Poor Pete’s Pity Party

If there is a more pathetic figure in professional sports than Pete Rose, I don’t know who it is.  He lives in Vegas and makes his living by selling his autograph to people who, for reasons only they know, will pay through the nose for the signature of the All-Time Hits Leader.

But Pete is sad.  Because he gambled on baseball, despite the ironclad ban that has existed since Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis was  Commissioner, he has been banished from the game and can’t be enshrined in the Hall of Fame.  Now he laments that he was just cursed because gambling was his vice.  He’d be better off, he says, if he’d been an alcoholic, a drug user, or a wife beater, because those vices can be forgiven.

Pete Rose says that he’s “messed up” and is “paying the consequences,” but his recent comments belie any true contrition.  He lied about gambling for years and only admitted it to help sell his autobiography, and now he hopes to make people feel sorry for him.  I don’t, and no one should.

Pete Rose violated the cardinal rule in baseball, and he got what he deserved.  For a guy who played up his reputation as a tough, hard-nosed player, he’s really become a crybaby.  It’s sad.

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