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  Rose took the insult and turned it into a badge of honor. He knew he didn’t have the natural skills of Willie Mays or Roberto Clemente, so he compensated by playing hard and fast all the time. Even though Anderson’s naming Rose team captain in 1969 bothered Bench for years, the Reds’ catcher acknowledged that Rose always led by example, that Pete’s enthusiasm and concentration were something to behold.

  Los Angeles Times columnist Jim Murray called Rose the Reds’ “cloud of dust.” Murray said it was legend in Cincinnati that Rose had once hung his uniform on a railing to dry and it had promptly stolen second. Watching the Reds’ captain draw a walk against the Dodgers and sprint to first base, announcer Vin Scully told his audience, “Pete Rose just beat out a walk.” Gowdy noted that Rose didn’t hit many homers, but when he did give a pitch a ride, he ran it out. “He’s the fastest home-run hitter in the game,” said Gowdy. Atlanta Braves traveling secretary Don Davidson said Rose “plays the game like it should be played.” Reds announcer Waite Hoyt, a Hall of Fame pitcher for the 1927 Yankees, considered Pete a throwback to earlier eras. “Rose even runs out his strikeouts,” Hoyt said. The Sporting News declared Rose “Baseball’s Best Ad.”

  Rose’s reckless abandon on the field turned him into a human grass stain and caused longtime observers to compare Pete to Jim Rivera, an outfielder for the Chicago White Sox in the 1950s. Nicknamed “Jungle Jim,” Rivera gave fans an exciting show by executing head-first slides and diving catches a decade before Rose arrived with the Reds. Hall of Famer Rogers Hornsby said at the time that Rivera was “the only man I would pay admission to see.”

  Longtime National League umpire Shag Crawford said the same of Rose. He thought it a pleasure to be on the same field with Mays, Aaron, and Clemente, but the guy who stood out most was Rose. An MLB umpire from 1956 to 1975, Crawford thought Pete the greatest player he’d ever seen. Quite a few players had more talent, but Crawford considered Rose the total player and thought the effort Pete put into every game incredible.

  Ed Sudol, a National League umpire from 1957 to 1977, believed that for a good, steady hitter there was none better in his era than Rose. Pete didn’t hit with much power, but Sudol knew Rose could be counted on to make contact.

  Some fans and opposing players saw Rose as a showoff. His mannerisms made him the player opponents loved to hate. Assuming his unique batting crouch—“an unorthodox stance that makes him look as if he is squatting to milk a cow,” Dayton Daily News sportswriter Hal McCoy wrote—Rose followed each pitch into the catcher’s glove and then turned and glared into the umpire’s face for the call. He sprinted to first base following a walk; executed head-first, belly-flopping dives on the base paths; and caught routine fly balls in the outfield with a snapping, downward slice of his glove.

  Rose was all out all the time. In the bottom of the twelfth inning of the 1970 All-Star Game in Riverfront Stadium, Rose separated American League catcher Ray Fosse’s shoulder with a body check that would have made Gordie Howe proud. Some criticized Rose’s running into Fosse as an over-aggressive play that damaged the catcher’s career and prevented him from reaching his full potential. Pitcher Clyde Wright of the California Angels was just one of the AL All-Stars angered by the play. Wright yielded the single that allowed Rose to reach base in the twelfth and stated afterward he believed Pete could have scored with a conventional slide and hadn’t needed to shatter Fosse. “Why did he do that?” Wright asked reporters. “I guess that’s how he plays. But from where I was standing, it looked like he could have gone around him.”

  Few remember that Fosse played the next ten games while Rose sat out three straight games and only pinch-hit in the fourth because of injuries incurred in the collision and that Fosse returned to the All-Star Game in 1971 and won his second straight Gold Glove. Rose never apologized for the play, never felt a need to. Fosse, he said, was a stride up the line and had the baseline surrounded. Rose said he didn’t feel it was his obligation to apologize because he was just trying to win.

  Fosse was trying to win as well and four decades later recounted how the play had gone from his vantage point: “I positioned myself where the ball was being thrown by Amos Otis,” he said. “I was up the line.” Had he not been, Fosse said, he would have missed the throw by three feet and people would still be asking him, “Why did you ole it?”

