Rose Earns Place In The Baseball Hall Of Shame

Hey, Mr. Rose: how much for those pin - I mean, prison - stripes?

Gonna hawk them on late-night cable? Maybe trade a few baseball bats to Jim Bakker for the inside scoop on Jessica Hahn?

Or what about a card show? I know you'll have a captive audience.

Here's the sales pitch, Petey: How about this autographed rookie baseball card? Only $150.

And yes, I'll declare the taxes.

The backlash has already begun against Peter Edward Rose, aka/Charlie Hustle, who may have more in common with his moniker's last name than he ever imagined.

His recent guilty plea has made Rose the first person in major league history to boost George Steinbrenner's image.

Not an easy task

But if you think Rose is the founder of the BBLA (Baseball Lawbreaker Association), think again.

The former Cincinnati Red, Montreal Expo and Philadelphia Phillie joins an elite group of professional baseball players who have spent time both hitting fouls and playing foul. It's sort of a "Who's Who in Baseball's Hall of Shame."

Why, look who's pitching to Rose: Is that ex-Detroit Tiger Denny McLain? Sure is.

And what's he pitching? Fastballs? Curves? Sliders?

Nah. McLain's busy pitching odds. I bet it's 5:2 that Rose never does an Ohio Lotto ad.

On-deck is another former Tiger, Ron LeFlore, who stole more than bases during his lifetime.

Look, there's Luis Polonia. Say, Luis - Mr. Rose can sell you a bed in his cell real cheap. Just make sure that anyone who joins you there is of age, OK?

I told you, he wasn't alone.

But, hey. This is getting out of line. Cheap (or, of you're considering buying an officially-autographed Rose uniform on the Cable Value Network for $399.95, expensive) shots are easy, right? So let's give credit where credit is due.

He didn't do drugs.

That's the real message here. Rose screwed up a lot, but he screwed up in the wrong way.

The coolest statement you can make today is the in-fashion "I don't do drugs." It shows confidence, poise and an overall hipness to the world monitor.

But by saying the second-coolist statement, "I used to do drugs - but I kicked the habit," you admit to having had a serious problem, but faced up to it and defeated it. This makes you an ultra-cool dude. Or dudette.

Let's face it. If you're going to be a sports figure, get hooked on drugs. That way, when you admit you're hooked and go into rehab, you'll look good when you get out.

Don't believe me? Here's a short-but-sweet list of names who are being praised for defeating a drug or alcohol problem: Dwight Gooden. Bob Welch. Dave Parker. Dennis Eckersley.

These four men all had drug or alcohol addictions - and defeated them. And they are still seen as idols and role models.

And Pete Rose, accurately or not, falls into the same category as Shoeless Joe Jackson and is 1919 Chicago Black Sox.

So, Pete, I offer you these words of futile encouragement as you move on to further endeavors:
Steinbrenner isn't in your cell block.

Yet.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Still Batting .000 In Quest For Lotto Loot

It has been a ritual for so long now, I can hardly remember when it started.

Twice every seven days. One-hundred-four times a year, I go to the nearest dealership, pull out a greenback and name six numbers.

Lotto fever.

For years I have toiled in a never-ending challenge to match my ill-fated ticket with the numbers drawn on television.

And, without hesitation, I always know before the drawing that I am slated to be a Lotto bridesmaid for the rest of eternity.

Call me a pessimist. Warn Bob Uecker that he has competition. Call the Chicago Cubs publicity department:

The God of Losing Lotto Tickets has blessed me for life.

"My child," he chokes out, crying for his sanity, "you never were good with dollar figures."

"But I always played with baseball stats," I respond. "I dug through box scores, played with batting averages. heck, dad always thought I was going to be a bookie. Mom told friends her son was going to be an actuary."

"Yes," the God says. "I know. But that ain't money."

Every Wednesday and Saturday night turns into a celebration of empty wallets, a Mardi Gras of negative-balance checking accounts and overdue MasterCard receipts.

Mind you, this is not the biggest news story you'll ever grace your eyes upon. Heck, the concept of remaining a non-millionaire fails to shock me. George Steinbrenner fires managers at a similar ratio.

Yet, it's true. I'm still a regular guy. I still can't buy a Rembrandt. You won't find me spending the summer in The Bahamas. Donald Trump had to find someone else to bail him out of hot water.

