Glad Times For Mad Dog

Cynthia says, "He settled down quite a bit on the field after that. Before, he was like night and day. Off the field he was gentle, never hotheaded. Now he's more like himself on the field." Says Greenberg, "The Crawford incident was a benchmark. Now if he disagrees with an umpire, he uses his charm, which can be considerable."

In the strike-shortened '81 season, Madlock batted .341 for his third title. Last year, with Parker and Stargell out of the lineup for extended periods, Madlock realized that the Pirates needed more power, so he willingly sacrificed his average for more home runs. Seven of his 19 homers came after the sixth inning, with three of them game-winners, while another broke a tie. And in September, Tanner announced that Madlock would replace Stargell as the Pirate captain.

Madlock injured his left knee during training this spring and had to undergo arthroscopic surgery. With typical bluntness, he chastised the Pirates for having substandard training equipment. Indeed, one day a trainer had to put dirt in a sock to provide Madlock with the extra weight prescribed for his knee exercises. Even without benefit of live spring-training hitting, Madlock was in the lineup on Opening Day, and at the end of last week he was hitting .274, which he says is his "best start ever." His drive mechanism is still working.

Madlock has a strange sense of time. For all his fascination with clocks, he sometimes refuses to wear a watch. Yet he's never late for an appointment or a practice. He does not take batting practice with the rest of the players. He shows up very early, hitting at about 4:30 p.m. for a night game, and then jokes around or plays cards with Phil Dorsey, the Pirates' majordomo.

In real life, Dorsey is a master sergeant in the Army Reserve and a clerk in the post office. He also runs errands for the players, keeps them company, protects their wives from obnoxious fans and brings them food. He usually attaches himself to one player, though, and Madlock is his special companion. Before Madlock, it was Stargell, and before Stargell, it was Roberto Clemente.

So how come Bill Madlock isn't as well known as they were? One explanation is that until he got to the Pirates, he never played on a winner, and once he got to Pittsburgh, he was overshadowed. Another explanation is that he'll always be the second-best third baseman in the league behind Schmidt.

To increase his client's visibility, Greenberg recommended the Los Angeles public relations firm of Rogers & Cowan to puff him up. That's how he became affiliated with the President's Council. Not that Madlock isn't worthy—Wayne Newton is on the council, too—but when he signed a six-year, $5.1 million guaranteed contract with Pittsburgh after the '81 season, the Pirates felt it was necessary to include a weight clause.

Despite all the slights, Madlock is living the good life. He has decked out his spacious house and its surroundings with taste and toys: a Jacuzzi, a Nautilus machine, a tree house, Picasso prints, Picasso plates, sculptures by the Bennett brothers of California, a wine cellar, a 200-year-old desk from a Scottish castle, a '32 Ford, an '82 Rolls, a satellite dish to pick up faraway baseball games. He's a partner in a new place opening up in Pittsburgh's One Oxford Center, The Wine Restaurant. "It's the first of its kind in town," says Madlock. "We'll offer 60 kinds of wine and French cuisine. But we're flexible. If the customers want beer, we'll offer 60 kinds of beer and call it The Beer Restaurant."

His children, known around the clubhouse as the Mad Puppies, are a joy. Madlock counted another blessing two weeks ago when Jeremy was born in a tense delivery. "His heart stopped for a moment, and I thought, 'O Lord,' " says Madlock, who was in the delivery room. Jeremy is doing fine now.

"I have everything I've ever wanted. A great family, three houses, a great job.