(Sports Illustrated Photo)
Peter Edward Rose.
The Hit King.
The man who slid headfirst into first base because walking just wasn’t in his DNA.
News broke today that MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred removed Pete Rose and other deceased players from Major League Baseball’s permanently ineligible list. Manfred ruled that MLB’s punishment of banned individuals ends upon their deaths. The last I checked, Pete Rose remains six feet under—so by Manfred’s own decree, he’s finally eligible for Cooperstown.
Rose, one of my childhood heroes, collected 4,256 hits, won three batting titles, three World Series rings, and played every position but hot dog vendor. He was Charlie Hustle—baseball’s blue-collar avatar. The guy you wanted on your team in a bar fight or a bench-clearing brawl or at the plate with two out in the ninth with the winning runs on base. Unfortunately, he also bet on the ponies. And the Reds. And possibly on anything else, including whether the Riverfront Stadium concession stands would run out of nachos by the seventh inning.
Yes, Pete Rose gambled on baseball. And for that, he was banned for life. But he didn’t throw games. He didn’t tank innings. He didn’t call in a reliever from the bullpen with a suspicious limp and a 12.93 ERA. He bet on his own team to win—which, while monumentally dumb, isn’t quite the moral apocalypse it’s made out to be.
Was it wrong? Sure.
Was it worthy of a lifetime ban? Definitely not.
Because now with Manfred’s ruling, you know exactly what that means.
It’s time. Actually—strike that—it’s long past time.
Past time to dust off the bronze. Past time to start etching the plaque. Past time to make some room in Cooperstown next to Cobb, Ruth, Aaron, and Mays—for the man who collected more hits than any of them.
If Manfred’s decree is to be taken seriously—that punishment dies with the punished—then baseball can no longer hide behind moral outrage or outdated grudges. Pete Rose’s on-field résumé demands recognition. His posthumous eligibility eliminates the last bureaucratic hurdle. There are no more excuses.
So now the ball is in the Hall of Fame’s court.
Do the writers, historians, and voters have the courage to admit that greatness is often messy? That a flawed man can still be the best hitter the game has ever seen? If anyone is without sin, then let him be the first to throw a stone.
Sure, Pete gambled. But he also played harder than anyone who ever put on a uniform. He sprinted to first on walks. He plowed headfirst into Ray Fosse at an All-Star game for God’s sake. He turned every double into a triple if you weren’t paying attention.
Pete Rose embodied baseball. He played like the world was ending every inning. When I yell at my nephew to “hustle out of the box,” I’m quoting Pete Rose theology.
And now that he’s gone, maybe the game can finally appreciate him without the baggage.
Because here’s the truth: You don’t get to rewrite baseball’s story without Pete Rose in the pages. And if you wait much longer to put him in the Hall, you’ll lose the little credibility you have left.
Baseball loses a little bit of itself every year it pretends the Hit King didn’t exist.
Let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop punishing the dead. Let’s let Pete in.
It’s not just overdue.
It’s poetic.
Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his debut novel— “Name, Image, and Murder”—and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD
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