On Deck For The Big Knock

"I was hungry," he says. Funny how Rose's stomach growls him awake precisely when a ball game comes on. Yes, even Pete Rose's innards love baseball.

TEN A.M.—THE BIG KNOCK

Time was when Rose would sleep till noon, have breakfast and get to the ball park by one, but these are the days of The Big Knock (a "knock," in Rose lingo, being a hit, and The Big Knock No. 4,192), and there's much too much to be done. So here is Rose, resplendent in his maroon bathrobe, Prince Valiant haircut and legs that Reds rightfielder Dave Parker describes as "vanilla milk shakes."

While Pete feeds his four horses, Carol Rose, 31 and divinely favored, readies to feed Pete. How many other former Playboy bunnies and ex-Philadelphia Eagle cheerleaders can whip up pancakes that don't have the relative density of manhole covers? Pete will make the coffee. No French maids chez Rose. Carol outpoints a French maid any day.

Last night Rose went to bed at 2:30, was up at five, as we have noted, retired again at six and is up again. This is what's known as sleeping like a baby. Rose should know. He has one—10-month-old Tyler Edward Rose, who is named in honor of The Big Knock. Rose says everything he has comes from baseball, so it's fitting he offer up his offspring.

These are remarkable days. Knock talk has gone beyond sports into real life. In the last two months, Rose has glibbed it up for Life, Time, People, Newsweek, U.S. News & World Report, Boy's Life, just about every network morning and evening news show, newspapers of all shapes and sizes and even Face the Nation. Face the Nation? Cobb just did a 360 in his grave. In Anaheim, Rod Carew, in search of 3,000, wasn't doing interviews. In Chicago, Tom Seaver, stalking 300, pulled a little Garbo. But the Reds' player-manager makes like Pia Zadora for every mike. It has hurt his hitting, but Rose says it's part of the job. Besides, who is better on Rose than Rose?

ELEVEN A.M.—BIG TALK

As Rose drives south along I-75 to the ball park in his black 935 Porsche, he passes two billboards adorned with his considerable countenance. In Cincinnati these days, Rose's mug is plastered everywhere. And what a face. It prompts Parker to remark, "If I had his head, I'd make a butcher-block coffee table out of it." Says Rose, "Your face would look old, too, if you'd been sliding on it for 23 years."

Rose looks right at his billboards as we pass. No feigned indifference. Ohhhh, that ol' thing. Not Rose. He stares up and then stares at you, grinning that dulcet grin, as if to say, "I guess it's big enough."

Rose, as egotist, is sufferable. He rolls out his stardom like a rug he has just woven. It's pretty. Have a look. We'll both get a kick out of it. For example, when Rose says, "I've doffed my cap so many times I'm losing my hair," you think, "funny," but you get the point, too. Some people feel queasy about hanging honors. Rose has a room full of plaques, paintings, trophies, urns, belts, baseballs and bats, plus a storage closet containing more that he'd love to find room to display.