Yes, I saw this coming seven months ago. And it still feels weird.

Pete Rose is once again eligible for the Baseball Hall of Fame.

For more than 35 years, saying his name has started a fight. Rose holds one of baseball’s near-untouchable records with 4,256 career hits. Rose also bet on baseball as a player and manager, lied about it for years, and turned down repeated opportunities to show any remorse. And so the debate went on: Did his excellence as a ballplayer outweigh the harm he did to the game?

Now his permanent ban from baseball has become merely a lifetime ban. And since Rose went off to visit the Ultimate Umpire last year, that means a possible Hall of Fame induction is once again on the table.

But as always, nothing involving the Hit King is simple.

You see, Commissioner Rob Manfred didn’t just restore Rose’s eligibility. He declared that every ban from baseball stops at the grave, that there’s no sense in beating a dead ballplayer. And then he went for the extra base.

“Obviously, a person no longer with us cannot represent a threat to the integrity of the game,” Manfred said.

Wait, what?

Let me make myself clear. I’m not saying Rose should or shouldn’t be in the Hall. I’m honestly glad that we can at least have the discussion. I think it’s fair to say that Rose is no longer in a position to profit from his fame (or infamy) and that, from that aspect, an eternal ban doesn’t make sense since there’s no one left to punish.

But there’s nothing more obvious than the lasting power of an example. Good or bad.

The things we do outlive us. And some of those things teach lessons. Sometimes the lessons are written on the world in letters of fire, set apart to define those we call heroes or monsters. But even the least renowned of us leave fingerprints behind.

I can remember the bullies I had to deal with in junior high school. And even though we haven’t crossed paths in years, there are still parts of me that were shaped by those bad examples. Partly as a lasting reminder of how not to treat people. Partly in developing a sense of vigilance that still peeks out from time to time, long after it’s no longer needed.

I can remember my old pastor in Emporia, Kansas, who demonstrated compassion, diligence and integrity even in the midst of a cancer that would take him from the pulpit far too young. His hope was so strong that his final sermon, just days before his death, was given as the first of a series.

I still draw from that example, that willingness to both hope beyond reason and then work to make that hope real. To reach for others, even when struggling yourself.

Someone doesn’t have to be present — or even alive — to continue being an inspiration, a threat, a memory with power. We bear both lessons and scars from those who have gone before us. Often, we base our story on theirs, trying to continue or defy a legacy.

So as long as we tell stories about baseball, those players can affect the game. And depending on how we tell those stories or how they’re received, the game can be strengthened or weakened. We’ve seen it with Jackie Robinson. With Barry Bonds. With Willie Mays, the Black Sox, even Bob Uecker.

And yes, with Pete Rose as well.

I hope the Hall of Fame takes the time to consider Rose’s story: whether to tell it, how to tell it, where it belongs in the game’s history. That’s fair, whatever they ultimately choose.

But make no mistake. It’s still a living story. With all the risk that implies.

Even now, a carelessly handled Rose can still have thorns.