If you're like me, you have failed to match those numbers correctly. For us, a great day is barely missing one number.

Also, if you're like me, you have wild, uncontrollable fantasies about what you'd do if you actually did win. (This is a sure sign of a Lotto non-winner.)

I already have the whole post-discovery scenario planned. There I'll be, in front of the television cameras, with Dan Rather hurling questions at me:

DAN: "So, Paul, what's it feel like to win $253 million?"

PAUL: "Well ... thank you."

DAN: "Did you ever dream you'd win so much money?"

PAUL: "You kidding? Never thought I'd be so lucky. Never."

SAM DONALDSON (he's always around to ask the really tough ones): "So, Paul, tell us - what do you plan to do now that you've got more money than Jose Canseco?"

PAUL (without missing a beat): "Well, I plan to pay off all my credit cards, my truck payment and my college loans. Then I'll probably use the remaining $15 and buy a pizza and some beer."

Now, then. Some people say winning the Lotto would be bad for me. "You're not used to having any money," they whine. "You'd blow it all on Rotisserie Baseball and Beatles CDs! You'd have women from high school and college - the ones who never gave you the time of day - begging you to notice them. It'll ruin your life!"

Gosh. I never thought of that. Winning the Lotto could destroy me.

What a way to go.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Stupidity In Sports

WHAT: A sports-oriented talk radio station.

WHEN: Anytime during the past 12 months - not that it really matters.

WHERE: Anywhere in sports-minded America ...

(Theme music comes to an end. Cue host, and:)

PAUL GABA: Hell, and welcome to Sports Forum, with a look at what's going through the minds of listeners and athletes alike. I'm your host, Paul Gaba, and today we're discussing the topic of "Stupidity in Sports" with out guest, former major-league star Bucks Malone. Welcome to the show, Bucks.

BUCKS MALONE: Thanks, Paul, it's always a pleasure to be here.

GABA: "Stupidity in Sports" covers a wide variety of areas. It can be used to discuss the fans who paid $12 for a Willie Mays autograph at a card show over Thanksgiving, which was the case this past weekend in Detroit.

It can relate to the case of Dexter Manley, who was given the heave-ho out of the NFL last week for violating the league's drug policy.

It can be used in accordance with Pete Rose, who hocked baseball bats and other pieces of equipment on television the same day he was kicked out of baseball. Or the Ben Johnson steroid situation. Or the Steve Garvey "two kids, two women, marry a third" syndrome. Or the media overkill on the Wade Boggs-Margo Adams scenario. Am I on the right track?

BUCKS: You hit the nail right on the head, Paul. Take the Manley situation, for example.

Here's a guy who violated football's drug policy three times! Can you believe it? If you, or I, or anyone out there right now were caught doing drugs, would we get a third chance at redemption? I doubt it.

For most of us, if we got caught doing illegal substances, we probably wouldn't get a second chance. And you'd think after the Len Bias situation a few years back, people would get the message. He didn't get a second chance. He blew it the first time, and it cost him his life. But obviously the impact hasn't set in.

Three chances. God, I can't comprehend it at all.

GABA: But couldn't it be said that the NFL and the Washington Redskins are just as stupid, in this situation, as Manley? I mean, obviously they knew he had a problem, but they let him go on playing. And when he got caught for the third time, well, then he's let go.

BUCKS: This is true, Paul. Even as stupid as Manley, or anyone like him - Bob Probert and Roy Tarpley are two recent cases - are apt to be, it's hard to blame them completely. Their stupidity was tolerated by higher levels. And this is what really boggles my mind. No one wants to take responsibility for a situation gone bad. No one wants to crack down on a dangerous situation.

GABA: We're going to the phone lines now. Hello, you're on Sports Forum.

CALLER 1: Yeah, I have a question. With all these athletes doing drugs, do you think the "Just Say No" thing is working?

BUCKS: That's an interesting question. Personally, I think the "Just Say No" campaign is limited in what it can do. It's mostly a system of information for kids.

GABA: I have to agree with you to a point, Bucks.

A lot of kids are being told, "Drugs are bad. Drugs kill. Don't do drugs." And, in terms of information, it works. People are certainly more aware of what drugs can do. But it's hard to battle peer pressure, even if one of the kids' sports idols takes a fall - like, for example, Manley or Probert.

