PHILADELPHIA — Sports fandom in Philadelphia carries a certain weight, a reputation burnished by both truth and exaggeration. Athletes who play here understand the deal: unwavering loyalty for grit, for demonstrable effort, for an in-your-face intensity that mirrors the city’s own. But they also know that this loyalty is conditional, that the fans can turn on a dime, that the booing can be deafening, and that trust, once broken, is incredibly difficult to regain.
I grew up a Philadelphia Phillies fan, through and through. I worshipped players like Pete Rose, particularly his ferocious play during the 1980 World Series. He embodied that Philly spirit, that never-say-die attitude that resonated so deeply.
Yet, Pete Rose also made a series of profoundly bad choices. He knew that betting on baseball, especially wagering on the teams he managed, was a colossal mistake, a blatant disregard for the integrity of the game. And he did it anyway. Then, when confronted, he doubled down, attempting to deceive his way out of the consequences. The aftermath was a long, drawn-out dance with accountability, a push and pull between acknowledging his wrongdoing and stubbornly clinging to a sense of self-justification.
Major League Baseball’s recent decision to reinstate Rose from his lifetime ban, a mere seven and a half months after his passing, feels like a misstep. While it opens the door for his potential inclusion in the Baseball Hall of Fame, it doesn’t feel like justice. Rose was undeniably a phenomenal player, an athlete whose talent deserved recognition. But he forfeited that recognition. He tainted his legacy, and he did so in full view of everyone.
Writing this isn’t easy. The nostalgia, the memories, the deep-seated connection to that era of Phillies baseball make it a difficult assessment to make. The 1980 World Series victory was a pivotal moment in my young life. I was 13, glued to a small black-and-white television in my bedroom, a space that felt like a refuge from the upheaval happening around me. My parents’ marriage was dissolving, and we had just moved into a new apartment. I was also younger and often smaller than my high school classmates, having started elementary school at the age of five. I was, to put it mildly, in need of a distraction.
The Phillies’ triumph over the Kansas City Royals in that six-game series provided that escape. Rose had joined the team the previous season, and his presence felt like the final piece of the puzzle. His style of play, his relentless "Charlie Hustle," his headfirst slides, everything about him seemed perfectly suited to Philadelphia.
There’s one particular play from that series, from Game Six, that remains etched in the collective memory of Phillies fans. Frank White, the Royals infielder and American League Championship Series MVP, lofted a pop-up that drifted foul near the Phillies’ dugout. Phillies catcher Bob Boone appeared poised to make a difficult catch for the out.
But the ball slipped out of Boone’s glove. In a flash, Rose, who had instinctively moved over from first base, caught the rebound, securing the out and sending a jolt of excitement through the crowd.
Even now, decades later, I can close my eyes and see it vividly. The play is framed in my mind’s eye by the grainy, flickering image of that small black-and-white screen.
Of course, Rose went on to manage the Cincinnati Reds, his former team. It was there that his gambling activities were exposed, leading to his ban in 1989. He vehemently denied the allegations for years, eventually signing a deal with MLB to accept the ban.
Rose was always a larger-than-life figure, accustomed to the spotlight. Perhaps his gambling was a way to recapture the adrenaline rush of a headfirst slide into home. Or maybe he simply believed he was above the rules, that he was untouchable.
Whatever the motivation, the consequences were severe. He was eventually held accountable. His eventual admission of guilt, coming in a 2004 book, felt like a final, cynical act, a way to profit from his own disgrace.
The landscape of baseball, and the broader sports world, has undergone a significant transformation since Rose’s banishment. Gambling is now ubiquitous, aggressively advertised during games. The temptation to "bet big, win big" is ever-present, a stark contrast to the more discreet world of gambling that existed when Rose was making his bets.
On a personal note, my work as a journalist has given me considerable exposure to the casino and gambling industry. In all that time, I’ve yet to encounter anyone in that world whom I would implicitly trust.
That’s not to say I’ve never gambled. Some years ago, a group of Phillies fans and I took a trip to Las Vegas, where we bet on the NCAA men’s basketball tournament and tried our luck at the table games. I kept my bets modest and actually came away with a small profit. I was fully aware that I had defied the odds.
During that trip, we wandered down the Las Vegas Strip. And there, in a small, unremarkable kiosk, sat Pete Rose. He was selling autographs, a visible reminder of the business he had built from his disgrace, auctioning memorabilia and even selling copies of the MLB paperwork that sealed his fate.
Rose’s expression was one of profound unhappiness. Whether it was a recent development or a permanent fixture, I couldn’t say. But it was undeniable.
I felt a pang of sympathy for him, recognizing the tragic waste of a remarkable career. I thought back to that game six catch, the image forever imprinted on my memory.
But I was also struck by the realization that Rose was exactly where he had placed himself. He had no one to blame but himself. He made the choices, and he bore the consequences. He lost the trust, and no amount of rehabilitation can fully restore that.
