In a move that echoes across time and tugs at the soul of America’s pastime, Major League Baseball has, at long last, lifted the veil of permanent ineligibility from two of its most iconic — and controversial — figures: Pete Rose and Shoeless Joe Jackson. Commissioner Rob Manfred’s decision, quietly firm in tone yet seismic in implication, suggests that death, in baseball as in life, marks not just an end, but perhaps, a second chance. For decades, these names existed on the margins — whispered reverently in barroom debates and shouted in the streets of Cincinnati and Chicago — frozen not in bronze, but in limbo.

Pete Rose, the unrelenting embodiment of hustle, whose very nickname — Charlie Hustle — became both tribute and irony, now finds his legacy unstuck from the tar of scandal. He played with a reckless joy, a lunch-pail grit that endeared him to blue-collar fans and confounded purists. Yet even his 4,256 hits — more than Cobb, more than Musial — were not enough to absolve him in life. Now, following a petition from his legal team and pressure from President Trump, MLB has stated that permanent bans need not extend beyond the grave. It’s a curious logic — that a rule ironclad in life may soften in death — but one that finally cracks open a door many believed would never budge.

And there, in the sepia-toned shadows, waits Shoeless Joe Jackson. With a swing as poetic as any the game has ever seen, Jackson was both ghost and myth — damned not by performance, but by the fog of suspicion. His lifetime batting average of .356 still glimmers like a lost artifact, a relic of pre-war baseball untouched by modern cynicism. That he was swept up in the Black Sox scandal of 1919 and exiled at 33 remains one of the game’s great tragedies. Though his guilt was always a matter of debate, the punishment was absolute — until now. With Manfred’s decree, Jackson and the other castaways of that dark chapter have, in some symbolic sense, come home.

But reinstatement is not canonization. The Hall of Fame remains a separate church — and its gates, still locked for now, are guarded by historians and committee votes. The Classic Baseball Era Committee meets again in December of 2027, and while Rose and Jackson will be eligible for consideration, there is no guarantee their names will be etched in bronze. Baseball’s memory is long, and its guardians, proud. The question lingers like a hanging curveball in the cold autumn air: will Cooperstown forgive what the league finally has?

This moment, then, is less a coronation than a conversation — one about morality and merit, about punishment and penance. Should an afterlife in Cooperstown be awarded to players whose earthly careers were marred by scandal, no matter how brilliant their contributions? Or does the passage of time, and the finality of death, afford us the grace to remember them not as cautionary tales, but as players — deeply flawed, immensely gifted, and forever part of the game’s story?

​For those who revere the game, not just as sport but as American scripture, this is no small reckoning. Pete Rose barreled headfirst into first base, played with fire, and ultimately was consumed by it. Shoeless Joe played with elegance, was caught in a maelstrom, and drifted into myth. And now, with the stroke of a commissioner’s pen, they are no longer outcasts. The next step — toward immortality in a museum in upstate New York — may be closer than ever. But baseball, like America itself, still grapples with the balance between justice and grace.

In the wake of Pete Rose’s posthumous reinstatement, columnist Dan Wetzel offers a sobering, layered reminder: history isn’t meant to be clean—it’s meant to be told. With Commissioner Rob Manfred lifting the ban on Rose and others like Shoeless Joe Jackson, the long-standing debate shifts from “should they be punished?” to “how should we remember them?” Wetzel argues that Cooperstown isn’t heaven—it’s a museum, and museums exist to tell full stories, not just the tidy ones. Rose’s greatness on the field, alongside his many flaws off it, are both chapters in a uniquely American baseball saga. To exclude him from the Hall of Fame, Wetzel suggests, would be to rewrite the sport’s past. Let the hits count, let the scandals sting, but above all, let the story be told—warts and all.
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From former teammates like Mike Schmidt to organizations like the Reds and Phillies, the reaction was overwhelmingly celebratory.​ Active managers like Craig Counsell, Ron Washington, and Aaron Boone echoed the same sentiment: Rose belongs in the Hall. While debate remains—particularly around the sanctity of Rule 21 and parallels to players like Barry Bonds—this posthumous reinstatement opens the door for Rose’s legacy to be formally recognized. In a sport now intimately tied to gambling sponsors, many see the move not as hypocrisy, but as overdue justice for a player whose greatness on the field was never in doubt.

​While many celebrate the move as a long-overdue correction, others—including descendants of former Commissioner Bart Giamatti—lament it as a moral compromise. Still, as Don Van Natta Jr. details, this change underscores baseball’s evolving relationship with gambling, memory, and redemption. Rose’s flaws—his bets, his prison sentence, his personal scandals—remain part of the record, but so too does his relentless hustle and unmatched production. The game has moved forward, and with it, so has the debate: Can greatness and disgrace coexist in Cooperstown’s halls? The vote may come years too late for Rose to witness it, but the reckoning is finally here.
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​Here is the list of 17 individuals (16 players and 1 owner) who were previously on MLB’s permanently ineligible list and are now eligible for Hall of Fame consideration following Commissioner Rob Manfred's decision on May 13, 2025: