by Jim Bouton
“I watched the three proposals and I liked yours,” said Parrott. “I want to invest.”
“We’re not ready for investors just yet,” said Chip. “But we wanted to meet you and enlist your support.”
“I know Gerry Doyle and all those guys,” said Parrott, laying our posters on his desk. “He and Conant and Smitty are all tight.”
“Did you happen to see the meeting last night?” asked Chip.
“I already talked to Conant about it,” said Parrott. “I said, Jim, you’re up there asking questions to try to stump these guys, and they crushed you.”
“The only reason Conant showed up,” I said, “is because he’s running for City Council.”
“Whatever Jim does, Smitty is going to do,” said Parrott. “Jim’s got a political future to live up to.”
“We’ve heard the decision has already been made,” said Chip.
“I talked to Gerry right after the City Council meeting,” said Parrott. “He said, ‘They’re not going to get it.’ I asked him why, and he said, ‘The fix is in.’”
“Doyle actually said that?” I asked.
“Those were his exact words,” said Parrott. “Sometimes he’ll let things out without actually saying so. Then when something happens you say, Oh, that’s what Gerry meant.”
“What is it with these guys?” I asked.
“All my life I’ve watched them,” said Parrott, “and every time someone comes in and tries to help Pittsfield, they won’t let them. They want to say, ‘I came up with the solution.’ Doyle wants to get credit for the new stadium. ‘This is what I did. I did the GE deal.’”
“But if there’s a new stadium one day,” I said, “Gerry Doyle is going to be long gone by that time. There’s got to be something else in it for him.”
“The town has a history,” said Parrott. “We had a mayor, Charles Smith, who put in the Krofta water filtration system. It made millions for Krofta. Then he became the vice president of Krofta.”
“You think Doyle’s going to end up at GE?” I asked.
“Knowing Gerry, he’s probably already got something lined up,” said Parrott. “I know he’s looked at some houses down the Cape. He’s done a lot of favors for a lot of people. Something will come up.”
At the end of the meeting, we thanked Parrott for his time and he promised to put our posters in the window of his A-Mart.
Back in the car, Chip and I drove to the Lantern for some lunch and planned our next move.
“It’s pretty obvious that Fleisig was being used,” I said. “Here he is being wined and dined by the mayor, at the same time that the mayor knows Bossidy is shopping for a franchise.”
“Fleisig has always been the back-up to Bossidy,” said Chip, “just like during the Civic Authority vote. If it had passed, and Bossidy hadn’t been able to get a team, Fleisig was in there. The same holds true now.”
“Miles Wolff should cut Fleisig loose and cast his lot with us,” I said. “Now that Bossidy is back, we’re clearly the best bet for the Northern League.”
After lunch, Chip had an idea.
“Let’s stop by the Eagle and give them the latest poll numbers.”
“But I’m just wearing jeans and a T-shirt,” I said.
“I think you’re showing the proper amount of disrespect for those fuckers,” said Chip.
In a room across the hall from where we had met last month, Chip and I spent an hour with reporter Jack Dew and editor David Scribner. Dew is a five-foot-eleven, blond-haired guy, in his late twenties, who already looks like an old newspaper man—overweight, baggy pants, shirttail sticking out, permanent slouch, hangdog face. You can see exactly what he’s going to look like in thirty years.
Chip gave them the latest figures—4,665 to 488 in our favor—and explained about the computer not having been able to “answer” the volume of calls, but that the busies had been recorded.
“You didn’t get the results you wanted,” said Dew, suddenly playing the role of hard-nosed reporter, “so you changed the rules.”
“No!” said Chip. “We didn’t change the rules. We announced that the lines would stay open because we knew people were getting busy signals, but that didn’t change the results. Ninety percent of the calls came within the first five minutes, anyway. We can show you the printouts.”
“In any case, both sides had the benefit of the extended time,” I said. “The only possible cheating came from the other side, with two speed dialers accounting for 207 calls!”
