by Jim Bouton
I wonder if Miles Wolff has the same filing system as Everhart.
AUGUST 27
MONDAY
On the drive up to Pittsfield for tonight’s Parks Commission meeting, Chip and I went over the presentation we would make, opposing any delay in a decision on Wahconah Park. The latest rumor had it that the mayor would ask for a postponement until October to allow Bossidy to craft a proposal.
October!
The bastards.
It’s obvious what they’re doing, but they have no shame. They’re not even slightly embarrassed about it. And why should they be? Who’s going to call them on it? Chip and I decided that should be my job tonight, since I’m so popular I could be mayor.
This reminded Chip about the most difficult speech he ever had to give.
“I was working for Eugene McCarthy,” said Chip. “And I had to tell an all-male college crowd that I would be speaking instead of Jill St. John. Two-thirds got up and walked out.”
“Why only two-thirds?” I said.
Waiting for us at Springside House was Eric Lincoln, sitting on the front steps in his basic dress slacks, sneakers, and baseball cap. As always, Eric was slightly disgruntled and definitely beleaguered, but still ready to laugh at the slightest bit of humor, even if it came at his expense.
“How long have you been sitting there?” I asked, as we walked up. “You look like you’ve been here all day, waiting for the other kids to show up for a game of stoop ball.”
Eric smiled. “It’s a sad commentary on my life,” he said, “that I have nothing better to do than sit out here and wait for you guys.”
The three of us filed inside, to the room with the two fat columns and the beat-up linoleum floors. There were only about a dozen people scattered in the forty or so chairs—a few media folks, and a handful of city officials, including Peter Arlos and Dan Bianchi. The Wahconah Yes! team doesn’t bother to suit up for ordinary Parks Commission meetings.
A few commissioners were already seated at their laminated, wood-grained table. I took the opportunity to pass out our color copies of Jamie Akers’s beautiful drawings.
Whenever Chip and I are in the company of city officials, we adopt an attitude of confident jocularity—as if we’ve got the winning bid, and it’s only a matter of time before that’s acknowledged, and let’s get along because we’ll all be working together one day. It was in that spirit that I introduced myself to Sue Colker—who had missed earlier meetings we attended—and joked with Jim Conant.
“You should frame these, Jim,” I said, as I handed Conant the color copies. “You can tell your grandchildren, ‘You see these pictures? I turned that down.’ And when they say, ‘Why did you do that, Grandpa?’ you can say, ‘I’ll tell you when you get a little older.’”
Conant, a heavy-set guy with glasses, thinning hair, and a bushy mustache, sort of laughed. Nilan, who was sitting nearby, did not. All Nilan did was take them from me, give them a cursory glance without expression, and lay them on the table.
On the matter of Wahconah Park, the first ones to be called on by Nilan were Chip and me. This was a bit startling because it seemed out of order, and Chip stood up to respond.
“We understand there’s going to be a request for a postponement,” said Chip. “Since we’re here to address that, we’d like to wait until the request has been made so we can know the particulars.”
Nilan could barely contain his anger. He tapped his pencil on the table and tugged at his collar. Then he exploded.
“When you’re the chairman, you can set the agenda,” he said loudly and rudely, pointing at Chip. “Go now or not at all.”
It’s getting more like Alice in Wonderland every day. “Sentence now, trial later,” says the Red Queen.
The room got very quiet. All you could hear were some birds chirping outside and people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Who the hell was Cliff Nilan to holler at Chip Elitzer? Chip is the most courteous guy I’ve ever met, thanking these guys every time he stands before them. Nilan couldn’t carry Chip’s jock as a human being. I was pissed.
But I didn’t say anything.
Instead, I looked at Chip, who was thinking cool. He signaled that we should just go ahead, and so I rose to speak.
