the Appalachian Rookie League. ANOTHER ROSE MAY BLOOM read the headline in The Cincinnati Post and a photo went out over UPI of Dave in a golf shirt flexing his biceps while Pete squeezed it and Harry, “the proud father of the two boys,” stood between them.
“Dave can make it if he gets it up here ,” said Harry, tapping upon his brow. This was now spring training of 1968 and both Rose boys were in Tampa. “He’s got to realize the opportunity he has.”
That Dave wouldn’t hit all that much at Sarasota in 1968 wasn’t a lot to go on—he had raw skill as a ballplayer, no question—but what was clear even then, more than a year before he left to fight in the war, was that Dave was never going to hustle like Pete did, would never put himself through that kind of ordeal. The more talented Rose? Well, even the scouts said that was true. But Dave never wanted it the way that Pete did.
Some folks in baseball would wonder why the boys were so different that way, why one left his innards on the field and the other hit the morning alarm and went back to sleep. 2 Really it was not so confounding to those who knew them, the explanation (as if a single one could suffice) boiling down to this: that although Dave was born to the same mother and the same father and although he was raised in the same house and went to the same school and played the same sports as Pete did, it will always be true that just as no man steps into the same river twice no two children are born into same family. By the time Dave came along for the Roses, Pete was already there. When the boys crossed the Ohio as kids, Dave, easily the better natural swimmer, meandered across doing the sidestroke, relaxed. This after seeing Pete thrash across in a clumsy but manic crawl, reaching the opposite bank ahead of the rest.
Dave says he was devastated, left literally shaking, when his draft notice came, and who wouldn’t have been? He was together with Cynthia, his high school sweetheart, his first wife who would soon give birth to their boy Shane. At Western Hills High, Cynthia had sung in the choir and played in the band, been on the school paper and done good works in the Sunshine Society. Dave always thought she looked just fine in her glasses and he liked how her thick locks fell to her shoulders. He himself wore his dark hair the way that Pete did, doglegs over the ears, though he let the hair grow fuller on the top and the sides. Dave had the same square-looking skull, high forehead and worthy chin that the other Rose men had.
His extracurriculars were about sports, playing on the teams, of course, and also joining for a while the Maroon W club devoted to character and sportsmanship. The club took on spirit jobs, selling programs at basketball games, posting event times on the school marquee. (“Pete never did nothin’ like that,” Dave says.) He also served some months as a lunchroom monitor, the appointment his punishment for fighting in school. Dave was broad and rippling through the shoulders and arms, bore impressive fists and had a temper that just went off, giving him a ferocious and renowned strength. His principal asset as a lunchroom monitor, the way he so effectively kept the peace, was that the other kids knew if you made a crack or acted out in some way as to make Dave’s life more difficult, he was likely to kick your mother-loving ass.
Dave and Pete used to wrestle sometimes as brothers do, and Pete having those seven years on him would get the better. But that rough-housing ended for good when Dave got back from Vietnam, and there was now a certain look about him, a smoldering inside. “I’m never going to fuck with that guy again,” Pete said of his little brother then, “and I wouldn’t recommend that you do either.”
In Vietnam Dave learned to hold strong and steady against the kick-back when he fired that machine gun—the Pig, they called it—and he learned to bear without effect the racket of the gunfire and the
“Dave can make it if he gets it up here ,” said Harry, tapping upon his brow. This was now spring training of 1968 and both Rose boys were in Tampa. “He’s got to realize the opportunity he has.”
That Dave wouldn’t hit all that much at Sarasota in 1968 wasn’t a lot to go on—he had raw skill as a ballplayer, no question—but what was clear even then, more than a year before he left to fight in the war, was that Dave was never going to hustle like Pete did, would never put himself through that kind of ordeal. The more talented Rose? Well, even the scouts said that was true. But Dave never wanted it the way that Pete did.
Some folks in baseball would wonder why the boys were so different that way, why one left his innards on the field and the other hit the morning alarm and went back to sleep. 2 Really it was not so confounding to those who knew them, the explanation (as if a single one could suffice) boiling down to this: that although Dave was born to the same mother and the same father and although he was raised in the same house and went to the same school and played the same sports as Pete did, it will always be true that just as no man steps into the same river twice no two children are born into same family. By the time Dave came along for the Roses, Pete was already there. When the boys crossed the Ohio as kids, Dave, easily the better natural swimmer, meandered across doing the sidestroke, relaxed. This after seeing Pete thrash across in a clumsy but manic crawl, reaching the opposite bank ahead of the rest.
Dave says he was devastated, left literally shaking, when his draft notice came, and who wouldn’t have been? He was together with Cynthia, his high school sweetheart, his first wife who would soon give birth to their boy Shane. At Western Hills High, Cynthia had sung in the choir and played in the band, been on the school paper and done good works in the Sunshine Society. Dave always thought she looked just fine in her glasses and he liked how her thick locks fell to her shoulders. He himself wore his dark hair the way that Pete did, doglegs over the ears, though he let the hair grow fuller on the top and the sides. Dave had the same square-looking skull, high forehead and worthy chin that the other Rose men had.
His extracurriculars were about sports, playing on the teams, of course, and also joining for a while the Maroon W club devoted to character and sportsmanship. The club took on spirit jobs, selling programs at basketball games, posting event times on the school marquee. (“Pete never did nothin’ like that,” Dave says.) He also served some months as a lunchroom monitor, the appointment his punishment for fighting in school. Dave was broad and rippling through the shoulders and arms, bore impressive fists and had a temper that just went off, giving him a ferocious and renowned strength. His principal asset as a lunchroom monitor, the way he so effectively kept the peace, was that the other kids knew if you made a crack or acted out in some way as to make Dave’s life more difficult, he was likely to kick your mother-loving ass.
Dave and Pete used to wrestle sometimes as brothers do, and Pete having those seven years on him would get the better. But that rough-housing ended for good when Dave got back from Vietnam, and there was now a certain look about him, a smoldering inside. “I’m never going to fuck with that guy again,” Pete said of his little brother then, “and I wouldn’t recommend that you do either.”
In Vietnam Dave learned to hold strong and steady against the kick-back when he fired that machine gun—the Pig, they called it—and he learned to bear without effect the racket of the gunfire and the
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