Pete Rose, A Memory
by Brian Gardner

I grew up in America in the 1960s, like a lot of kids, with my father and mother, and my siblings.
I was the youngest of four children.
Every morning, Dad would pack his lunch bucket and go to work.
Mom stayed home.
All four of us kids would dutifully ride the bus to and from school.
Every night the six of us ate dinner together in our assigned seats and roles.
It seemed like the “perfect” American life.
But that “ perfection“ was about to be shattered like a rock heaved through a picture window.

I woke up one Tuesday morning anticipating school just like any other day.
Except, everything about this Tuesday was different.
Sometime in the night, my father had suffered a massive heart attack.
His overweight frame was collapsed prone on the floor next to my parents’ bed.
My mother and brother struggled mightily to lift him back onto the bed.
It was as if we all thought, but didn’t say, that returning him to where he’d been sleeping would reverse what had happened to him.
If only everything could be put back to where it was before.
But things would never be where they were before.
I was there when the ambulance wheeled him away.
I was there when his personal physician showed up toting his doctor’s bag, and had to be given directions to the nearby hospital.
The plan— which I followed of course — was for me to go to school, and for everything to be normal.
Just another Tuesday.
Nothing would ever be normal again.

At 10 o’clock that morning, the announcement came directing me to the principal’s office. Naturally, the other kids thought that meant I was in trouble. But I knew it was something far worse.
My sister and I sat in the principal’s office.
We received the devastating news. My dad had died at the hospital, while we were at school. Becky bawled loudly, uncontrollably, and understandably.
Principal Roberts sternly told her, “Don’t cry dear, it’s all gonna be OK.”
Even at eight, I knew that was bullshit.

An eight-year-old boy without a father desperately needs to look up to someone, a hero.
Someone has to fill the void, and it needs to be someone who is invincible and eternal.
My dad had fought in World War Two.
He had four battle stars including the Battle of the Bulge.
He was awarded the Bronze Star, and he was my hero.
But now he was dead, and his invincibility had been dismantled.
I was only eight. But I had to move on.
I needed someone to emulate and admire.

Pete Rose was that person for me.
In Pete, my child’s eye perceived what a man should be. Tough, hard hitting, and giving all out effort every time.
When Pete got walked, he didn’t jog to first base, he sprinted. He originated the headfirst slide. He played, every game, every day, as if it was the only play, the only game, the only day.
He was what I thought a man should be.
As we have learned since, Pete is a very flawed human being. His shortcomings are well documented and tragic.
But for an eight-year-old boy, he wasn’t just a hero. He was a much-needed fixture, filling in the gaps in my life in a way that gave it meaning and purpose. He repaired the shards and sanded down the slivered glass of my shattered world.

I only met him once, at an autograph signing in a newly opened car wash on Southland Drive in Lexington, Kentucky. This was before huge appearance fees and multi-million dollar contracts were the norm. Of course he’d had thousands of encounters just like these, but, for me, I will remember it the rest of my life.

I cannot explain how devastated I am to learn of Pete’s passing.
Pete Rose is the all time hit leader, having more base hits than anyone ever to play in Major League baseball.
His favorite record was having played in the most winning games in Major League history.
He was the ultimate competitor, consumed with winning.
One either loves Pete Rose or hates him.
But for me, his biggest accomplishment is the unknowing role he played in my life—his persona filling in the gaps and erecting a new kind of scaffolding, a frame where I could build out the rest of a childhood.
I will never forget.
His death conjures the pain of losing my father all over again.
Again, suddenly. Again, without notice.
But grief adds up, and so, somehow, this hurts even worse.
Rest in peace, Peter Edward Rose.
The all-time hit king.
My hero.

Brian Gardner teaches writing at Transylvania University and writes about baseball for Ace. 

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