4,192

Pete Rose.

He was one of my heroes when I was a boy. My dad would take me to Weigels gas station to buy a few packs of Topps baseball cards. I'd go through the stack, save the Rose and Dale Murphy cards, put the others in a box, and throw the gum away.

Sept. 11, 1985. Rose did the impossible. He broke Ty Cobb's all-time career hits record of 4,191. When he hugged his son, Pete Jr., at first base, I cried too. Hey, sue me. I was seven.

Then came 1989. I took Pete's side. Read his book, "My Story," the one written with Roger Kahn.

Ten years later, I couldn't believe that NBC reporter who shall remain nameless brought the betting thing up again during the All-Century Team ceremony, when Rose got the loudest ovation of the night.

The next year, I met Rose at a baseball card show in Richmond, Va. My grin vanished when the guy wouldn't acknowledge my polite "How are you, sir?" (His former teammate, Joe Morgan, by contrast, grasped my hand, said it was nice to meet me and told me he hoped I enjoyed his book.)

A year or two later, I read James Reston Jr.'s "Collision at Home Plate." It is a dual biography of Rose and the late Bart Giamatti, former commissioner of Major League Baseball. Giamatti died several days after banning Rose for life from the game.

My feelings about Rose changed. My blood really got to boiling when Rose finally admitted to Charles Gibson on ABC, his legs spread so widely apart you could have driven a Sherman tank through them, that, yes, he did indeed bet on baseball.

My childhood hero, Charlie Hustle, the guy who worked harder than everyone else, the guy who remembered janitors' names and came back out of his car at Ramsey's Restaurant to sign something for a special needs kid, had lied to me. To us.

Then he would tell kids on the street to give him five bucks for an autograph. Then he started holding signings in casinos.

Nah. Forget it. I thought about taking my autographed baseball and using it for batting practice in the back yard.

And then, last night, I watched the excellent documentary film "4192." And I began to remember why I loved Pete Rose when I was a kid.

Well, it goes through Rose's entire career. He tells about how his dad pushed him, made him work as hard as he could, knowing he wasn't the most talented guy on the field. He said his dad got sick one day, made it home and died on the doorstep. Big Pete taught his son to be tough.

The documentary goes through Pete Rose's childhood, the minor leagues, the Crosley Field years, the Big Red Machine, the still-unbelievable dismantling of one of baseball's greatest teams, to the Phillies, the Expos, back as player/manager Cincinnati and, finally, to the night of hit number 4,192.

Money quote from Pete Rose: "I got my 3,000th hit on and my birthday is on April 12, the day the Titanic sank, the day Abe Lincoln was shot. I got (hit 4,192) on 9/11. I'm a weird dude."

OK, here's the deal. Pete Rose deserves to be in the Hall of Fame. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, will ever top most of his records. The timing of his inclusion can be debated. But when you have a Hall of Fame wall that includes Bill Mazeroski and not Peter Edward Rose?

Give me a break.

Find a link to purchase the DVD of "4192" here. It is also streaming on Netflix and Amazon Instant.

'It'll break your heart'

When Alexi Casilla hit the winning RBI single last night to take the Minnesota Twins to the playoffs, I thought about Bart Giamatti.

The late, great former commissioner of our national game once said that baseball is designed to break your heart. Thus it is with me and a bunch of folks in Motown this morning.

The Tigers blew the 7-game lead it held on Sept. 7 while the Twins went on a tear. As it dwindled to three games, then two, then one, then the tie -- forcing last night's play-in game -- I could feel the sickening feeling in my gut, trying to keep my hopes alive, but knowing somehow that it was over.

I'll say this, though. Yesterday's game was a classic.

The Tigers jumped out to a 3-0 lead. The Twins scored one on an error. Back and forth it went. Tie game. Free baseball, as they call it, into the 10th inning, and the 11th, and the 12th.

I talked to J.M. on the phone for the last few frames, telling him not to react too quickly, since my satellite feed is a bit behind his cable broadcast. Dustin Mynatt texted his fear that the Tigers had blown too many chances. Mike Hermann said at least he'd be in Minnesota for a playoff game.

I can't believe I'm getting ready to type this, but I hope the Yankees win -- this series anyway.

So now it's off to root for Boston, with or without Heidi Watney, and look in on the National League from time to time.

But as I turned off my TV last night, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut, I remembered the Renaissance poet who knew so much about our perfect pastime, and marveled over the fact that this little boy's game can still break my heart.

Rainy night in Boston

It's raining tonight in Beantown.

Nope, I'm not there. Just watching on the tube thanks to the fine folks at FOX. The Red Sox are beating the Rockies 4-1 in the bottom of the fourth as I type this.

Couldn't help but think about the late, great A. Bartlett Giamatti. If Bart were still alive, he'd no doubt be at Fenway tonight. Or at least watching from Martha's Vineyard, rooting on his beloved Sox.

Thought about his fine little piece, "The Green Fields of the Mind," about the end of a long ago season. It started raining that game, too, as Giamatti made his way out of the park.

"It breaks your heart," Bart said of this great game. And, of course, it does.

Former UT quarterback Todd Helton is the longtime Rockies first baseman. This is his first World Series. Guess that's why I'm rooting for the Mile High boys this fall.

I'll fly up to Boston one of these days, though. Take in a weekend game at Fenway before they shut this grand old park town. Then, I'll rent a car and drive up to Maine, maybe say howdy to Halls High grad Jim Marine and his wife.

I need to get to Maine anyway. That state, along with Minnesota and North Dakota, are the only three in the contiguous 48 I've yet to visit.

I would complain about thoughts of being without the game for the next five months. But we've got basketball to play in Big Orange Country, y'all.

OK, gotta go. Francis is in trouble again. Bases loaded, 2-1 count to Tek.

Gotta enjoy this while it lasts.