“It’s not a scientific sample,” said Dew, with a dismissive curl of his upper lip.
“A total of 5,153 people called, with verifiable phone numbers,” I said. “That’s more than a third of the number of people who voted in the June 5th referendum!”
Dew, looking unconvinced, had stopped writing by this time and sat slumped in his chair like a giant bean bag.
Scribner, who had alternated between standing and wandering around, just as he had the last time we met with him, finally spoke.
“I really believed the stadium was dead,” he said, raising both hands skyward. “That BS&E didn’t exist anymore.”
“How can you say that?” I said, incredulous. “Chip and I weren’t surprised by Bossidy’s return. We knew it was coming. And we’re not even in the news business.”
Chip had a peeved look on his face.
“You guys don’t challenge city leaders to involve the public, or make any move to sponsor a public hearing yourselves,” he said, “yet you criticize our phone poll as unscientific.”
Scribner squinted at Chip.
“Your sample is limited to people who care,” he said, with professorial hauteur.
“Any election is confined to the minority who care,” said Chip, getting more agitated. “Fifty percent is rare. Most people get elected to important government jobs with far less than a majority of the population.”
Dew sat slouched with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, like a kid who didn’t want to do his homework.
“Whenever I ask people on the street,” said Scribner, waving his hand airily, “most never go to a ballgame. And at the games, half are from out of town.”
“Most New Yorkers have never been to the Statue of Liberty,” said Chip, thinking way too fast for Scribner, “but they don’t want it torn down.”
Scribner smirked, by way of reply.
“The point is,” I said, jumping in, “no team owner in America has ever made this kind of proposal to a city.”
There was a long pause as Scribner tousled his hair with his hand. He was working hard on this one.
“Cal Ripken is building a stadium in Aberdeen, Maryland,” he said, grinning, as if he’d just come up with a blockbuster.
I felt like punching him in the nose.
“You would never get away with comments like that in front of other people,” I snarled. “Why don’t you and I discuss the matter on Vox Pop?”
“That’s up to Alan Chartock,” said Scribner.
On the way out of the building, Chip and I marveled at what had just transpired.
“Scribner just will not give in on any point,” said Chip. “And what are the chances of his going on Vox Pop with you?”
“Two chances,” I said. “Slim and none.”
“How about Jack Dew,” said Chip. “Can you imagine him challenging the mayor like that? Or a councilman? Or Andy Mick?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Where was he when his own newspaper was lying to the people about why there had to be a new stadium?”
Then we spotted a copy of today’s Eagle in the lobby.
Under the front page headline announcing Bossidy’s return, there were two pictures. One was Bossidy leaving the Stadium Yes! headquarters after the Civic Authority vote back in June. The other one, entitled “The Wahconah Alternative,” was a dark and foreboding sketch that looked like a street scene from Dickens.
What the hell was that?
Lo and behold, it was Jamie Akers’s color drawing of our
Taste of the Berkshires food court that we had sent to the Eagle last week—only it had been printed in black and white! And poorly printed at that: the green ballpark was now black, the blue sky was now threatening rain, and the open plaza looked like the midway at a low-rent carnival. Not the kind of place you’d want to watch a ballgame. How could something so beautiful be made to look so bad? And why would they print a color picture in black and white?
Maybe they used up all the color on the Bossidy picture.
Chip and I were so jangled we needed to burn off a little energy. And where better to do that than at a ballpark?
It was about four in the afternoon when we arrived at Wahconah. The staff for Gladstone’s Pittsfield Astros was doing what a stadium staff does—watching out for dangerous characters. Inside the gate, Chip approached an old guy wearing a gray T-shirt that said, appropriately enough, STAFF. When Chip offered a friendly greeting, the guy ignored him and walked away.
“He’s in charge of customer relations,” I said.
Instead of going into the stands or onto the field, where we could have been ignored by upper-level management, we decided to circumnavigate the ballpark.
