The Assassinated Press

The Racist Owners And Players Already Irredeemably Ruined The Hall Of Fame And Made It A Measure Of Nothing:
Can Pete Rose's Gambling Do For the Baseball Hall Of Fame
What Heroin Addiction Has Done For the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame?:
Let He Who is Without Sin Cast The First Spitball:
Rose & Cobb--You Gotta BE A Sociopath To Get 4000 Hits! Plus! Ty Cobb's Poetic Tribute To Napoleon Lajoie!

Assassinated Press Editor

Newark---An unrepentant, degenerate gambler who gambled on his own teams like Pete Rose should not be allowed back into the game of baseball. But he should be in the Hall of Fame. Why? Because the self-indulgent asshole earned it---4256 times.

You gotta be a wack job to stay in the game long enough to collect 4000 hits in the first place. Two guys have done it. Cobb and Rose. I rest my case.

You gotta love Charlie Hustle and, yes, even the monumentally fucked up Ty Cobb because every time they went barreling into the second baseman in the third, in the fifth the short stop stuck his knee up their septum coming across the bag for an easy force or the first baseman just happened to get pulled off the bag and had to slap them upside the head for the tag. Love hurts--like a mothafucka. Cobb was cutting his father with those spikes. And taking the fatherly beating from the second baseman when it came in retribution.

Baseball already irrevocably fucked up its legacy when it denied African Americans access to the Major leagues for six decades. And this injustice points to precisely why Pete Rose should not be denied his place in the Hall of Fame--- the record books and in Rose's case the record for most hits lifetime. Ask Josh Gibson. If the number ain't there e.g. in the official record, it's like it never happened.

Baseball like no other is a game of stats. Achievement, lifetime and otherwise, is largely measured by statistics whose mathematics and practical value are being refined all of the time.

But since baseball has already rendered those statistics and records meaningless because of its many years of apartheid, baseball history is more than a disgrace. It makes a mockery of the central element of baseball, the way players are ranked and viewed historically. By denying African Americans access to the game, white owner's, players and the commissioner's office not only revealed a racist and undemocratic agenda but they also laid bare the undemocratic, self-interested desires of any kleptocracy, the kind of greed that say an Ayn Rand or Bill O'Reilly in their own politically correct ways pander to. In short, where a whole lot of money is involved egalitarian or democratic principles take a back seat.

What Jackie Robinson showed white owners was that with him the Dodgers won and winning meant gate and gate meant fucking your secretary during the Grapefruit League while the wife was at the New Jersey shore. In other words, except for the exceptional few whites even integration in baseball caught on for what in a moral country would be the wrong reason but in this one is the only reason---money. Oh! Boo-hoo! Cry like Doris Kearns! Cover all those black and white photos in language pastels like Ken Burns. Cut little nasally figures into the camembert of life like Roger Rosenblatt. Its all too funny.

Pete Rose is a degenerate gambler. Pete Rose is an inveterate liar. And Pete Rose is an asshole. But this is America. We're all assholes. (See other Assassinated Press articles for details.) And we're the only people in the world that don't recognize that Americans are assholes. And remember, lack of self-awareness is a major requirement for being an asshole. Ask Wanda Sykes.

And hypocrits!

Gosh, Pete. We're a society so morally bankrupt we pave our roads and patch up our schools through gambling initiatives, lotteries. If the Cosa Nostra known as Maryland State politics had its way, we'd have slots in the schools---let the little fuckers gamble there own damn way through third grade.

If Rose were just another journeyman player caught gambling there would be no issue here. But Rose got the hits---4256 of 'em. And 'Headless' Ted Williams, that, my man, is what the Hall of Fame is all about. You go any where else with it and you open up a graveyard full of worms the size of anacondas.

Worm 1. Baseball stats already don't have any integrity because for decades many of the best players were denied access to the Major Leagues. For black players it wasn't the 'Field of Dreams', it was 'The Field In Your Dreams'. So while reveling in career Major League records and such it also sickens one because they are not complete, they are not real---THEY ARE NOT TRUE. Oh! Stephen Hawkings or Stephen Jay Gould. Where, O, where has the 'scientific purity' gone? Gone to abstraction every one.

Would baseball be pure if it had no suitors?

There's a wrenching nausea when you realize that the chance to peruse the results of open competition is forever lost. Where's Josh Gibson's name in the Official home run column? Can we add murder to the crimes of white owners and their gentlemen's agreement? What do you say, Dirty Lenny? YES! Worm 2.

