Pete Rose is trying to get into the wrong hall

Saw Pete Rose on television the other day. It wasn’t by choice. Bruce and Chip, the guys in our newspaper’s sports department, had commandeered the TV.

I’m not really a sports guy and don’t apologize for it, but even I had heard of Pete Rose; heard of the big scandal, anyway. For those few readers even less in tune with the wide world of sports than am I, Rose was busted for betting on his own team. I’m not sure which team it was, but I think it was a baseball one. (Like I said, my ignorance of sports, while not complete, is darn close.)

According to Bruce — who knows about this stuff — Rose was banned for life from induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. They didn’t like the fact he was betting on games at the same time he was in a position to influence their outcome. 

This is an emotional issue for some folks; I base this on the fact Bruce and Chip were ready to take hostages and detonate WMD’s over the possibility Hall of Fame bigwigs might reconsider their ban.

Rose admitted he’s still got a gambling problem, but said, “Hey, forgive me anyway.” Hard to argue with that kind of sincerity.

My own personal take on the matter is I care even less about this than I did about Bruce Jenner putting on a dress. I figure it’s none of my business and fully believe the world would be a better place if more people shared my philosophy.

Still, the controversy got me thinking about the disparity between The Baseball Hall of Fame and the hall I actually care about: The Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.

Frankly, if the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame’s rules were as stringent as are baseball’s equivalent, that hall would be empty except for Karen Carpenter and maybe one or two of the less-offensive Monkees. Davy and Peter, I’m thinking.

I mean, baseball’s hall won’t let you in if you’ve done drugs, had inappropriate relations with passed-out teenage girls, used steroids, run naked through a luxury hotel or committed any one of a number of grievously heinous crimes.

At the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame, these atrocities are part of the entrance checklist.

It doesn’t seem fair. Sports celebrities are every bit as coddled, overpaid and lawyered-up as are rock ’n’ roll icons, yet they’re expected to behave themselves and be good role models for spoiled yuppie children.

Rockers, meanwhile, are considered more trustworthy than Mother Theresa if they stay two nights in a hotel room without trashing it and somehow manage to live into their mid-30s without dying of a heroin overdose.

I don’t see an easy answer to Mr. Rose’s dilemma. But maybe it’s not too late for him to buy an old Stratocaster, learn a few chords and put out a hit record.

He may never find acceptance in Cooperstown, but I’m betting they’d welcome him with open arms in Cleveland.