Still shaking with anger, I made the following points:
1. Bossidy and Fleisig both want a new stadium, but a new stadium is not the Parks Commission’s responsibility.
2. We are the only group with a long-term commitment to Wahconah Park, both financial and emotional.
3. Who, besides us, is going to maintain Wahconah Park for all the uses the Commission feels are important, including high school sports?
4. We’re the only group ever to present a marketing or facilities plan for Wahconah Park.
5. Our partnership has owned and operated seven successful minor league baseball franchises. Neither Fleisig nor Bossidy can claim even one.
6. We’re offering 100% private funds to restore a public ballpark to house a 100% locally owned baseball team that can’t be moved out of town.
“This will be a first in America,” I said, “and a great distinction for Pittsfield. And the decision is in your hands.”
Then I sat down to a creepy silence. The only response was Conant’s muttered comment as I returned to my seat that our proposal was “clever.” I missed the sustained applause we always got at the City Council meetings.
It felt like I had just delivered some bad news to city officials. And I guess, on some level, I had.
The next person to be called on was Peter Arlos, who shuffled to the front of the room with his folder of papers. As a local fixture with a certain amount of comedic value, Arlos always gets a respectful hearing. At least until he’s finished speaking.
“The problem with Bossidy’s option to buy the Blue Sox,” said Arlos, who always does his homework, “is that the lease they have with the city of Utica gives local investors ninety days to match outside offers. That means the town still has all the cards to keep the team in Utica.”
Now this was an important piece of information.
It meant that even if Bossidy could put everything together by October—$20 million for a new stadium and someone to run and manage a team—and the Parks Commission selected him and he exercised his option, the city of Utica could still snatch it back as late as December 31, 2001. Much too late for anyone to field a team for the 2002 season.
Then Arlos made another important point. He said the Commission should make its decision shortly after the September 25th primary, at which time the two surviving mayoral candidates “should be asked their opinions.”
“Look,” said Arlos, waving his papers in the air. “We have a new mayor and seven new councilors coming in, with a new mandate. To have such an important matter decided by a lame-duck mayor and a lame-duck city council is wrong.” He paused for emphasis. “And if you wait until October 5th, you won’t have a team.”
The commissioners nodded without comment, and the Aging Greek God shuffled back to his seat, his body language conveying little or no confidence that his words of wisdom would ever be heeded.
Finally, the subject at hand was formally introduced. In the time it takes to say ‘phony baloney’ five times, Tom Murphy read a letter from Mayor Doyle, asking that a decision “be postponed until October 5th to allow Lawrence A. Bossidy time to craft a detailed proposal for the use of Wahconah Park.”
As soon as Murphy sat down, Chip stood up.
“What is it?” snapped Nilan.
“I’d just like to add one more thing,” said Chip.
Nilan yanked on his tie and glared at Chip. “Oh, all right, go ahead,” he said, angrily. “You always have to have the last word.”
Damn! I wanted to knock Nilan on his ass.
But Chip just brushed it off.
“I want to remind the Parks Commission,” said Chip, “that we first introduced our proposal back on June 11,
and it is unfair to have to hurry up and wait until October 5, and then be given what could be twenty-four hours’ notice to begin to implement it.”
While I was standing there next to Chip, I figured I’d give them one more thing to consider.
“You may want to wait for the Bossidy proposal,” I said, “but you can at least make one decision now—between us and Fleisig. You’ve seen both our proposals and his doesn’t compare. By eliminating Fleisig tonight you give Pittsfield its two best options—us, with an independent league team in a refurbished Wahconah Park, and Larry Bossidy with a New York–Penn League team, ultimately in a new stadium. We can spend the time between now and October 5th bidding against each other, for the benefit of Pittsfield.”
Then we sat down.
There was no discussion regarding the pros or cons of any points made by us or Peter Arlos. Instead, the Parks Commission voted unanimously to postpone a decision on Wahconah Park until October 5th.