But you also have to remember, the number of athletes associated with drugs is in a state of hype, too. Not all athletes take illegal drugs, and many who used to have battled back from drug dependency. Dave Parker and Willie Wilson, just to name a few.

We have another caller. Talk to me.

CALLER 2: Hi, Paul. This is Mark, I'm a first-time caller.

GABA: Well, welcome to the Sports Forum family.

CALLER 2: Thanks, Paul. Listen, what about alcohol? It's a drug, and you always hear athletes complain when beer and that sort of stuff is not allowed in the locker room.

GABA: Good point, Mark. As a matter of fact, alcohol is the biggest-selling drug in the world, And, once again, you're hitting on a prime subject.

BUCKS: But the difference between alcohol and other drugs often mentioned - cocaine and steroids are the biggest - is that alcohol is legal. And because it's legal, the crackdown is not as harsh.

GABA: This is true.

BUCKS: It's hard to swallow something of the magnitude of a Bruce Kimball, or a Reggie Rogers, or the late Pelle Lindbergh - the former Philadelphia Flyers goalie who was intoxicated when he crashed his car into a tree.

Driving drunk is stupid. I doubt you'll find anyone who says the opposite.

GABA: And yet, drinking and driving seems to be tolerated when it comes to the sports world - as long as no one is injured or killed.

Scott Skiles is still revered in his home state of Indiana, despite a drunk driving conviction. John Langeloh is still playing for Michigan State, despite his recent woes. Petr Klima and Probert - there's that name again - were allowed to play against Edmonton when the Red Wings were trying for a Stanley Cup berth, even though they had been out drinking past curfew the night before. The double standard goes on forever, and I doubt it will change.

BUCKS: It won't change, at least not while the average American tolerates it.

And the alcohol-athlete connection will be tolerated as long as the major breweries continue to have a stranglehold on sports television broadcasts. And on sports in general.

You know what's really sad? I'm no longer amazed by the amount of alcohol advertising that goes on during a sportscast. It's advanced to the point that announcers will salute a home run, touchdown or goal with an alcoholic salute. It's rather depressing.

GABA: I know what you mean. We only have time for one more caller. Hello, you're on.

CALLER 3: Yeah, I want to touch on something you mentioned earlier. I don't see anything stupid about paying money to get an autograph. We pay to watch the guys play, why not to talk to them, or get an autograph?

BUCKS: Hey it's your money. Stupidity has no price level.

GABA: I'm afraid that's all the time we have today on Sports Forum, but we'll be back soon with another edition.

(Closing theme music.)

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

Sacred Cows And The Swap Shop

It's time to wake up and smell the coffee, America.

No one is sacred in sports anymore.

The late-80s trend of mega-deals continued last week when the Red Wings received Jimmy Carson and Kevin McClelland from Edmonton for former Michigan State star Joe Murphy, Petr Klima, Jeff Sharples and Adam Graves.

The deal, which helped Detroit by giving center Steve Yzerman another hot stick-handler in Carson, came on the heels of the Minnesota Vikings-Dallas Cowboys trade which make Hershel Walker a Nordic.

Which, of course, followed two large summer swaps in major league baseball - the Mark Langston deal (Seattle and Montreal) and the Frank Viola deal (New York Mets and Minnesota).

And this latest trade comes 15 months after Edmonton's Wayne Gretzky was sent packing to Los Angeles for a ton of cash and Carson ... who, of course, is no longer with the Oilers.

Got it so far? Good. I hope I'm not going too fast.

All of this leads me to one conclusion: No one is sacred in sports anymore.

It used to be this wasn't the case. Before this wave of 5-for-1's and 6-for-2's (which, by the way, actually started with the Indianapolis-Los Angeles rams Eric Dickerson deal several years ago), star players had pretty secure jobs.

No one ever contended that Al Kaline or Ernie Banks were for sale at the height of their careers.

No trade rumors ever circulated around the names of Sandy Koufax or Walter Payton.

No mondo-swaps afflicted the Brooklyn Dodgers, St. Louis Browns or Chicago Cardinals.

The truth is, nowadays even the top dog is trade bait.

Alan Trammell. Ryne Sandberg. Isiah Thomas, Magic Johnson. And on, and on, and on.

None are sacred. None are exempt.

