Frozen pizzas with pepperoni, sausage or extra cheese. Picante sauce, corn dog sauce and cheese dip, all for US$2.99 a jar. Hit King apparel. Hit King bats and baseballs. Hit King bobbleheads.

Pete Rose has hawked them all.

Since he was banned from baseball for betting on Cincinnati Reds games, the career hits leader has found creative and lucrative ways to make money off his tarnished name. The latest breaks new ground, even for him.

Contrition is now a collectible.

For $299, Rose will sign a baseball inscribed with the very thing he so adamantly denied for 14 years: ``I'm sorry I bet on baseball.'' For an extra $50, Rose will personalize it. The new line of Hit King products doesn't stop there.

``And now, you can even make Pete's apology a part of your wardrobe, with a new screen printed T-shirt,'' Rose's website says.

Cost: $19.99. Shipping is an additional $4.99. There's a 30-day, money-back guarantee.

Order now!

Putting a price tag on an apology won't help Rose's case for reinstatement to baseball, but it will make money. Memorabilia collectors crave the unusual, and Rose's latest marketing venture _ buy his apology, literally _ is unique.

It also makes him a hot commodity again. Rose was scheduled to appear on the ``Late Show with David Letterman'' on Monday night, the first time in 15 years he visited the talk show host.

While Rose rings up sales, his supporters wince and wonder why he just doesn't seem to get it. He was criticized for selling his confession in an autobiography, a move that came across as crass and probably ended his chances for reinstatement. Now, this.

Truth is, Rose does get it. Better than most. He's always been unsurpassed at getting a hit and making a buck.

The Hits King is also the Marketing King.

During his first spring training with the Reds as player-manager, Rose was sitting in the dugout answering questions when his eyes locked onto a reporter's media credential.

``Great name for signing autographs,'' he told me.

Huh?

``Six letters,'' he explained.

The fewer the letters, the quicker the autograph, the more you can do.

In the 20 years since, his eight-letter name has been scrawled on just about everything _ baseballs, bats, uniforms, even a copy of the Dowd Report containing evidence he bet on baseball.

Some of his best marketing involves his ever-changing image.

When the gambling scandal broke in 1989, he marketed himself as the unwitting innocent, unfairly tarnished by harmless associations with folks who turned out to be drug dealers and bookmakers.

``The only thing I'm guilty of,'' he suggested at the time, ``is being a bad picker of friends.''

Dowd and federal investigators found he was guilty of a whole lot more. He cut deals with baseball and federal prosecutors, accepting a lifetime ban from the game and serving five months in a federal prison for failing to pay taxes on his gambling and memorabilia sales.

Then, the marketing changed. Rose tried to portray himself as a sympathetic figure dealing with a clinically diagnosed addiction.

``It took me some time to find out that I had a gambling disorder,'' he said in 1991. ``I think if I'm looking for anything from people, it's understanding.''

Rose never appeared comfortable with that image, and dramatically changed it three years later. He was back in business as the Hit King, hawking those frozen pizzas, sauces and apparel as if nothing had happened. He still denied betting on baseball, and now insisted he never had a gambling problem.

``The worst thing I ever did was admit I had a gambling problem,'' he said in 1994.

This unrepentant Pete sold well. Trouble was, it didn't help his case for reinstatement.

As the years went on, he adopted the roles of renegade and martyr. He belittled baseball's leaders and suggested there was a conspiracy to keep him out of the game. Fans bought into it _ and bought his products.

Realizing that time was running out for reinstatement, Rose repackaged himself one more time. He acknowledged two years ago that he had bet on baseball, but showed little remorse during interviews and a book tour to sell his story.

Didn't matter. It sold anyway.

Hundreds of Rose fans lined up in a suburban Cincinnati bookstore _ many wearing his jersey _ to get his eight-letter autograph on copies of the book that showed he had lied to them for 14 years.

They couldn't get enough.

The ``I'm-sorry'' baseballs and shirts will sell as well. When the first batch of apology balls was uncovered, a gaming products company in Canada paid $1,000 for each of the 30 balls, even though they could be bought cheaper off the website.

What's next?

The possibilities are limitless in a culture where being famous _ or infamous _ means never having to say you're sorry.

Not for free, anyway.

© The Canadian Press, 2007