In the car on the way home, neither of us said anything for about ten minutes. I was feeling bad about not standing up for Chip. But I hadn’t been able to think fast enough at the time. Also, I didn’t want to do anything I’d regret the next day. Still, I should have said something.
“Has Cliff Nilan ever returned any of your phone calls or responded to any of your emails?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“Never,” said Chip.
“Where do these guys get the nerve to treat us like this?” I said. “We offer to invest private money in a Parks facility and we have to take shit from the Parks chairman?”
“It’s more than that,” said Chip, sadly. “For public officials to act with such naked disregard for the public good is disheartening, and it’s not just an isolated instance of one or two officials.”
Back at the house, I told Paula what had happened.
“It’s not worth it,” said Paula. “There are better things you could be doing with your time.”
“I know,” I said, as I turned on my computer.
“It’s midnight,” said Paula, agitated. “What are you doing?”
“Writing a letter,” I said. “An open letter.”
“To whom?” asked Paula, incredulous.
“Cliff Nilan.”
And I began pecking away.
AUGUST 28
TUESDAY
I woke up at six o’clock this morning to put the finishing touches on my letter to Nilan. Here’s what I ended up with:
To: Cliff Nilan
Your behavior last night toward my partner Chip Elitzer was shamefully rude and unwarranted. You had no right to shout at him early on, and your angrily sarcastic comment later that he always has to have the last word is simply false. The only time Chip asked for (and initially received) permission for our partnership to speak last was before the August 13 presentation, which you then revoked when Jonathan Fleisig asked for the same. Rather than flip a coin, we ceded the last position to Fleisig, with your explicit agreement that we could have three minutes of rebuttal (followed by a final rebuttal by Fleisig). Instead of honoring that agreement, you simply terminated the meeting after Fleisig’s presentation.
This continues a pattern of rudeness on your part that goes all the way back to the introduction of our proposal on June 11. It includes your refusal to return any of our phone calls or respond to any of our letters, your ignoring our requests for a public hearing on the matter, and your thinly veiled hostility whenever either one of us is speaking before the board.
You would think we had committed a crime instead of having made a proposal that might benefit the parks and the citizens of Pittsfield. You seem to have some kind of personal agenda. What else is one to think of your behavior in light of comments from the people of Pittsfield that “the fix is in,” and “the government doesn’t listen to us?” We know exactly how they feel. And we just got here.
We understand that you are a volunteer, performing a frequently thankless task, and we have always tried to be respectful and appreciative of that fact. Chip Elitzer, with his excellent manners, deserves nothing less than the same respect that he has shown you and the committee each time we have appeared before you.
Unfortunately, you have not responded in kind, which makes your adverse rulings against us appear to be biased. Your last-minute decision on August 13 to forbid public comment because you understand the public supports us is one example. Your frequent delays and postponements that you know negatively impact us more than our competitors is another. If you were a judge, you’d be taken off the case.
You have dirtied yourself and the process. Go take a shower.
Jim Bouton
As soon as I was finished, I attached it to an email addressed to our Wahconah lists and hit the button. I was in such a hurry to get it off I didn’t even pass it by Chip or our top advisors—Paula and Cindy. I guess I’ll do that tonight over dinner at the Elitzers’.
Meanwhile, the Parks Commission notwithstanding, we seem to be making headway in what is now a full-blown public relations battle. Even my friend Alan Chartock is finally getting involved. Almost.
In his column in today’s Eagle, entitled INFLUENCING THE MEDIA, Chartock gives Chip and me credit for “knowing how to get the word out.” He even acknowledges that we’ve had problems.
To put it mildly, they have been met with a less than friendly reception from some quarters of the community, including the Berkshire Eagle. What they have done could be a primer for how to do—and not do, depending on your point of view—public relations when you’re unhappy with the media.
I’m not going to debate the merits of their case. In fact, I don’t understand it. But these guys have tried to do it right. They’ve gone out into the community and talked where they were asked to talk.