And that, my friends, is what scares me about Sports In The 90s the most.

I long for the days when I could look at a team roster and pick 10 or 12 players and say, "Yeah, those guys will be here five years from now."

But I can't.

Look, for example, at the 1984 Tigers. A team of destiny, they were called.

Who remains?

Trammell. Lou Whitaker. Jack Morris. Willie/Guillermo Hernandez (even he's not totally there, hence the name change). Chet Lemon.

Five years, five players.

No one is sacred. At all.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

The End of the Innocence

It was a year ago Saturday. The incredibly long, hot, rainless summer was reaching its peak.

It was a moment that changed my life.

My dad, Leonard, died.

Dad was a wealth of knowledge to everyone who met him. He was an osteopathic physician who took pride in what he was doing, the consummate professional both in and out of the office.

He was a worldly man, one who knew a lot about situations in far-away political hotbeds like El Salvador, Nicaragua, the Philippines and the Middle East. Much of my political upbringing and information came from him, but he would always make me go and dig up the complete story.

Dad wanted me to learn as much as possible. But he wanted me to do the research. If I was truly interested in the topic, he reasoned, I would want to find it on my own. Of course, he was right.

The mourning is over now. Life, so they say, goes on. And I no longer try to rationalize a situation which cannot be rationalized. But his life - and, ultimately, death - made a major impact on me, one which I cannot celebrate completely because he is not here to see my achievements.

One of the things that differed between me and my dad was sports. I was a sports junkie, waking up early to find the morning newspaper, eagerly digging through the sports section for stories, statistics, box scores, features and whatever else I could get my hands on. I lived, breathed and ate a continual sports diet.

I would take the stats for the Tigers, dissect them into a million different modes and try to figure out meaningless items, like why Ron LeFlore was hitting .316 with runners in scoring position and one out.

Dad, on the other hand, was much less sports-minded. Unlike the stereotype which followed his profession, he did not play golf. He enjoyed watching sporting events, usually live, but never really got all bent out of shape if a player had an off-day. Among other things, he couldn't understand why professional athletes got paid the way they did.

While I have no answer to his question, I can appreciate his thoughts. It comes down to priorities.

As I have grown older, I have learned not to take sports as seriously as I used to. Sports, as entertainment, are not a live-and-die nature. Let's face it: If it comes down to Alan Trammell blasting a 1-2 pitch to Neptune to defeat the Red Sox, or the threat of a nuclear warhead being dropped on my house within the next 10 minutes, which is more important?

But Dad liked watching sports on occasion, especially when one of his kids was on the field. My brother, Charles, was involved in a youth soccer program for several years, and my sister, Miriam, took up gymnastics for a while.

For six years, I played Little League baseball, and - despite his hectic schedule - Dad would come to almost every game to watch me play.

I'm the first to admit I wasn't the next Ted Williams when it came to swinging a bat - I think I had around 15 career hits in those six seasons - but there he was, on the foul line, home or away, sitting in his lounge chair next to my mom, Adele, and talking with the other parents.

Dad never forced me to become a .400 hitter. He didn't stay up until all hours of the morning, trying to improve my swing. He never imposed that I play baseball. He knew it was something I liked to do, regardless of how I did, and stood by me all the time - no matter how I played.

And I appreciate that, probably more now than I did then.

When I was growing up, our family would head down to Tiger Stadium once or twice a year to catch a game. Dad would pack us up in the station wagon and we'd head south on I-75 to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull to catch some summertime action.

These were the days the Tigers couldn't buy a win, when the lineup included names like Duke Sims, Tom Veryzer, Ben Oglivie and Joe Coleman. Steve Kemp was still in the minors, and Ralph Houk was the manager.

We'd usually catch a Saturday afternoon game. For some reason, it always seemed like it was against Milwaukee or California. I'd always ask Dad to buy me a program when we entered the stadium, so I could keep track of the scoring line. He would, and I was happy.

It was a time of innocence, I suppose.

But times change, perceptions are altered, as we grow older. I'm still happy when I'm at the ballpark, and I still can't hit worth a lick. So I write instead, with every word, every thought, every paraphrase and quote reminding me just a little more of Dad.

When writing, I live by the motto, "I want to be perfect and get better every day." It's one my dad lived by, and one I want to achieve.

Thanks for the memories, Dad. I'll always love you.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.