  Rose has spent the intervening years defending his collision with Fosse, saying that nobody had told him that they had changed it from hardball to girls’ softball between third and home. In a twist of fate, when Rose went to prison for tax evasion, he was sent to the penitentiary in Marion, Illinois, Fosse’s hometown.

  New York Mets manager Gil Hodges, who skippered the 1970 NL All-Star team, told reporters Rose made the only play he could. Fosse had the plate blocked, but Pete was going to score, Hodges said, “one way or another.”

  Anderson also defended Rose’s play. Pete had to play that way for two reasons, the skipper said. One, Rose loved baseball, and he showed it by putting all his energy into it. Two, Rose was not a natural ball player. He succeeded with hard work and hustle. Baseball was Pete’s job and his hobby. It was everything to him.

  Reggie Jackson admired Rose because Pete hustled. To Jackson, Rose was like Mantle, Mays, and Frank Robinson in that each was a living definition of the word “determination.” They could go to a movie, Jackson said, and stand out even with the lights out.

  Bench thought Rose had that “Charlie Hustle” spirit from the moment he walked on the field until the stadium lights went off. Where Bench would be so exhausted following a game that all he could do was go to sleep, Rose would stay up to listen to a West Coast night game. Rose had a kid’s devotion to the game; he reminded Bench of little boys who hung their caps on their bedposts at night and slept on their baseball gloves.

  Solidly built at 5-foot-11 and 192 pounds, Rose was a model switch hitter and leadoff man. He had sturdy forearms—“Have you seen Rose’s arms?” Bench asked a reporter. “I’d like to have them”—and could muscle up on the ball and hit a home run when needed. If Rose wanted to go for home runs, Anderson said he could hit twenty-five a season.

  Mostly Rose preferred to line the ball with authority to all areas of the field. He was a human hitting machine, a model of consistency. He would hit .300 or better 16 times in his 24-year career; bang out 200 or more hits 10 times; lead the National League in hits 7 times; author a league-record 44-game hitting streak; and, on an emotion-packed night in Cincinnati on September 11, 1985, eclipse Ty Cobb as the all-time hits leader.

  Knowing observers made it a point to stand by the batting cage and watch Rose hit. Reds teammate Andy Kosco, a veteran of seventeen stops along the minor and major league trail, believed most guys used batting practice to see how far they could drive the ball or how many homers they could hit. Not Pete. Rose sprayed the ball around the field, went with the pitch—“Just like in a game,” Kosco said.

  Rose served as the role model for Reds baseball not only on the field, but in the clubhouse as well. This was particularly true in the case of Morgan. For the seven seasons they were teammates in Cincinnati, Rose and Morgan were the sparkplugs that would set the Big Red Machine into motion. Pete called the pair “salt and pepper.”

  One of the first things Morgan did following the trade was to buy “Big Red Machine” T-shirts to wear under his uniform every day. Wearing the shirts helped make him feel like he belonged. He was proud to be part of such a powerhouse team and imagined it was the same kind of pride once felt by the members of the Yankees of the 1950s and ’60s.

  Gathering in spring camp, the Reds were put through a rigorous regimen. Anderson believed the country club atmosphere of the previous spring had contributed to a summer-long slump. Bench thought the Reds took things for granted. Rose was blunt. In ’71 the Reds didn’t field, couldn’t bunt, and left runners in scoring position.

  “Hell,” Rose roared a year later, “we should have been put in jail.” Looking around at the Spartan surroundi
ngs of the Reds’ camp, Bench managed a faint smile. “We have been,” he said.

  Rose would joke that the Reds had gone from being the Big Red Machine to the Little Red Wagon. The joking ended, however, as training camp turned into what Reds players described as “Stalag 17.” Morgan called it a “concentration camp.” Anderson banned TVs from the clubhouse, set weight limits for each player, fined each man $50 for every pound over his limit, curtailed postgame food spreads, and set an 11 p.m. curfew.

  Anderson kept his watch in his back pocket as drills at Redsland—a complex of four diamonds arranged with an observation tower in the middle in a cloverleaf—ran up to five hours. The Reds grunted and growled through camp, but Anderson didn’t care about ruffling his player’s feathers. What he did care about was how the team was representing the Reds organization, and part of that was what Sparky saw as the players’ fixation on fashion and food. The mod squad members of his club worried about their bell-bottom pants? Then let them join the navy, he snapped.