Tramping through the underbrush, and stepping over puddles, we made our way around the back of the outfield fence. There we noticed the small drainage canals that had been hacked out to channel water on rainy nights from the far reaches of the outfield to the river, fifty or so feet behind the fence.
In dead center field, we arrived at the back of the football press box, which is supported by rusty steel beams. Of course we had to climb them.
“Hey, there’s a light on in the press box,” I hollered down to Chip, who was still navigating the cross-hatched beams in his loafers.
“How can there be a light on?” asked Chip.
“They just turned on the electricity,” I said, “hoping we would grab a live wire.”
And the day was still not over.
Back at the house, I got a call from Peter Arlos, who gave me the latest from the Pittsfield courthouse.
“I spoke to Cliffy today,” said Arlos, using his pet name for Cliff Nilan, “and he says, ‘They’re out, just forget about it.’ I said why? And he said, ‘Environmentally it can’t be done. They got these plans. They can’t do it.’”
“Nilan’s just making up reasons,” I said. “He’s referring to the parking lot, but there are plenty of other things we can do.”
“He was looking very stressful,” said Arlos.
“He’s looking stressful,” I said, “because Chip and I are making headway.”
“If you lived in Pittsfield,” said Arlos, “you’d replace me as the most popular guy in town, you know that? You could run for mayor.”
“I’d make you my PR guy,” I said.
“Aw shit, you don’t need PR,” said Arlos. “You got ’em in the palm of your hand. All except Cliffy.”
But Cliffy is calling the shots.
The day ended with Chip getting the agenda for the next scheduled Parks Commission meeting on August 27th. There was no mention of the promised decision on Wahconah Park.
Another delay. These people are unbelievable.
Angry, I called Andy Nuciforo, a state senator from Berkshire County. Andy was once a new-stadium supporter who now says he’s neutral. I don’t really know why I called him, except to vent my frustration at the sorry state of politics in Pittsfield. Maybe Nuciforo could make a few calls, write a letter, launch an investigation.
“It’s up to the people,” said Andy. “I can’t take sides.”
“But the people have indicated that they’re behind us,” I said. “We just got 91% of the vote in a phone poll with over 5,000 callers. The people are being ignored by their city officials. Not taking sides is like staying neutral during a mugging.”
“It’s not over yet,” said Nuciforo, evenly.
“Did you know,” I said, “that the decisions in Pittsfield are being made at a bar called DelGallo’s?”
“I know that,” said Nuciforo.
So much for representative government.
AUGUST 24
FRIDAY
Today we learned the proper way to conduct a preference poll: Send Jack Dew down the street to a Big Y supermarket and have him interview six people.
This was the method that produced a large headline in today’s Eagle: NEW STADIUM DRAWS APPLAUSE. Dew’s story was accompanied by photos of four of the six people he interviewed. Candi Eichesler, owner of Oasis Hair Design, was quoted as saying, “I guess I’m for the stadium, but not for the Civic Authority.” An older gentleman named Edward Carroll said a new stadium is “going to help.” Frederick A. Dillard said, “We need some refurbishing in Pittsfield.” And Tom Spratlin said, “I think it’s exciting.”
As if to provide balance for this effusive praise, David Spiess, 12, was quoted as saying that “the city shouldn’t build a stadium if it means taking people’s property and raising taxes.”
I nominate David Spiess for mayor.
Then it was time to dance. The Fairview Gala was held in the spacious dining hall of the Berkshire School, a private prep school with a college-like campus at the foot of a mountain in nearby Sheffield. By the time Paula and her crackerjack committee were finished decorating and lighting the place, it looked like some kind of Starlight Ballroom.
Paula and Cindy looked equally spectacular. Cindy wore this navy blue sheath with no back at all, and Paula wore a long, swishy skirt with what I call her “Daisy Mae” top—with the tantalizingly precarious straps.
It was a great night.
