I know exactly where Pete Rose’s plaque should have hung in the Hall of Fame – for the past thirty years.

You would have found it in the middle of a powerhouse cluster in the plaque gallery – nestled between the plaques of Tom Seaver and Reggie Jackson. Among other things.

Thousands of baseball fans would have been staring at it by now. I can still imagine them as I read that plaque and try to understand that more than 23,000 men played in Major League Baseball – and that Pete Rose had more hits than anyone else.

But that’s what could and should have happened, in a What-If world where the Hit King was only known for those 4,256 hits and not for… well, so much else.

For three decades I have looked with sadness at that spot on the wall in Cooperstown, New York, and pondered why Rose’s plaque was missing from this Land of Legends. And on Monday, that sadness only deepened when news spread that Rose had died at the age of 83.

I have often said and written that Pete Rose was the saddest baseball story I have ever covered. Now let me explain where that sadness comes from. Like so many others who knew him, it stems from the inescapable thought that his story should not have ended this way.

Pete Rose was so good at baseball. But more than that, it was so much fun watching him play baseball. He was a daily fireball of dust and dirt, line drives and head-first belly flops, jokes and quotes that made you laugh out loud.

He was Rookie of the Year at 22, an MVP at 32 and still the leader in goals at 40. The Pete Rose Show was a thing, okay.

He scored a goal 44 games in a row. He passed Stan Musial to set the all-time National League record for hits. He passed Ty Cobb to lead the entire continent in hits. He was a walking, talking baseball history museum. And he knew everything about everything anyone could have put into that museum.

He was the most magnetic baseball figure of my life. And I don’t just say that. I’ve been thinking about this for years. Every time he stepped foot on a baseball field, we couldn’t stop watching Pete Rose. We couldn’t stop talking about him when he stepped off the ball field.

He had an infectious smile. He sprinted to first base after all 1,566 walks. He could turn on his nightclub act and entertain you whenever it was convenient. He could make himself the center of the baseball universe. He was the most powerful presence in any room he ever entered.

If only we had talked about it in the past decades That boy.

But once the truth came to light about that other world Rose lived in, things would never be the same. If only there had never been such a thing as gambling. If only the Hit King wasn’t drawn to so many of the unsavory characters in that other world. If only he hadn’t left behind so many other disturbing accusations, especially about his treatment of women. If only…

If only he had understood that he wasn’t bulletproof. If only he had taken it all more seriously when the commissioner, Bart Giamatti, asked to talk to him about these gambling allegations that the commissioner’s office had gotten wind of. If only that had been a wake-up call… instead of the reason for the suspension that would characterize Pete Rose for the rest of his life.

It has now been 35 years since I sat in that New York ballroom where Giamatti announced that he was “Mr. Rose” for life for gambling on his own team. I’ll never forget the murmur that rang through the room when the commissioner said those words on August 24, 1989. How could this happen: Pete Rose’s career ended not on a ball field but in a ballroom?

That felt completely wrong, but not because Giamatti’s decision was wrong. Because the man he suspended had made so many wrong turns and so many bad decisions that he brought that fate upon himself.

Only that turned out to be true not the end of the story. Over the next fifteen years, Rose had a chance to maybe not return to work and work in baseball, but at least get into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Of course you know how that worked.

He had so many chances to save himself. But whatever he had to do to make that happen, it felt like he was doing the opposite. Over and over again.

Pete Rose ties for his career hit of 4,192, surpassing Ty Cobb as baseball hit king. (Bettmann / Getty images)

In 2002, his friends, Mike Schmidt and Joe Morgan, arranged a secret meeting between Rose and Bud Selig, then the baseball commissioner. The Hit King had to know that he would never get a bigger opportunity than this.

Selig explained what baseball expected of him if the league were to even consider modifying his life sentence. Rose should stop gambling – all that gambling. He should stop hanging around all those casinos and race tracks.

And finally, there was this: He would have to hold a press conference – to admit his “crime”, to admit that he had indeed bet on baseball, to apologize to everyone he had betrayed and for nothing to promise all this. would ever happen again. They shake hands. And then…

Rose left that meeting and headed straight to an appearance at a sports book in Las Vegas. The commissioner and the people around him were furious. Rose’s fate was sealed forever that day. It’s hard to argue that it was anyone’s fault but his own.

Since then, I knew exactly how this saga would end. Since then, I’ve known that Pete Rose’s induction day in Cooperstown would never happen. Since then I have known that there would always be a place in the gallery where his plaque would never hang. I knew ever since that I would be writing this column, on the day he died.

But knowing this was coming doesn’t make it any less sad.

Can you feel that sadness and still understand that no one was more responsible for how this ended than Rose herself? I believe you can. Why can’t both things be true? I think it’s possible – even wise – to have two sets of Pete Rose memories.

The hits, the buzz, the records, the indelible moments, the laughs, the joy that came from watching the Hit King play baseball – I’m not banning those for life. I will think of them and smile forever.

But the turn the rest of his life took – why shouldn’t I look at it with sadness? I think about what should have been done, and I wish he had done so many things differently.

It is strange to think now that he has been banned “for life” by Giamatti. And now that the “life” portion of his suspension no longer applies, does that mean a door could one day open in the league to give Pete Rose a place in the Hall?

Why not? It never made sense to me that the Hall of Fame wouldn’t find a way to honor the man who had more hits than anyone who ever stood in the batter’s box.

Why isn’t it possible to celebrate all the hits while honestly acknowledging the other side of the story? Why can’t his plaque do both? That’s what I would do if I were the Plaque Czar.

But you know and I know that won’t happen. I’ve met many writers who feel that Rose has served his time, so if he ever appeared on our ballot, they would vote for Pete Rose, the Hit King, even if they had issues with Pete Rose, the Bet King . But it’s a waste of time to even think about that. Taylor Swift is more likely to appear on our ballot than Rose will ever appear on the writers’ ballot.

And even if Rob Manfred or a future commissioner ever changed their mind, which version of any veterans committee would ever elect him? Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens found out two years ago that their door is still slammed shut. So why would we think Rose would be any different?

Could Pete Rose end up in Cooperstown? At this point it’s hard to see a path. (Getty Images)

And now that he’s gone, it can never have the same meaning again. I’ve always wondered what Pete Rose’s induction day would have been like. Don’t you have that? How many baseball fans would have packed the hills of Cooperstown to hear this That speech?

What would he have said that day? What would the other Hall of Famers have said about him? How many would have found something else to do that weekend? It would have been an introductory day unlike any other; a day we would talk about for decades.

Just like the Hit King himself.

It will take some time for this to sink in. For as long as I’ve been covering baseball, there has always been Peter Edward Rose who has made our lives much more interesting. He was always there when we needed a column topic on a quiet day. And everyone who knew him had a story to tell.

Now I know one thing for sure. I will never forget the life and times of Pete Rose – especially when I walk the halls of Cooperstown and stare at the spot where his plaque should hang.

Required reading

(Top photo of Pete Rose in 1984: George Gojkovich / Getty Images)