Hickman cracked a single to center. Pete never hesitated—that was something he always told his teammates, never pause, never doubt, never hesitate, never slow down—and he rounded third and raced home. Sportswriters in the morning editions around the country were split in their descriptions between “snorting bull” and “rolling train.” Amos Otis, the American League center fielder, scooped up the ball and made astrong throw home. The ball and Pete reached home plate about the same time. But Pete was bigger. He smashed into catcher Ray Fosse, busted the poor kid’s shoulder, sent the baseball flying, and defiantly scored the game-winning run. The crash would take on more meaning because Ray Fosse was only twenty-three and the most promising young catcher in the game; he was never quite the same after. More than thirty years later, he would still wake up with the echoing pain of that collision ringing in his shoulder. To add a little irony to it all, Pete had had Fosse to his house the night before for dinner, though Pete never saw any irony at all in it. Pete was the kind of guy who would invite you to dinner at night and run right through you the next day to win a ball game. It was all part of the deal.
People often asked Pete if he regretted smashing into Fosse—hell, it was just an All-Star Game. It didn’t count in the standings. Pete’s response was telling. He did not even understand the question. They were playing baseball. His was the winning run. Fosse was blocking the plate. Pete had no choice.
That was the thing Joe picked up from Pete Rose. Everybody wanted to win. Some players needed to win. But Pete really had no choice. He had to hit .300 or he felt like less than a man. He had to get two hundred hits every year or he felt time slipping away. He had to win because his old man, Harry Rose, told him so. Rookie pitcher Pat Darcy would always remember playing Ping-Pong with Pete in the basement of the Rose home. Pat won game after game. And after each game, Rose would shout, “Again!” and then, “Again!” game after game, hour after hour, until sweat soaked through his shirt, and Darcy realized that no matter how many times he beat Pete Rose, there would be another game and another for all eternity. And that’s when Pete Rose beat him. Yes, Sparky was smart to put Joe’s locker next to Pete’s.
“You do know that Ali let the bum hang around,” Morgan was saying. “You are smart enough to realize that, right?”
Rose smiled. “All I know,” he said, “is the white guy went fifteen rounds with the champ. We’re athletes too, Joe! We’re athletes too!”
Sparky Anderson sat behind the desk in his spring training office, and he opened his Bible. He read from the book of Matthew. “Drive out those demons,” Matthew said. Sparky had George Foster on his mind. George was a young outfielder, and he had talent. Baseballs jumped off his bat, but Sparky thought there was something soft about him, something that held him back. Baseball was a game to be played hard and rough. When Sparky was young, he worked as batboy for a local team for only one reason: so he could steal equipment for games in the neighborhood. That’s what baseball meant to Sparky. He wanted players who wanted to play ball so badly, they would steal the bats off the rack and balls right out of the burlap bag.
Did George love baseball that much? It was hard to tell. He hardly ever even talked. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t womanize, as far as Sparky could tell about those things. George didn’t do much of anything that ballplayers do. George read his Bible all the time (all the time), and it made Sparky nervous. He was, as the saying went, searching for himself. George even went to see a hypnotist. The guy put George under and then asked him all kinds of crazy questions, and you know what he found? He found that George had this latent fear of getting hit in the head with a pitch. Good information.
People often asked Pete if he regretted smashing into Fosse—hell, it was just an All-Star Game. It didn’t count in the standings. Pete’s response was telling. He did not even understand the question. They were playing baseball. His was the winning run. Fosse was blocking the plate. Pete had no choice.
That was the thing Joe picked up from Pete Rose. Everybody wanted to win. Some players needed to win. But Pete really had no choice. He had to hit .300 or he felt like less than a man. He had to get two hundred hits every year or he felt time slipping away. He had to win because his old man, Harry Rose, told him so. Rookie pitcher Pat Darcy would always remember playing Ping-Pong with Pete in the basement of the Rose home. Pat won game after game. And after each game, Rose would shout, “Again!” and then, “Again!” game after game, hour after hour, until sweat soaked through his shirt, and Darcy realized that no matter how many times he beat Pete Rose, there would be another game and another for all eternity. And that’s when Pete Rose beat him. Yes, Sparky was smart to put Joe’s locker next to Pete’s.
“You do know that Ali let the bum hang around,” Morgan was saying. “You are smart enough to realize that, right?”
Rose smiled. “All I know,” he said, “is the white guy went fifteen rounds with the champ. We’re athletes too, Joe! We’re athletes too!”
Sparky Anderson sat behind the desk in his spring training office, and he opened his Bible. He read from the book of Matthew. “Drive out those demons,” Matthew said. Sparky had George Foster on his mind. George was a young outfielder, and he had talent. Baseballs jumped off his bat, but Sparky thought there was something soft about him, something that held him back. Baseball was a game to be played hard and rough. When Sparky was young, he worked as batboy for a local team for only one reason: so he could steal equipment for games in the neighborhood. That’s what baseball meant to Sparky. He wanted players who wanted to play ball so badly, they would steal the bats off the rack and balls right out of the burlap bag.
Did George love baseball that much? It was hard to tell. He hardly ever even talked. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t womanize, as far as Sparky could tell about those things. George didn’t do much of anything that ballplayers do. George read his Bible all the time (all the time), and it made Sparky nervous. He was, as the saying went, searching for himself. George even went to see a hypnotist. The guy put George under and then asked him all kinds of crazy questions, and you know what he found? He found that George had this latent fear of getting hit in the head with a pitch. Good information.
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