A Rose By Any Other Name
A Rose By Any Other Name
By Aaron M. Kahn
Growing up in Cincinnati with the Reds as part of my soul, the Cubbies quickly became my second team as they were often on WGN when I got home from school. Plus, in those days they were not in the same division as the Reds, and frankly, they were never really a threat in the standings. But 1989 was different, as the Cubs powered their way to the divisional title with their share of superstars. I was 12 years old that summer, and when it came time to decide on a destination for a family vacation, I noticed that the Reds would be playing at Wrigley in late August. We would have time to make the six-hour trek, spend a few days in the Windy City, and get back to Cincy before school started.
It proved to be an exciting trip for me, as I had never been to Chicago, nor had I ever seen a Major League game in a stadium other than Riverfront. Adding to the novelty of the situation, I got to see the Reds in their visiting greys, which I had only ever seen on TV. Gorgeous Wrigley Field, still looking a bit odd under the lights, lived up to my lofty, pre-teen expectations. The ivy still sparkled in the heavy evening humidity, and the game was very exciting! The Reds overcame a three-run first inning by the home side and a Ryne Sandberg home run to lead off the bottom of the sixth, tying the game in the eighth at five runs each with a one out, pinch-hit home run by Joel Youngblood. The Reds then went ahead 6-5 in the 10th, and John Franco got Mark Grace to ground out to second with the potential tying run on third to end the game.
Unlike some other exciting and celebrated games I attended that year, this game became historic not for what happened during it, but for what happened directly afterward. While Reds manager Pete Rose was distracted all season by the investigation into his tax affairs and his gambling habit, he was also expecting the birth of his son. That evening, we heard on the news that Rose had left the team to fly back to Cincinnati to accompany his wife to the hospital, planning to return to the club after the arrival of the newest Reds fan. This warm summer’s evening, which provided me with lasting memories, was also the last time that the living legend who was Pete Rose would wear a major league uniform—or be allowed near a ballpark without first receiving special permission from the Commissioner. Three days later, on August 24, 1989, Pete Rose and Commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti signed a five-page document that placed Rose on baseball’s permanently ineligible list.
In Cincinnati, Rose is still a legend, but is that really only because we are Reds fans? My young idealized view of the world believed his claims of innocence and thought the whole mess would be cleared up within a year. In the weeks and months following Rose’s exile from the game we all love so much, I often thought about how it would affect him, the Reds and even me personally. Had I done something to make that game at Wrigley his last? In my adolescent imagination, stimulated so often those days by science fiction, fantasy and the tales of King Arthur and his knights, I pondered the possibility that my presence on that humid night in Chicago might have altered his destiny, and consequently that of Reds Nation. In addition, I thought that the Reds might suffer some kind of identity crisis with this sudden and traumatic event; however, as with life, people are often more resilient than we think they will be.
With my older, more realistic (cynical) view of the world now, I am more ambivalent towards the man. His playing days were pretty much over when I started paying attention to the Reds, and I never had the emotional attachment to him as the previous generation. He was the hometown boy made good and instrumental in the best stretch of success that the Reds have ever had, but he had unapologetically succumbed to his demons. It would be nice to see his stellar numbers enshrined in Cooperstown, but baseball karma has a way of manifesting itself and bringing balance to the soul of the game. Much in the same way that I gave Mark McGwire and Rafael Palmeiro the benefit of the doubt when they appeared before Congress, with Rose I felt a slight bitterness of betrayal when he finally came clean. Now, at 44 years of age, I have learned to separate the game itself from its complicated heroes, the canonized and fallen alike.
I still occasionally glance at the ticket stub and the fading pencil scribble on my scorecard from that night over three decades ago and ponder my place in the universe of baseball fandom. I think of Pete Rose, still childlike in his demeanor when he speaks of the game, and wonder if that night, when number 14 was removed from his back, ever enters his thoughts.
Fortunately, our collective demons as Reds fans were exorcised the year following his suspension when our team, led by Sweet Lou Piniella, swept the mighty Athletics in the World Series. I don’t remember anyone missing Rose too much that October.
Aaron M. Kahn is an Australian-born American academic in the field of Early Modern Spanish Literature and works at the University of Sussex in the UK. Aaron grew up in Wyoming, Ohio, just north of Cincinnati, and has committed his baseball passions to the Reds, through good times and through the bad. In addition to his interests in Cervantes and baseball, Aaron is also a playwright, short story writer and occasional poet. After earning his doctorate at the University of Oxford, Aaron stayed in England and is player-manager of the Oxford Kings Baseball Club of the British Baseball Federation.