I Once Met Pete Rose
(for about all of 40 seconds)
Place: Las Vegas, 109 degrees. Situation: Slightly buzzed. On the way to getting FUBAR
Sometimes the heavens open up and bless the average dipshit, and that was the day for me. I had just won 500 smackers placing bets on a pair of football games and while waiting for cocktails in a post-ironic bar called Kitchen; a wasted, doughy and translucent couple from Wisconsin handed me around 20 free drink tickets. The husband shot me a nudge in the ribs and semi-whispered, “You got yourself a super hot Mexican girl there, buddy.”
“Uhhh….thanks.” (my girlfriend, Gabriela, wasn’t Mexican, but it was true that she was a head turner)
When Gabby and I were pleasantly buzzed, we decided to try our luck at another casino–this usually meant I’d watch her quickly blowing my money at various dollar slot machines with gimmicky movie titles while I ordered watered down rum and cokes at the nickel slots with the geriatrics–when we unexpectedly found ourselves in a sort of mini- mall.
“I have to pee,” she said while bouncing back and forth.
And there I was, waiting for her to pee for the 4th time that day, when I spied a solitary Pete Rose about 20 feet away sitting at a table in a baseball card shop and scrawling his John Hancock on a large pile of memorabilia. My tanked up gaze was absolutely glued to the baseball legend in that surreal moment, and I’m not sure it was the booze talking, but a brilliant c’est la vie premonition suddenly occurred to me: "Hell, I'll just ask him if I can shake his hand, and if he flips me some bullshit, I'll rip him a new one."
You see, Mr. Rose had the reputation of being a jerk. A prima donna. And I was ready to be the mustache-twirling villain if need be. Besides, there is certainly no value in a man who practices self-restraint and observes the required rules of etiquette.
“Hey, Pete…I just wanna shake your hand.”
“Sure,” he said, rubbing his eyes and looking worn out.
He had large hands and had a formidable vice grip like a drunk Vietnam Vet having a momentary flashback–-which in turn made me grip even harder. I was having an unconscious/Jungian big dick battle with the slightly hairy hand of the all-time hit leader who, as a young man, would take batting practice until those very hands were blistered.
“Thanks, man. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
The brief and benign, literal ham-fisted encounter had taken all of 40 seconds, and as I was leaving, a woman who looked like she'd slathered on her makeup with a cement trowel greeted Rose with a peck on the cheek.
“Who was that?” said Gabriela, beautifully refreshed, practically beaming and ready to blow my newfound wealth with an animalistic greed.
“Pete Rose…all time hit king.”
“Oh, OK,” she said with a toss of her hair.
She had no idea who he was and frankly didn’t care…besides, she’s a Dodgers fan.
R.I.P. Charlie Hustle, and say hello to Catfish for me.
Your writing is at the top of your game here, Gary; kind of like Pete Rose in his Big Red Machine years. The description of the handshake made me feel like I was experiencing it. Excellent capper to the story with Gabby’s reaction to Pete. As Gertrude Stein wrote, “A rose is a rose…” It all depends on one’s perspective.
I’m surprised I didn’t come across this earlier. You’re a good storyteller Gary, I was attentive from start to end.