On the morning Pete Rose broke Ty Cobb's hit record in Cincinnati, I was already sitting in my box at Riverfront Stadium. A cardboard box, that is. It was last Wednesday, Sept. 11, for you historians, and I was stacked in a storage closet. Suddenly, in mid-afternoon, I was rushed down to the umpires' room, where an attendant rubbed me up with Delaware River mud (a bit roughly, I might add) and tossed me in a canvas bag with five dozen other balls. Just like that I was on the cutting edge of history.
There was something portentous about that evening. I overheard Lee Weyer, who had umpired at third base the night Hank Aaron hit his 715th home run in Atlanta, saying that for the last three years he'd been promising Rose that he would be behind the plate for Pete's record-setting 4,192nd hit. Sure enough, Weyer was working the plate that night. Wednesday was also the 57th anniversary of Ty Cobb's last at bat. Even the weather, sweltering for several days, had turned autumnally cool, as if to invigorate the 44-year-old boy.
It was an electrifying, emotional evening. When we reached the field, there must have been four reporters for every ball. I couldn't imagine how Pete had been able to go through this every night for two weeks. I overheard one of the ball-boys say that Rose had apologized to some of the reporters the night before, telling them that he hoped to get the record hit soon "so you guys can get on with the rest of your lives." That's Pete Rose for you.
Young Cincinnati players kept coming up to Rose during batting and infield practice, asking, "Is this what a World Series is like?" The air had that kind of shivery chill. Reds first base coach Tommy Helms, anticipating the historic moment, put in a special request to Pete: "Don't you let Steve Garvey shake your hand before I do."
While I waited in the dugout with the other 59 balls, we talked anxiously about the prospect of being hit No. 4,192. If it happened tonight, one of us would be immortalized. Only two or three thousand balls have ever made the Baseball Hall of Fame, and only one other from Rose's career. That was his 3,631st hit, the one that broke Stan Musial's National League record. Life can be tough for baseballs that aren't historic. Balls last for maybe a batter or two, then get tossed in a bucket and pounded around in batting practice for a couple of days. Finally they're shipped off to some minor league team for more batting practice and then hammered until their stitching starts to unravel.
On the other hand, Rose's trophy room—which is where I am for the moment, by the way—is the lap of luxury. Pete treats his milestone balls well. He's kept half a dozen to display at home and given away others to people who are near and dear to him. Third-base coach and hitting instructor Billy DeMars, for example, who has been with Pete in Philadelphia, Montreal and Cincinnati, received the baseballs from Rose's 3,500th and 4,000th hits.
Mind you, many baseballs abhor Pete Rose. Rose has knocked us around pretty good. We get irritated when he slam-dribbles us on the AstroTurf. And when he painstakingly wipes the ball marks off his black bat with alcohol...well, it's as if we were dirty or something.
Just before the game, I got to thinking about Ty Cobb's baseballs. I never met any and, as you might understand, we don't particularly like to talk about the so-called dead-ball era. It's a touchy subject. But the truth is, the Hall of Fame doesn't have any of Cobb's balls, and the Tigers don't either. I hear that when Cobb became baseball's alltime hit leader, passing Honus Wagner (3,430) with a 4 for 4 day in Boston back in 1923, newspapers scarcely noticed. No one seems to know where that ball went.
As Wednesday's game began, Weyer carried me and half a dozen other balls out to home plate in his belt bag. I stayed there as the Padres went down 1-2-3 in the top of the first. With one out and no one on in the bottom of the first, Rose came to bat. He took a pitch high for ball one, then fouled the next delivery back. This was my big chance. Weyer grabbed me and tossed me out to Eric Show.
I was so excited I was nearly bursting at the seams. I was out in the open at last. My senses were sharp. I saw the entire crowd on its feet and counted at least 22 Pete Rose banners hung around the stadium. The fans—all 47,237 of them—were chanting his name while wearing, waving and carrying all sorts of Rose paraphernalia. To my great disappointment, however, I saw Kurt Bevacqua playing third base for the Padres. I was hoping for Graig Nettles, who just happens to be the author of my favorite book, Balls.
Show threw me slightly inside to Rose, who let me go by, raising the count to 2 and 1. It was scary: The whole way in, Rose stared at me like a hungry man eyeing a piece of fruit. He didn't seem his usual chatty self at the plate, either. Pete was really concentrating.
Show wanted me to curve into Rose on the next pitch, so he put me in his slider grip. But as I was about to cross the inside half of the plate, Pete jumped on me. I saw his black bat flash and bam! I was flying toward left centerfield. I bet Pete knew it was a hit even before I did. That comes with experience. I could see the confetti and the streamers and the balloons flying from the upper decks even before I hit the ground. The noise from the crowd was absolutely astounding.
I came down about 15 feet in front of leftfielder Carmelo Martinez. I bounced off the AstroTurf and shot high in the air. Pete was watching me. I wanted to show him something. Martinez reached up to grab me—I mean, he just got me—and saw Rose already making the turn to second base. Martinez fired me in to shortstop Garry Templeton. I think Martinez is a little mad at me, though. If I hadn't bounced so high he would have run me back to the infield and handed me to Pete himself. But there was enough going on as it was. Fireworks began shooting off. A big 4,192! flashed on the scoreboard. And the other Reds were pouring out of their dugout, led by 15-year-old Pete Jr. Joining them in a swarm around baseball's new alltime hit leader was Show and the entire Padre infield. Young Petey reached his father just before 43-year-old Tony Perez got there. " 'Bout time," Perez told his teammate. "I been waiting 23 years." Then came Garvey. "Thanks for the memories," he told Rose.
Templeton handed me to Pete, who in turn handed me to Petey. I didn't feel at all slighted. Rose was being hugged and slapped and buried in an avalanche of noise. After a moment, Perez and shortstop Davey Conception even tried to hoist Rose onto their shoulders. They had it planned all along. After getting him partway up, though, Perez said to the 205-pound Rose, "You're heavy."
The procession continued. Reds owner Marge Schott came out for a long embrace and a kiss. She signaled to the outfield. A door opened and out rolled a brand-new red Corvette with PR 4192 license plates.
Then everyone cleared away and Pete stood alone. The cheering went on and on and on. You could tell Pete didn't know what to do. So he raised his index finger and then looked up to the sky. He smiled as if he had recognized somebody up there. His father maybe. Or Cobb. Then he started to cry. He turned to Helms, his old friend and teammate from their minor league days together, and buried his head on Tommy's left shoulder as if to hide his tears.
Petey came out again after five minutes and hugged his dad long and hard. "Don't worry about it, son, you'll beat my record," his dad told him. It was a poignant moment. Many of the Reds were by now crying, too. Only after seven solid minutes of applause did the crowd settle down and the game resume. I was taken down to the locker room for safekeeping and then forced to listen to the remainder of the ballgame over the radio.
Suffice it to say that Rose walked and tripled in his three remaining at bats, and scored both runs in a 2-0 Cincinnati victory.
Deep down, I'm a lot like Pete—tightly wound and lively to the core. But while he goes on playing, I'm going into retirement. I thought I'd be going to Cooperstown, but Pete's talking about giving me to his son to pay for his college education. It's nice to know I'm valuable, but like Pete, I'll always want to get back in the ball game. I know I have a few more hits left in me.
At 8:01 p.m. Show hurled me home, and Pete sent me on the ride of my life.
As Pete looked up, his dad and Cobb gazed down.
Afterward, I was just bursting at the seams.
Rose was embraced by old pal Helms (above), his son Petey and all of hometown Cincinnati.
[See caption above.]