The blue Rolls-Royce was parked on Capitol Street between Lee and Washington streets — in bold defiance of the city’s traffic codes. It was the summer of 1975, and Capitol Street was jam-packed and bustling. The illegally parked Rolls blended in nicely with the downtown congestion typical of the ’70s.
Its owner, Reds third baseman/outfielder Pete Rose, clad in a leather suit, had entered the Diamond Department Store and was autographing books and doing a press conference in the fifth-floor bookstore alongside the Diamond cafeteria, another bustling place.
Rose was here to promote his ghostwritten book, “Charlie Hustle,” a memoir of the 1974 season. The Reds, meanwhile, were en route to perhaps the greatest season in team history.
Seeing that the 34-year-old Rose was in his customary good spirits, I posed a hypothetical question: What if your manager, Sparky Anderson, came to you and said, Pete, you’re getting old and you need to take an occasional day off? What would you say?
“I’d punch him in the nose,” Rose responded, prompting laughter.
In addition to his considerable on-the-field skills, Pete Rose had a gift for talking baseball, keeping media folks enthralled and having fun doing it. Or maybe it was a talent he cultivated through thousands of interviews. In any case, he obviously enjoyed talking about himself and being the center of attention.
Through the years, Rose often visited Charleston and other Reds Country locales to pick up easy money on the autograph-signing circuit. A modern-day Pete Rose, of course, would be unimaginably rich and would have no need to seek out backwater haunts to peddle his autograph.
Back then, the modest autograph signings helped subsidize his extravagant lifestyle and feed his lusty gambling addiction in the years before silly money arrived in professional sports. His first Charleston appearance, by the way, was probably a preseason Reds-White Sox exhibition game April 11, 1964, at Watt Powell Park.
He made several appearances at the old Tag Galyean auto dealership on the site now occupied by the Clay Center and was invariably quotable, affable, interesting, fun.
“I can still hit a baseball,” he once said emphatically on the Tag Galyean showroom floor. He was in his mid-40s by then, working as the Reds player-manager, still chasing Ty Cobb and trying to convince the world — and himself — that he would get there.
His ease in handling interviews and public appearances was largely attributable to his enormous ego — or his convincing self-assurance, which greatly supplemented his physical skills. Pitching great Bob Gibson called it inner conceit and said all athletes need it.
In his rookie year of 1963, Rose led off a game by popping out against the magnificent Sandy Koufax and, when he returned to the dugout, a teammate asked, “How’s he throwin’, kid?” “He ain’t got s---,” Pete replied.
Rose also visited the Civic Center for several outdoors shows, sponsored by Bill Picozzi, the city’s sports promoter extraordinaire, who had earned his promotional bona fides by doing more than just bringing in Pete Rose. Luring the money-hungry Rose to town was a piece o’ cake.
Picozzi brought in a bigger fish, Muhammad Ali. Indeed, Ali seemed to take a liking to Picozzi. He also dined at Fazio’s.
In December of 1984, Picozzi called me at the Gazette and informed me of Rose’s impending visit, saying he would get me a one-on-one interview with Rose in return for a story touting his appearance. Fair enough.
In August of that year, the lowly Reds had signed him as their player-manager, a move that set off a national controversy. Critics complained that the 43-year-old Rose was over the hill and selfish, trying to hang on long enough to surpass Cobb’s hit record. Reds fans, by contrast, were overjoyed.
On Aug. 17, 1984, Rose made his debut as player-manager in Cincinnati, attracting a last-minute crowd of 35,038, far more than the Reds’ usual turnouts that season. Broadcaster Marty Brennaman later said it was perhaps the most emotional night he’d ever seen at the ballpark.
And now, after hitting .365 in 26 games for the Reds in ’84, Pete was in Charleston, brimming with optimism. Picozzi, as promised, fixed me up with an interview in some out-of-the-way room in the Civic Center, and it was there I saw once again the wonderful enthusiasm that made him so likable — at least as an interviewee.
He was telling me all about his high expectations for the 1985 season when Picozzi, a bit impatient, said he needed to hurry off to his autograph duties. Picozzi then gently grabbed his shoulder and began nudging him out the door. All the while, Pete was looking back at me, still talking baseball.
•••
One more Rose-in-Charleston story:
After another of his Picozzi-related appearances at the Civic Center, he and one of his body-building buddies (the infamous Tommy Gioisa, perhaps) and their lady companions returned to the Charleston House hotel, now a Four Points by Sheraton, on Kanawha Boulevard.
It was late, and Rose ordered a room-service shrimp plate for $125, not a trifling sum in the late 1980s. He billed it to Picozzi.
Several days later, Picozzi learned of Pete’s unauthorized extravagance and, irate, called him in Cincinnati and began berating him. But Rose cut him off.
“Relax,” he said. “The next time you come to Cincinnati, I’ll get you some tickets.”
