There are a few things you can say in Cincinnati that are sure to spark an argument. Saying you prefer Gold Star chili to Skyline. That you’re a UC alum but you root for Ohio State. That Xavier isn’t really part of Cincinnati. That WKRP wasn’t funny. But the most sure-fire way to get everyone heated is mentioning Pete Rose.

His polarizing effect stems from the simple fact that he’s a rarity in professional sports: a hometown boy. He didn’t just play here, he was born here. He grew up here. He attended the same West Side high school one of my closest friends went to. He spent most of his life here, basking in the adoration of a city that loved him not because he went off and did something incredible, but because he chose to do it here.

Pete Rose was an incredible baseball player. He was naturally talented, an excellent fielder and lights-out hitter, diligent and fearless. Rose purportedly earned his nickname “Charlie Hustle” after Yankees pitcher Whitey Ford watched him climb an outfield fence, trying to catch a Mickey Mantle home run that was a hundred feet over his head. Rose was known to sprint to first base after drawing a walk. Over his career, he frequently played in all 162 games each season, in an era when that was already becoming less common.

His efforts were lavishly rewarded. After being named Rookie of the Year in 1963, Rose was named NL MVP in 1973 and World Series MVP in ’75. He won a Silver Slugger and two Gold Gloves, and made seventeen trips to the All-Star Game. He was a key piece of six World Series teams, three of which won it all. Along the way, he compiled 4,256 hits and 3,215 singles, played in 3,562 games, took 15,890 trips to the plate and had 14,053 at-bats. All of those are MLB career records that stand to this day, none of which are likely to be broken. Ever.

But to the people of Cincinnati, the raw stats of his career don’t matter. They’re just numbers. There’s only one number that matters to them: two. The number of World Series titles he won in Cincinnati, back to back, as part of the Big Red Machine.

To baseball at large, Pete Rose leaves behind a complicated legacy. His story is one that’s become more common in professional sports today: a guy who got swept up in fame and notoriety, always looking for any way to make another buck. And while “Charlie Hustle” was hailed as a hero in his hometown for never slowing down, outside Cincinnati the nickname took on a darker undertone.

Keith Olbermann of ESPN once told a joke that made the rounds in the ’70s: a guy walks into a sports memorabilia shop, and says he wants a Pete Rose Jersey.

The guy behind the counter asks, “Cincinnati, Montreal, or Philadelphia?”

The buyer says, “Cincinnati.”

The seller says, “Home or away?”

The buyer says, “Home.”

The seller asks, “Game-worn or replica?”

The buyer replies, “Game-worn.”

The seller asks, “Small, medium, or large?”

The joke references Rose’s infamous practice of wearing multiple layers of jerseys during games, so he could sell them afterwards as game-worn. Throughout the sports world, Pete Rose was known for being a “hustler” in a different sense. He had numerous side-ventures and businesses. He worked tirelessly to capitalize on his image and his status. He’d do anything for a buck. And somewhere along the line, he found his way to sports betting.

And that’s where it all fell apart.

Rose had a reputation for dishonesty. Now that he’s gone, safe to say no one will ever know what really happened. Maybe he got carried away. Maybe, as someone involved in the very sport he was betting on, he saw a way to make easy money and couldn’t resist. Rose maintained to his death that he never bet against the Reds, when he was playing or managing. Maybe that was true. Few outside of Cincinnati who met him believe that. They all insist that while he may have loved the Reds, and Cincinnati, he loved making money too much to pass it up.

Like I said, now we’ll never really know.

Throughout my life, I’ve had the luxury of viewing Rose and his legacy through the eyes of a dispassionate observer. In my eyes, this was a man whose only loyalty was to himself and his wallet. I believe if there was a chance to make money by throwing a game with the Reds, while playing or managing, he’d have taken it. I don’t think he’d have even hesitated. I think he could never have loved his fans the way they loved him. And for all those reasons, I believe he has no business in the Baseball Hall of Fame. I group him in with the likes of Mark McGwire and Alex Rodriguez. What they did sullied the reputation of my favorite sport. It called the results of games, and entire seasons, into question. There’s no place in Cooperstown for cheaters.

But that’s easy for me to say, because though I’ve lived nearly my entire adult life in Cincinnati, I wasn’t born here. I didn’t grow up here. I didn’t attend West High. When I visit Great American Ballpark, and walk past the statues of Ernie Lombardi, Joe Nuxhall, Joe Morgan, or Johnny Bench, I don’t stare wistfully and remember the glory days of my city. I see them simply as part of the history of my favorite sport.

In 2017, the statues of Reds greats outside GABP were joined by another: a bronze statue of Pete Rose, sliding head-first as everyone knows him best. Rose himself was in attendance, joined by several of his teammates from the Big Red Machine. And he smiled, waving, as the assembled crowd chanted his name one more time.

I’ve always felt that, in passing, everyone deserves to be remembered kindly. Pete Rose was one of a kind. He was an incredible baseball player, a hometown boy who led his Reds to glory. He was a key part of a team widely regarded as perhaps the best team in the history of baseball. But he was no hero. He was human, and deeply flawed. He was irascible, dishonorable, and in the end he was his own worst enemy. He made some bets he never should have made, and he paid for it. And more than likely, he’ll keep paying for it, even now that he’s gone.

But to many Cincinnatians, it’s simple. Pete was a hero. He grew up here, he played here, and he won here. He was Cincinnati’s prodigal son: always leaving to chase the money, always welcomed back with open arms when he returned.

I can tell any Pete Rose fan in Cincinnati how I feel, and it will never matter. My words cannot change their minds. In the end, Pete Rose died a hero in Cincinnati, even if he was a villain everywhere else. And even if the rest of the world sneered at him and called him a cheat, there was at least one place that never stopped loving him. And I really hope that for Pete Rose, that was enough. Because this is a wonderful city. If there was one city whose love should have been enough, it’s this one. – MK