And even where we weren’t asked to talk, I might add.
But why should we have to do that? Why should we have to constantly pound the pavement and write letters and draft position papers? What would have happened if we had just made our proposal and sat back and waited for a decision, like everyone else? Like Fleisig and Bossidy, for example. Forget about it. Our plan would have simply disappeared, which, according to local folks, is what happens to a lot of good ideas in this town.
The truth is, the media has not done its job on this story. Our proposal remains a possibility only because we’ve dedicated a good piece of our lives to it—a lot of that time spent correcting misinformation spread by the media. Influencing the media, my ass. Exactly what media have we influenced? Influencing in spite of the media is more like it.
It upsets Paula to hear me talk like that about Alan Chartock. Hell, it upsets me.
“Alan wants to do the right thing,” said Paula. “But he’s suffering from cognitive dissonance. He can’t bring himself to understand the merits of your case because if he does he’ll have to take another look at Scribner. And he doesn’t want to have to do that.”
“He’s been great on most issues,” I said. “Especially the environment. Tim Gray told me he’s been a guest on WAMC about a hundred and fifty times.”
“Alan’s usually on the right side of the ethical questions,” said Paula. “And I don’t believe he’s part of that Pittsfield machinery. But he has a vested interest in keeping Scribner as an ally.”
I’m liking Peter Arlos more and more every day. He’s not only smart, he’s funny. Today he gave me his thoughts on the mayoral race. When the Oracle of Delphi speaks, I listen.
“It’s going to be between [Jimmy] Ruberto and [Sara] Hathaway,” said Arlos. “Ruberto stands for nothing. Talks out of two sides of his mouth. If you played ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ he wouldn’t stand up—afraid to commit himself. Hathaway is strong for you. She’s got more guts than Ruberto. She’s a nice person. Educated.”
“What about Grunin?” I asked.
“Grunin can’t get elected,” said Arlos, derisively. “If he was running unopposed, he would get beaten by the blanks.”
I laughed, and asked him where h
e got his sense of humor.
“My wife,” said Arlos. “Compared to her I’m a dud. I married an orthodox Jew. Alma. Summa cum laude law degree. Modest. No makeup. Great mother. That’s all I ask. We’ve been married forty-eight years. Never had an argument. I do exactly as she tells me.”
The secret to a happy marriage. I can understand that.
Just how strong is Sara Hathaway for our proposal? Chip called the “Sara Hathaway for Mayor” office to find out. And got Sara.
“You’ve created a situation where the political heat is on them,” said Sara, speaking of our opponents. “We were all just at a forum at GE and the first question was, ‘Where are you on the stadium?’ I was in your corner and Grunin and Ruberto were on the fence.”
Chip asked how the people at the forum felt about Bossidy, who is a former GE executive.
“The GE employees are not crazy about Larry Bossidy,” said Hathaway. “They just don’t trust him.”
Then it was time for dinner. We met, as usual, in the Elitzers’ kitchen. Cindy was putting marinated chicken breasts onto a plate so Chip and I could grill them outside. Paula was trying to keep the Elitzers’ overly friendly golden retriever, Serra, from sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
Cindy was not in favor of the Nilan letter.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to personalize things,” she said. “Nilan has been a city official for many years. I’m sure he’s got his supporters.”
“On the other hand,” said Paula, “it’s a genuinely felt response to something that happened.”
“But you don’t want to turn the community against you,” said Cindy, trying to interest Serra in an old rag.
“I’m usually on the side of caution,” said Paula, “but this feels right. I think it needed to be sent. You guys have been too polite.”
“I’m never good at these things,” said Chip. “But if Paula says it’s a good idea, I think it’s fine.”
“Well okay,” said Cindy, “as long as you’re ready to face the consequences.”
Having heard from our top advisers, Chip and I went outside to grill the chicken—and a few hot dogs in case we got really hungry. And we took Serra out with us to guard against squirrels.