On Deck For The Big Knock

Fifteen years after his father's death, Pete is still trying to break windows. "What he instilled in me—pride, the will to succeed—that's what drives me."

Of course, the difference between chasing Ty Cobb and chasing Harry Rose is that Cobb can be caught.

ONE P.M.—THE MODERN JOCK

Rose arrives at the ball park 6½ hours before the game. First one here. Again.

On off days, Rose is the only one here besides Billy DeMars, the Reds' hitting coach. They meet at 11, take two buckets of baseballs to the net batting cage rigged under the bleachers, and DeMars throws to him for 45 minutes. This has been Rose's off-day routine for 23 years. "It amazes me," says DeMars. "Here's the guy who will go down as one of the greatest hitters of all time and he works harder than anybody. And we got guys hitting .136 who wonder what's wrong."

Rose is obsessive about preparation. Name an umpire and Rose can describe the nuances of his strike zone. If an outfielder strikes out with men on base to end the inning, Rose knows that player's mind will be elsewhere. If Rose singles his way, he'll look for two bases. Rose even knows which grounds crews leave a field ripe for bunts and which don't. So who needs a fancy computer system? The Reds have Rose.

Because Rose lives inside the game, he is disappointed by players who don't live anywhere in the neighborhood. Consider bats. Rose doesn't go anywhere without his bats. Whether he's up next or ninth, he is fondling a bat at all times. He cleans them with alcohol before every trip to the plate—practice or otherwise—so that afterward he can see where cowhide met wood. Then he cleans them again. On road trips, he broods over them until Bernie Stowe, the clubhouse man, has safely stashed them aboard the truck. "And then," Rose says, wincing, "I see guys get to a ball park on the road and they're screaming, 'Hey, Bernie! Where's my bats? I can't believe you didn't pack my bats!' And this is how the guy makes a living! Or, like the other night, I put a guy in and now he can't find his glove. 'Where's my glove? Damn! It's around here somewhere.' He has to run back to his locker to get it. His glove!"

Still, Rose has turned one of baseball's habitual underachievers—last, last and fifth in the NL West from 1982 through 1984—into a contender six games over .500. And it wasn't by trading for Schottzie, either. Rose has done it with will, inspiration and respect for players as (gasp) people. "Pete has two rules," says Parker, who is second in the league in RBIs. "Be on time and give 110 percent. Everything else is irrelevant."

Irrelevance was Job One under Vern Rapp, the manager before Rose. Under Rapp there were no TV sets in the players' lounge, no children in the clubhouse, and no smiling after losses. Worst of all, no beer was allowed on plane flights. "What's wrong with two cases of beer for 40 guys?" says Rose, who doesn't drink. When Rapp's Reds began a road trip, they wouldn't fly until the morning of the first game. "You'd get to the park and you'd be drained, man," Rose says. "Just to save a night in a hotel."

Enter Rose, who turned the franchise's losing attitude around, from laundry boy to owner. There's a TV in the lounge, fruit on the tables, enough beer on the trips, smiles on faces (even after losses), card games on the flights and a decent day's rest the day of road games. There are also 12 fewer losses in the scorebook, and 313,000 more fans in the seats than this time last year.