bigger baseball fan than me. Nobody ever loved the game more than me.

“Besides, I was banned from baseball--not New York.”

Unsmiling, he grabs a pen and continues signing, next, next, move along now. The crowd in front of his table inside this wax museum is growing and signatures are money, $25 a scrawl for the proprietors, who love Rose because people love Rose.

He has not been the only baseball star signing for money, but he has been the only one with a continuous line, the only one whose photo made the cover of the local newspaper, the only one whose name has constantly been shouted by a barker outside.

And yes, he’s the only one wearing a white leather baseball cap adorned with a tiny gold crown, commemorating his status as baseball’s all-time hit king.

A freak show, say some.

A baseball man, says Rose.

“All these Hall of Famers who complain about me signing here, hey, maybe they should all sell the game like I do,” Rose says. “I don’t step on anybody’s toes. I don’t go into the Hall of Fame building. I don’t go to the ceremonies.

“I’m not looking for trouble from anybody and I never will. I’m just here to be with the fans.”

It all seems so silly. Then you realize that once, so did head-first slides and sprints to first base on ground balls and dirty double-knits.

It all seems so tacky, then you realize, this is who he is. This is still Charlie Hustle, baseball’s all-time pest with the all-time corny nickname, the man who sold his soul between the white lines long before he did on it on a shopping channel.

Rose is the sort of player who thought nothing of knocking over a catcher and ruining that man’s career in a silly All-Star game.

So why would he blink at spending a weekend in baseball’s most hallowed city on the game’s most inspirational weekend . . . even though he was banned from the sport in 1989 for gambling?

This is who he is. He still runs hard, still plays fast, has radio shows and restaurants in Florida, a wife and two children in Studio City and most of his history available to the highest bidder.

Baseball can blush. Baseball can tsk-tsk.

But if baseball is now punishing Pete Rose for being Pete Rose, baseball should quit.

Eight years out is long enough for a man whose biggest sin--allegedly betting on baseball games--was never proven.

Eight years out is long enough for a man who embarrassed his opponents, but never his sport.

Enough is enough.

It is time to welcome Rose back to the game and into a Hall of Fame that would be richer for his presence. Not to mention, much more credible.

Sure, baseball must be cautious, set conditions, put him on parole as he tries to become a manager again.

So what? Pete Rose is worth it.

The timing is perfect.

When Bud Selig becomes permanent Commissioner, he can bring back a hero the way Peter Ueberroth did in one of his first acts as commissioner.

Or have you forgotten that Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle were once banned from certain parts of the sport for their association with casinos?

Next year’s Hall of Fame ceremonies will have vacancies. With no big stars newly eligible, perhaps only Don Sutton will be elected.

The fans are also ready. They’ve been ready.

Rose was the hottest thing at this Hall of Fame weekend, just as he is at every function he attends.

“They ought to tear that Hall of Fame down, and start again with you in it,” says one fan to Rose, and she was just walking past, not paying for an autograph or asking for a photo.

That sentiment was heard throughout Cooperstown this weekend, from seemingly everyone but the current Hall of Famers, a self-assured group in a sizable glass house.

Critics will say that because Rose bet on baseball and will not admit it, he should pay forever.

That would make sense, if it were proven that he bet on baseball, which it wasn’t. Or if he was given due process before the suspension, which he wasn’t.

It will never be certain whether he did the deed that is punishable by a lifetime ban, only that he has already been punished for it.

Guaranteed, if Pete Rose is allowed back in the sport, here’s what he won’t do:

He won’t dismantle a team in a pennant race. He won’t throw firecrackers at fans. He won’t go to an All-Star game and refuse to step on the field.

Those $25 autographs? Just $5 more than Frank Robinson was charging across the street.

“I made mistakes,” Rose says from the wax museum. “But I’ve worked on my life. I’ve stayed out of trouble.

“And really, how long are you going to make me pay?”

Two blocks ahead is the baseball Hall of Fame. Two steps behind is a cute outdoor restaurant, which he walks briskly through after a recent autograph session, runs through it actually.

Shoeless Joe’s Cafe, says the sign.