  The Reds had been bigger hits on the banquet circuit following their National League pennant than they would be on the field the following summer. After one particularly poorly played loss, Anderson followed his team into the clubhouse. What he witnessed disgusted him. Rather than seeing his players slumped on their stools figuring out why they were struggling, they kept peeling in front of him, headed for the food room. The next day Anderson watched as one of his players approached clubhouse man Bernie Stowe: “Hey Bernie, what’s to eat after the game?”

  That did it as far as Anderson was concerned. Near the end of the season he drew up a list of playing weights for his players: Bench, 202; Perez, 195; Gullett, 185, and so on.

  It was Rose’s habit to arrive in camp five pounds over his playing weight and then burn it off. He would run twenty wind sprints at day’s end, making sure that the last three or four hurt. For Pete it was more important to be stronger at the end of the season than at the beginning. Otherwise Rose showed up with the same goals he always had: hit .300, get over two hundred hits, collect thirty-five doubles and close to ten triples. To Rose a .300 average was the secret to a lot of things. It meant he would have around two hundred hits; he would be scoring around one hundred runs; and, most important, it meant the Reds would be winning.

  Anderson played another hunch in the spring of ’72 and asked Pete if he would move from right field to left. Bernie Carbo, the Reds’ number one pick in the inaugural 1965 major league free agent draft, had played left field for Cincinnati since his Rookie of the Year season in 1970. But the free-spirited Carbo had slumped badly in the 1970 postseason and ’71 regular season and was a spring training holdout in ’72 due to a contract dispute.

  The newly acquired Geronimo had a gun for a throwing arm, and right fielders are required to have stronger and more accurate arms since they have to make the long throw from the outfield to third base. Rose responded that while he wasn’t Clemente or Carl Furillo, right fielders renowned for their rifle-like throws, he had thrown out 13 base runners the season before.

  “I’m asking you,” Anderson said, “for the good of the team.” If it was for the good the team, Rose said, he would make the switch.

  Morgan found Rose inspirational, and Little Joe was also inspired by the large amount of talent surrounding him in Cincinnati. Bench and Perez provided the power; Morgan and Tolan provided the speed; Rose, Morgan, Tolan, and Perez hit for average; Morgan and Perez hit for average and power. The hitting skills of the first five batters in the Big Red Machine’s order were in perfect harmony.

  Rose, a switch hitter with power, led off and annually led the team in hits. The left-handed hitting Morgan hit second, and with a first baseman holding Rose on at first base, there was more room for Morgan to pull the ball, which he did extremely well. Because of his speed Morgan wouldn’t likely be doubled up on an infield grounder, meaning there would still be a runner on for the big boppers. In 1972 Morgan proved to be the toughest player in the NL to double up; he hit into a DP once in every 110 at bats.

  Tolan hit third. He was faster than Morgan and, like Morgan and Rose, could hit for average and power. Tolan was a good fastball hitter, a plus for the Reds since he saw a lot of fastballs from pitchers who grew anxious when Morgan got on base.

  Bench, batting cleanup, and Perez, hitting fifth, provided power. In 1972 they would combine for more RBIs (215) than any other 4–5 punch.

  Cincinnati had a solid starting staff headed by Gullett, Nolan, and Billingham and a deep bullpen keyed by the rubber-armed Clay Carroll. The Reds also owned the gift of grab; they would become one of the best defensive teams in history. From 1974 to 1977 the men who comprised the middle of the defense—Bench, Morgan, shortstop Dave Concepcion, and Geronimo in center field—each won four consecutive Gold Glove awards.

  The Reds would have been a powerhouse in any era, but they were a perfect match for 1970s baseball, which emphasized speed due to the emergence of synthetic surfaces. The wide reaches of Riverfront Stadium, Candlestick Park, the Houston Astrodome, Three Rivers Stadium, Veterans Stadium, and Busch Stadium allowed the Reds to take full advantage of their abilities.

  Previous pennant winners, like the 1959 “Go-Go” White Sox, the 1963–66 Dodgers, and the 1964–68 Cardinals had emphasized speed as well. But the Reds were the first team to put an end to “station-to-station” baseball, where runners advanced one base at a time and the game itself was played at a much slower pace.