Three hundred fifty people—including both transplants and locals, as Paula is proud to say—danced to the big band sounds of Vince Giordano’s Nighthawks, thrilled to the down-home blues of singer Ruby Wilson, and bopped spasmodically to guitar hipster Albert Cummings.
When Paula introduced Cummings and happened to mention that he would be playing next week at Wahconah Park, someone hollered, “Wahconah Park!” Whereupon Paula came back with, “Wahconah Yes!” and the audience—aware of our adventure up in Pittsfield—responded with a chorus of “Yay, Wahconah!”
After I danced a few numbers with Paula, a lot of women came over to ask me to dance, thinking I could do the same thing for them. Unfortunately, they did not know when to exert pressure on my shoulder or squeeze my left hand and twist it back.
And of course, all the men wanted to dance with Paula—and a lot of them did—because she’s such a great dancer. It had nothing to do with the precarious straps. Sure.
The evening netted a big chunk of change for the hospital, and half a dozen business cards for Wahconah Park.
And I got to go home with Daisy Mae.
CHAPTER 10
“Go take a shower”
AUGUST 25
SATURDAY
Saturday. A good day for playing tennis. Swimming in a lake. Reading a book. Sleeping on the porch.
Unless, of course, you’re certifiably nuts.
Then you write letters—to people you don’t particularly like, who will probably not respond.
Chip, who leads the league in letters unanswered or unpublished, sent one to Larry Bossidy, if you can believe that. He described our phone poll results that showed that only 9% of callers supported a new stadium under any circumstances. Chip also enclosed our original letters to BS&E, which argued that Pittsfield should use the new-stadium money for a new civic center or an indoor arena instead.
“Make the civic center/arena your idea and we will back you to the hilt, and you’ll have 90% of the citizens behind you!” Chip wrote. “Jim Bouton and I would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”
As if to cinch it, Chip enclosed a copy of Ball Four, which I signed and inscribed as follows: “Help us with Wahconah Park and we’ll help you with Bossidy Arena.”
There is no brick wall we will not run into.
Repeatedly.
Chip also wrote a letter to the Eagle, contrasting Jack Dew’s surve
y of six people that he interviewed on the street, with our “much more relevant indicator of public opinion: the televised phone-in.” Chip then provided the most recent results from 7 West Communications, showing that in the first minute—from 9:07 to 9:08—there were a total of 1,269 calls, of which 1,149 were in our favor, giving us 91% of the vote (corrected net first-minute results: Bouton 1,128 [94%], Fleisig, Bossidy, new stadium 75 [6%]).
When Chip’s letter was rejected by Bill Everhart on the grounds that it violated the paper’s “thirty-day rule” against anyone appearing in the letters section more than once within that period—the paper’s equivalent of the “three-minute open mike rule”—Chip emailed Everhart suggesting that the letter could just as easily carry my byline.
Everhart’s reply? No. Eric Margenau’s byline? Another no.
But Chip still wasn’t finished. Calmly and politely, he wrote again to Everhart, saying, “I would like to suggest that you adopt a small exception to your thirty-day policy to allow people to respond in their own words when they are cited in a material way in one of your news articles. Otherwise, someone could find himself, his words, or his actions subject to thirty consecutive days of reporting by the Eagle and only have one chance to set the record straight.”
Everhart’s response to that? “You might want to contact Jack [Dew] or Dusty [Bahlman] to see if there is a news hook here.”
Of course, Chip then forwarded everything to Dusty—forget Jack Dew—with a note that said, “So, is there a news hook here?”
When Bahlman didn’t respond, I had two thoughts: (1) Documented proof of overwhelming support for our proposal will never get printed in the Eagle. (2) Chip Elitzer should be required to register with the police as a serial letter writer.
My contribution in the letter-writing department was a one-pager to Miles Wolff, in which I said that Bossidy’s return effectively ends Fleisig’s bid, “since Fleisig’s only support came from the new-stadium proponents who will now back Bossidy.” I said his best shot at the Pittsfield market now rested with us, and that he should back our proposal in the best interest of his league and the city.