9002090324 DETROIT FREE PRESS 901018 Thursday, October 18, 1990 METRO FINAL

SPT

1H MITCH ALBOM Copyright (c) 1990, Detroit Free Press ROSE IS OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF BASEBALL'S MIND CINCINNATI -- The Reds' locker room was stuffed with reporters, clamoring around any available ballplayer. Ron Oester sat by his locker, watching the fuss. He sipped a postgame beer. "This," he said, "is what it was like when Pete first got in trouble." He took another sip and shook his head. "Pete should be here to see this." A World Series is more than seven baseball games. It is a link to Octobers past, and the city it graces will usually spare no effort to trot out its baseball tradition. Were we in St. Louis this week, Stan Musial's statue would open the TV broadcasts. Were we in Detroit, Al Kaline might draw a bigger crowd than Moses. Yankee Stadium? The ghosts of Ruth and Gehrig would get no rest. Pete Rose, on the other hand, is getting plenty of rest. And no attention. He is inside a prison in Marion, Ill., watching this World Series on a television set. Once he figured he would forever be synonymous with Cincinnati baseball. The idea of a Reds' World Series without Rose -- playing, managing, or walking the field like a living legend -- well, that made as much sense as a Disneyland without Mickey Mouse. But it is happening now, this week. Rose is a non- entity, a taboo -- or least tabled -- topic. There are no banners to him. No retired jerseys. No statues. And bigger than the prison sentence, bigger than the tax fraud, bigger than the gambling addiction that dragged him down by his fingernails, this may be Rose's worst nightmare: Baseball, Cincinnati baseball, has reached the end of the rainbow, the World Series. And you have to look hard to find anyone talking about old No. 14. They talked baseball, not gambling Oester is an exception. He wants Rose remembered. As a kid who grew up in this town, a kid who once had his favorite book, "The Pete Rose Story," signed by the man himself, a kid who played alongside Rose for six games in 1978, and who later played for him during Rose's managerial stint, Oester is not ashamed to invoke his name, as some others seem to be. "Pete should be here throwing out the first ball or something," Oester after Game 1 of this Fall Classic, the first in Cincinnati without Rose since 1961. "It doesn't seem right. You talk about Reds baseball and you can't not talk about Pete Rose. He's the greatest who ever played here. . . . "Hey, he made a mistake. Jesus. So what? If you looked into the closets of 99 percent of the guys in this room, you'd find something, I guarantee you. "I know he's watching us in prison. I know it. I still can't get used to the idea." He sighed and returned to his beer. When Rose was here, he and Oester would talk every day about the games they had seen on TV. Both had satellite dishes. Both would go home at night and stay up to 3 or 4 a.m., flicking the channels. "I'd see some great play and I'd say to myself, 'Pete is gonna ask me about that one tomorrow.' It was like studying for a test. And sure enough, he'd ask." But just as they would always talk baseball, they would never talk about the problem. The gambling. Nobody wanted to bring it up. Not even Rose's friends, who suspected and often knew its extent. Ray Knight, who played here for years, considers himself a friend. But he has not spoken with Rose. He has not contacted him during his troubles. "If you know Pete, you know how he wants to deal with this by himself. He doesn't want any outside advice. "I was walking around Cincinnati today, going to the old places we used to go to, restaurants, stores, a golf course. And everyone asked me about Pete. A lot of them asked if I knew he was gambling. And I said absolutely. But we never talked about it. I can't explain. You just didn't do that with Pete." Always, the game goes on Back in the '70s, Rose was all over the World Series. There is that famous picture of him sliding headfirst into third in the 1975 Classic against Boston. Back in 1972 -- the first time the Reds met the A's -- Cincinnati fell behind, three games to one. They had tickets to go home. Rose led off Game 5 with a homer. The Reds won that game and the next. But that was then and this is now. The 1990 Reds bear the mark of Rose's image, but the fact is, with mostly the same talent, he could never muster them higher than second place. Rose was a pretty average manager, a guy who overworked his pitchers and wasn't much on discipline. He treated his players the way he probably wanted to be treated, which was to be left alone. He failed to realize that not everyone thinks like Pete Rose. Perhaps, watching this Series on a prison TV set, he realizes it now. His old teammates are all over the place. Johnny Bench is here, and Tony Perez is here, and Ken Griffey is here, walking around, smiling. In fact, the Reds are wearing Griffey's number 30, because he was part of this team when the season began. And, of course, there is no stigma in honoring Ken Griffey. And Rose? There is only a street sign outside the stadium: "Pete Rose Way." Funny. It was the Pete Rose Way that got him where he is right now. Back in 1975, in Game 6 of the Series, one of the most dramatic ever played, Rose came to bat in extra innings with the crowd roaring. He grinned at Boston catcher Carlton Fisk. "This is a hell of game, ain't it?" Sure is. It has even, beyond his wildest imagination, managed to go on without him.