A GRIP ON SPORTS * There were many Sports Illustrated posters taped to our bedroom wall much of the 1970s. None of them, however, held more esteem than the one of Pete Rose.
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* The poster showed Cincinnati's star in mid-air, headed for a head-first landing at third base. His helmet was long gone, longish hair flying everywhere, arms outstretched. No regard was given for how much the landing may pain him. He was giving everything he had to reach his goal. That photograph? It was Pete Rose.
And he was, simply, sadly, our most-important role model.
The "simply" part is easy.
Rose, who died Monday in Las Vegas at age 83, wasn't the biggest player. The most-complete athlete. He was never the strongest nor the most skilled. None of that mattered. He was the most determined. Every time he stepped on a field.
Determined to do what? Win. Hit. Be the best.
He took the gifts he was given and made the most of them to a higher degree than anyone who ever played the game, before or after. He made goals, whether it was to play high school football or major league baseball or, in a fit of hubris to match any ancient Greek king, to have more hits than Ty Cobb.
He reached every goal. He made them all happen. En route, he showed under-sized, under-talented, under-everything kids throughout the 1960s and '70s a road map to success. It was a map we followed unerringly.
We ran to first on every walk. Dove into that bag on every close play. Learned how to dive head-first to get to the next bag quicker. Hit line drives from foul line to foul line. Heck, we even tried to switch-hit until a lack of coordination finally forced us to stop that idiocy.
When being named to a regional Colt League all-tournament team at 16, the ballpark announcer described us as "another Pete Rose." It might have been the highlight of our athletic endeavors.
Rose? He hit heights no one ever did. On Sept. 11, 1985, Rose stood on Riverfront Park's first base, his helmet off his head again but this time raised in his right hand to acknowledge the cheers of the home crowd. His line drive to left-center field off San Diego's Eric Show was hit No. 4,192 in his career. Cobb's record was his. He had reached another goal. His future status, his future Hall of Fame plaque, heck, just his future, was secure.
Until it wasn't. And that's the "sadly" part of his role-model status.
Rose could control his baseball success. At least he was as good at doing it as anyone ever. He just worked, and played, so hard he overpowered all obstacles.
Life? That was different.
He found there were things he couldn't control. At the pinnacle of that reality hit list stood gambling. His addiction. His downfall.
We're not going to play amateur psychologist here. We don't the whys and wherefores or what aspect of Rose's personality the addiction fed. All we know is he was addicted and it cost him. Money. Fame. And, most importantly, the game he played with such abandon.
He was, simply, baseball' poster boy of what addiction can cost.
Let's be clear. Pete Rose was never abandoned by those who love baseball and the way he played the game. He abandoned them, and the game itself, for another love. Whatever he loved about gambling. It was so overpowering, even though he knew he could be banned from the game if he bet on it, he did it anyway. Often. Unrelenting. Over everything else.
And it cost him everything. Everything. Instead of a plaque in Cooperstown, he had a table in Las Vegas, topped with 8½-by-11 glossies he would sign for a few dollars. Instead of managing the Reds, he managed to ruin years and years of goodwill. Instead of spending the final 40 years of his life being feted, he was fated to be a tragic figure, filled with hubris and brought down by a mixture of lies, coverups and denials.
The 16-year-old with the poster on his wall knew none of what Rose was off the field. Knew nothing of the cracks in his façade. All he knew was Rose played the game the way he wanted to play it. Every second.
For that, 51 years later, we still thank him. And say goodbye with more than a hint of sadness for what those years became, not only for Pete Rose but for all of us who once worshipped how he played.
Idaho: The only part of the game that has derailed the Vandals this season is the part no one can control. Injuries. They cost UI at Oregon, in their ensuing wins and really cost the Vandals in the recent loss at UC Davis. Peter Harriman has a story detailing the players who are out and what Jason Eck believes the ones that remain have to do to be successful this week against visiting Norther Arizona. ... Elsewhere in the Big Sky, Montana has better depth at linebacker. ... It may be easy for Montana State to overlook winless Northern Colorado. ... Cal Poly, coming off a win, hosts Idaho State this week. ... For the first time this season Portland State will play at home. ... Sacramento State supporters are not fooling. They have raised a lot of money to help the Hornets move up the football ladder.
* We were never a huge fan of Kris Kristofferson's music - or his acting. But we knew his back story, his roots, his accomplishments in athletics and in the world at large. And respected them. We waited until we found the column that perfectly caught their significance before we linked something. Here it is. From the Washington Post's Sally Jenkins. Until later ...