The other victim in Dallas

I've always been fascinated by Texas political history.

One of the most fascinating of the Lone Star State's colorful characters is John Connally, an LBJ protege who was governor of Texas when John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on Nov. 22, 1963.

You no doubt know that Connally, riding in the jump seat of the 1961 Lincoln limo, was also hit that day.

His story -- understandably so -- tends to get lost amid the death of a president.

But Connally's tale is a good one, worthy of study on its own.

Here is a fascinating interview with Connally and his wife Nellie conducted by Larry King in 1992.

For those of you interested in this type of thing, don't miss "The Lone Star," James Reston Jr.'s excellent biography of Connally.

As an aside, Connally later became a Republican. President Richard Nixon wanted Connally to be his successor for the Republican presidential nomination in 1976. But, of course, Watergate happened, Connally became entangled in scandal and most doubted that the Republican base would have accepted the former Democrat anyhow.

Give Connally a look. His is a Texas-sized tale.

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.

Back to Thalia

Tonight, if I ever escape this insane asylum called work, I'm going home, fixing dinner and spending the evening with some old friends in Texas.

Not literally, of course. I'm still here in Halls, doing what I love and loving what I do.

But author Larry McMurtry has released the apparently final installment in his long saga of the life of Duane Moore that began years ago with "The Last Picture Show." And, tonight, before I tackle the American Revolution and John Adams, I'm going back to Thalia. The book is called "When the Light Goes."

I'm quite hesitant to return to that sleepy little Texas town. McMurtry is notorious for taking characters you love and doing crazy things with them. (Read "Streets of Laredo," his bizarre sequel to "Lonesome Dove.")

They're his characters. I guess it's his right. But they've bounced around in my head so long I feel some kind of claim on them, too.

Return I will, though. I once drove, as part of a vacation, all the way to Archer City, Texas, McMurtry's one-stoplight hometown and the model for his fictional Thalia, on some kind of crazy, quixotic odyssey.

I ducked into McMurtry's delicious antiquarian bookstore hoping I'd see him, but he wasn't around. I left on the shelf a first edition of James Reston Jr.'s biography of former Texas governor John Connally -- a move I've regretted for four years.

(Film buffs will know the town. Peter Bogdanovich filmed the cinematic version of "The Last Picture Show" there in 1970. I still contend that's one of the finest films I've ever seen.)

It's funny how books, and characters, can grab you. One of my editors, Larry Van Guilder, says they become like old friends, members of the family.

So it is with Duane. When last I left him, he was living in a cabin, going everywhere on foot, in love with his shrink, reading Proust at night.

I feel like this book is going to leave me terribly depressed. But, off I go, back to Texas, to spend a few hours with an old pal.

Mark this down: writers -- and readers -- are a sick bunch.