  Because the Reds ushered in a new era, they were not only a team of the present, but also a team of the future. A decade later the ’82 Cardinals followed Cincinnati’s lead and fielded a club whose players—Lonnie Smith, Willie McGee, Ozzie Smith, Tom Herr—were greyhound quick and took advantage of Busch Stadium’s carpeted interior. The “Runnin’ Redbirds” led the league with 200 stolen bases in ’82 and six of their starting eight posted double-digit steals.

  Managed by Whitey Herzog, a.k.a. the White Rat, the Cards’ dash and daring was dubbed “Whiteyball.” They delivered a World Series title that fall by beating Harvey Kuenn’s Milwaukee Brewers, a.k.a. “Harvey’s Wallbangers,” a team that played old school power ball and featured six regulars with double digits in home runs. From 1982 to 1987 Whiteyball won three NL pennants.

  Michaels called the ’72 Reds the “New Red Machine.” Yet when the season started April 15 against ace Don Sutton and the division rival Los Angeles Dodgers in Riverfront Stadium, the Machine sputtered. Sutton went seven solid innings in a 3–1 win, spoiling Billingham’s debut as a Red.

  New additions Morgan and Menke helped even matters the next day, combining for 4 hits, 3 runs scored, and 3 RBIs in a 10–1 romp that saw Nolan get the win and Carroll claim the first of his major-league-record 37 saves that season. But the Reds lost five of their next six and went just 5-8 in April. By May 10 the New Red Machine looked in need of an overhaul.

  Anderson was worried. The clubhouse was funereal; rather than the good-natured needling of Rose, Morgan, Bench, and Perez, one could hear a pin drop.

  “We’re going to win this thing,” Anderson suddenly announced. “So why don’t you guys quit worrying?”

  Sparky’s statement sparked his squad. Morgan and Perez drove in two runs apiece in the Reds’ next game to trim St. Louis 5–4, and the Reds ripped off nine straight wins. The highlight of Cincinnati’s streak was a doubleheader sweep of defending division champion San Francisco in Candlestick Park on May 16. Reds reserve Julian Javier hit a three-run homer in the opener, and Billingham hurled a three-hitter in the second game to earn his first win in a Reds uniform.

  But the day really belonged to Rose. In the opener Giants southpaw Ron Bryant tried to intentionally walk the Reds’ switch-hitting captain to get to left-handed hitters Morgan and Tolan and set up a double play. Rather than take an intentional walk, Rose reached out and slapped a sharp single that skidded along the bright green synthetic turf and past third baseman Jim Ray Hart.

  The clean ocean breezes that swept through Ca
ndlestick Park during Cincinnati’s four-game sweep of the champs might have been seen by the Reds as winds of change. There was symbolism in Rose’s aggressive at-bat; it represented the spirit of the New Red Machine. All summer long Cincinnati would attack opponents, constantly applying pressure. During the course of its nine-game win streak the Machine motored from fifth place to third in the West.

  We’re on our way, Anderson thought.

  6

  “We can win without Blue,” Oakland third baseman Sal Bando told reporters during Vida’s celebrated holdout. “It would be harder, but we can.”

  To a man, the A’s agreed. As Catfish Hunter said, when Captain Sal spoke, even E. F. Hutton listened.

  The worth of Bando’s words could be seen in Oakland’s uneven start. By the time Blue signed on May 2, the reigning Western champions were 7-4 and in second place behind the Chicago White Sox. It would be another three weeks before Blue appeared in a game and another year before he would begin to resemble the superstar he had been in 1971.

  With their ace out of action, the A’s relied on the rotation of Hunter, Holtzman, and McLain. Hunter was the A’s Mr. Automatic: author of a perfect game in 1968, the first in the American League in forty-six years, and a 21-game winner in 1971.

  “The first thing you think about when you reach the majors is winning 20,” Hunter said. “The thing about winning 20 is that it makes you hungry to win 20 again.”

  The Catfish won 20 or more games five straight seasons, becoming the fourth and most recent AL pitcher to accomplish a feat previously recorded only by Walter Johnson, Lefty Grove, and Bob Feller. In 1974 Hunter won 25 games and the AL’s Cy Young Award. In 1976 he became the fourth pitcher in history and the first since Johnson in 1915 to have 200 career wins before the age of thirty-one; the others were Cy Young and Christy Mathewson.