The King of Cincinnati: Three Brushes With Reds Royalty

The Cincinnati Reds last won a playoff series in October of 1995.

You read that right. 29 seasons without advancing to the second round of the MLB playoffs. Not since their last World Series, not since their last NL title – nearly 3 decades without a second round appearance. For the above average teams in the MLB, losing in the second round would be considered a failed season, and somehow we have yet to achieve that relatively mediocre achievement in my 28 years of life. 

For Reds fans like me, our only choice is to look backward. Just as so many Americans romanticize “simpler times”, younger Cincinnatians have to become historians in their search for greatness. Lucky for us, we have plenty of ammunition. Abysmal ownership has ruined the team’s chances of success in the foreseeable future, but The Cincinnati Reds were once the proudest franchise in the history of American sports. 

The day I met Pete Rose is etched in my memory the way only major life moments can be. A morning that started like any other in the summer of 2007. I was at the breakfast table eating Cheerios with whole milk as my Grandpa leafed through the morning paper. Today’s leafings led to the discovery that Pete would be signing autographs at our local sports memorabilia shop. Grandpa said if I helped him pick his tomatoes, he’d ride us up to see about it. 

As I examined the leafy green vines at warp speed, my Grandpa’s next door neighbor Lou stopped over to say good morning. As we told him our plans for the day, I heard a quote I will never forget. “Pete Rose, huh. Well, personally, I wouldn’t piss on his head if his hair was on fire.” I was too young to know it at the time, but Pete had garnered a less than stellar reputation from some of the Cincinnati faithful. Either way, up to Cardboard Collectables we went.

(image via https://www.timesfreepress.com/)

“Put your hands together for The Hit King, Mr. Pete Rose!” The modest crowd of onlookers did their best to create an ovation. Then in stepped Pete. The man who was the personification of an era of Cincinnati sports I was cheated out of by being born several decades too late. He looked a little haggard. His trademark white Reds cap draped over bad teeth and slouched posture. 

This struck me as odd even back then. Surely this “billionaire” would have plenty of cash to shell out for those sort of physical alterations. My childlike innocence also led me to believe that Pete was signing autographs out of the goodness of his heart. That was, until he dug a plastic laminated stand out of his baseball bag that read $100 for baseballs, $150 for custom items. Grandpa and I quickly made for the exit and I teared up in the truck, certain I’d never be able to afford that price point. 

(image via Esquire, 1974)

The next time I saw a Pete Rose autograph was on a vintage ball cap at a little thrift store between Campbell County Middle School and our house. My brother and I would stop in most every day to shoot the breeze with the store owner Mary and grab a 50 cent Orange Crush to sustain us for the remainder of the walk home. One day we showed up and there it was. Signed in black Sharpie was the unmistakable John Hancock of The Hit King himself. 

My adrenaline started pulsing. “How did you get this?!” “Oh that? I’ve had that at the house for years and I figured I’d bring it in.” Confused on why a priceless collectable would ever find its way onto a shelf, all I could think to ask was “Well, don’t you want it?” “No, I’m ready to part ways with it. I have plenty more. Pete and I went to high school together on the west side. We still keep in touch.” No way. No way this lady knows Pete. But that was his signature on that cap no doubt about it.

“How much are you wanting for it?” I asked sheepishly waiting for a figure I couldn’t fathom. “Well how much do you have?” Quickly, I turned to my brother with a look that said “I’m going to need you to give me every dollar in your wallet”. “Between us we have $11 and seventy-five cents.” “Then $11 and seventy-five cents it is.” My heart did a backflip. “Seriously?!” “Yep. Seriously.” We ran out of the store as though we had just cased the place and I floated home to find a place of prominence to place the new crowned jewel of my collection.  

The last time I saw a Pete Rose autograph was when I dug through my childhood belongings to find the hat when I heard of his passing last night. I’ve heard a lot about Pete since the day I made that $11 purchase of a lifetime. Some good, most not so good. He was complicated – maybe narcissistic, definitely a liar, but always Pete. He wasn’t made for the culture of today. He called female interviewers “sweetheart” and pissed off countless people with an unmatched arrogance and bravado. 

He also loved the game of baseball with a childlike love that is nearly impossible to come by anywhere in sports today. There is no doubt in my mind he would “walk through hell in a gasoline suit to play baseball”. I don’t even know what a “gasoline suit” is, but I like the sound of it. He has become synonymous with the gutsy attitude that has been so noticeably missing from the Cincinnati Reds of today. 

At the end of the day, Pete was unashamedly human. Not polished, not presentable – human. Instead of letting his flaws define his legacy as it will for so many, I will choose to think of him as The King of Cincinnati. Rest easy, Pete.

(image via The New Yorker)