For years baseball had two cardinal rules. You couldn't gamble on baseball. And you couldn't be black. Then there's Worm 3. You could be pretty much anything other than black as Ty Cobb demonstrated. You could go to public lynchings, be accused of beating a man to death, fight opponents, fans and your own teammates, gamble, drink, bet on games, destroy property, but if you were Ty Cobb you got a by. To call Cobb a racist is an understatement of immense proportions. And it ignores the sadism. This is an old argument and Cobb was a real piece of work. Compared to Cobb, Rose is a barely a Class AA sociopath who could go the opposite way.

Rose is a racist too. I got that straight from a black friend of mine who used to work in television in Cincinnati that moral bastion and back room guardian of American hypocrisy. But one S.O.B. got more hits than the other S.O.B. and that---that---that is what the Hall of Fame should be all about--- because the rest is bathos and sentiment and lies and Jimmy Stewart movies---the stuff delusions are made of. And nobody wants to get trapped between reality and American delusion whether it be the convenient delusion of the inferiority of the black man or the penalization of a sick individual BECAUSE he had the temerity to also get all those hits.

Listen. When I see a halo over Bud Selig's head, I'll know somebody lit up his rug.

Go ahead. You can sentimentalize Cobb slicing a second baseman's knee open with sharpened spikes. You can run the film of a terrified Gehrig facing death and fighting bitterness as the image a group of front office thugs wants to exploit before a gullible, ticket buying public. And you can try to fuck with Pete Rose like you're Saint Peter and the Hall of Fame is the Pearly Gates. And in this soporific and moronic culture that will probably work. That will probably be big box office. Generate publicity. Keep the blither about the purity of the game alive on the forked tongues of another generation of owner's and sports writers. And all you're doing is taking away from the integrity of 'play' itself, the physics the eggheads like so much abstract out and deny its open ended subjectivity.

Iron jawed, close minded, and bigoted, Judge Kennesaw Mountain Landis gave Shoeless Joe Jackson and the Black Sox scandal boys the boot. But when just a couple of seasons later Cobb and a number of marquee players were caught gambling on the game Landis covered it up because the players involved were big box office.

Spare me the sanctimony around Rose. What idiot didn't know Rose gambled? How many games have been decided by corked bats, loogies on the seam, nail files, alcohol, drugs, women, gluttony, money exchanging hands, infields with cattails growing in 'em, dimmed lights when the visiting team comes up to bat etc. Ain't it in the rule book you can't empty the contents of your sinuses onto the baseball before each pitch? Ain't it, grandma? When Gaylord Perry pitched, infielders could see a fine mist of mucous atomizing off his, guffaw, fast ball.

Don't let Rose manage. He still gambles. He's a liar. He might steal from the clubhouse. Don't let him be baseball commissioner. He's not that corrupt. But for Christ sake give him his numbers and his rightful place in the Hall of Fame. After all, given what he squeezed out of his native ability, those numbers he put up are the most honest thing he's ever done.

As a human being, Cobb was a piece of shit. But he put up the numbers. Rose is a piece of shit albeit probably not in Cobb's league. So everybody should be relieved that soon the Hall of Fame all time hits leader will be a degenerate gambler and not a homicide suspect. Hell! It works for me.

But the stat. 4256 hits. Why fuck with the purest thing your sad, sorry and violent little culture can precipitate?

By Tyrus R. Cobb

There was only one could compare
To this fair haired and swift country boy.
He was white and graceful as falling snow.
His mama called him Nap Lajoie.

An Emperor he was in the batter 's box
Or covering second for a double play
Coiled two feet above the bag
To confabulate two outs that way.

Me! I choked high up on the bat.
My game was all about control
But Nap left his right pinky resting at the brink
And still socked 'em through the hole.

Me! I came in with my spikes in their eyes
And snarled when they whined at the blood,
But Nap, The Gazelle, he parried my stabs
And soared above my razor sharp brood.

Fast enough to hit a rope and still take two.
Agile enough to play over the bag and cover the hole
Powerful enough with his left foot in the gutter
To draw in his hands and spray the hits pole to pole.

If he didn't manage with the wisdom of
Solomon, was because his mind was fixed to his plot
His tombstone was second base, his bouquets the slide
You hit .422, dead ball or no, your name'll never rot.

Hit to all fields, turn the double play, steal a base,
Steal third, steal home. Hit in the clutch. Run down a foul
Hit for average and drive in runs. I save my praise
For only the best. So you can take your Ruths,
Your hotdogs and homers, but give me Napoleon Lajoie.