by Jim Bouton
What the Hillies needed help with were the rules of vintage baseball: There is only one umpire, positioned ten to fifteen feet behind and at an angle to the batter. The umpire is always addressed as “sir” by the players and may smoke a cigar. In the event the umpire does not have a clear view of a play he can request a “Gentleman’s Ruling,” in which the players involved tell what transpired and a call can be reversed. And my favorite—the umpire has the option to ask for input from the fans in the stands.
Batters request a “high” or “low” strike zone before their at bat and the pitcher must throw into the area requested to earn a strike. There are seven balls and three strikes, but foul balls are not counted as strikes. Foul balls into the stands must be returned and baseballs are not replaced unless lost. There are no balks and “quick” pitches are legal—for example, the pitcher can fake two throws to first then quickly pitch to the batter. Also, there is no pitcher’s mound or rubber, and the pitcher must remain entirely inside a four-foot by six-foot box, which is only fifty feet from home plate.
As part of the theater, players are expected to incorporate vintage game jargon into their infield chatter, including: ballist for player, hurler for pitcher, behind for catcher, ginger for determination, muff for error, daisy cutter for grounder, sky ball for pop up, hands down for out, ace for run, frame for inning, dish for home plate, nine for team, and cranks for fans.
In other words, if it’s two hands down in the last frame with the local nine up by an ace, and their hurler, working well with his behind, shows some ginger and induces a daisy cutter or sky ball that doesn’t get muffed, the ballists from both nines will gather at the dish to shout Hip Hip Huzzah! and the cranks will go home happy.
Most important were the vintage uniform and behavior codes, which I personally would like to see enforced today: no batting gloves, helmets, wrist bands, elbow pads, shin guards, sunglasses, logo shoes, pajama pants, gold chains, or earrings. No arguing with the umpire, stepping out of the batter’s box, calling time out, charging the pitcher, posing at home plate, curtain calling, chest bumping, high-fiving, pointing to the sky, or kissing jewelry.
Just baseball, dammit!
Ticket sales had been going well. With a week to go before the game, all of the 390 box seats (at $20) and most of the 1,110 upper grandstand seats (at $10) had been sold. There were still plenty of bleacher seats (at $5) and standing room (at $3) available. Chip said we could have squeezed in more grandstand and bleachers (bench seats) if we had reduced the “butt width” variable from twenty to eighteen inches.
Chip obviously has very sophisticated software.
Things were coming together. Pete’s Motors, a local car dealer, had agreed to be our event sponsor and major ticket outlet. “Doc” Piazza—our broken fingered, chiropractic third baseman—turned out to be a sure-handed parade organizer. Parks foreman Tony Stracuzzi, once a new-stadium guy and brother of Angelo the banker, was now happy to remove the mound and create a pitcher’s box. And we had Betty and Elaine and Katy and the gang volunteering to do things like recruit paperboys (and papergirls—with hair to be tucked under their newsboy caps). All and sundry were pitching in.
Except Dave Potts.
Ever since we were invited back, Chip and I had wanted to find a place on our team for Potsy. Because he was the most knowledgeable man in town regarding Wahconah Park, the best position seemed to be facilities manager—which we had promised him, once we closed on our financing. And Potsy seemed appreciative, at first. But then he started getting weird.
It began with the tickets.
“You’re not going to get people paying $20 for a box seat,” Potsy said, “when the most they ever paid was $8. You’re just going to get people mad at you. And you’re not going to sell as many tickets as you think.”
Then it was the national anthem.
“You got a whole neighborhood mad at you,” he said one day, after I’d chosen a group called Quintessential to sing the national anthem before the game, instead of the Sweet Adelines. “They’re going to boycott the game. And it’s going to have a negative effect on your attendance.”
“How can that be?” I said. “I’ve never even spoken with the Sweet Adelines.”
And I explained that even if I had, I still would have chosen Quintessential—a quintet that suddenly breaks into song like the barbershop quartet in The Music Man—over a chorus of thirty women. Then Potsy, with a tight face, revealed a possible source of his anger.
“And you rebuffed me on the singer I recommended,” he said, speaking about a female vocalist friend.
“I didn’t rebuff you,” I said, annoyed. “We simply made a different choice. Why is that rebuffing you?”
“And Girardi’s mad at you, too,” said Potsy, referring to a local beer distributor. “He called the mayor yesterday and he’s pissed off. You should have used a local guy instead of Berkshire Brewery.”
Berkshire Brewery is based in Great Barrington, which must seem like a foreign country to Potsy.
“Why is Girardi calling the mayor?” I said, my voice rising. “Why didn’t he just call us. I’ve never heard of Girardi.”
“Well, you gotta talk to people,” said Potsy.
I had the distinct impression that the “people” we were supposed to talk to was Dave Potts.
The three days prior to the big game were a blur of details. To give you a flavor, here’s what I needed to do:
Pick up:
6,000 Wahconah Park Times broadsheets (game program) at Kwik Print; renderings of planned renovations at Clark & Green to display at game; scoreboard numbers from painter; sample food court paving stones from Empire Monuments.
Drop off:
Hillies uniform shirt for Steve Valenti’s clothing store window; vintage chest protector to be fixed at shoe store; food vendor signs and season ticket and paver order forms at ballpark; megaphones to painter.
Supervise:
Removal of dead tree behind fence (now spoiling shot by ESPN camera); removal of pitcher’s mound and outlining of pitcher’s box; packaging of 1791 documents in shipping tubes for sale at game; erecting of snow fence in outfield; installation of ESPN portable lighting; arrangement of tents and tables in food court; positioning of advertising banners on outfield fence; attaching signs on vendor tents in food court.
Check on:
Greg Martin to bring vintage bases and extra bats; wiring options for sound system; working condition of toilet trailer and Port-a-Potties. (As it happened, the Port-a-Potties were the exact same shade as Fleisig’s awful paint job, giving a name to the color: Port-a-Potty blue); VIP parking area; delivery of sod to square off pitcher’s box.
And Chip was doing twice as much as I was!
Two days before the game, ESPN taped an opening to the program featuring Chip and me at Wahconah Park in a takeoff of a scene from Field of Dreams. Chip wore a polo shirt and slacks. I was in my Hillies uniform, having just arrived from another era.
Looking slowly around the ballpark, I said, “Is this heaven?”
Chip, using the Stanislavsky method, said, “No, this is Pittsfield.”
Next, ESPN taped a segment with former Boston Red Sox pitcher Bill “Spaceman” Lee, who would be providing color commentary for the game and pinch hit against me, if it was okay with the Senators. In his inimitable style, Lee postulated his own theory on the origins of baseball.
“It started with cavemen throwing rocks at ducks,” he said. “The guy who killed the most ducks, that’s your starting pitcher.”
The best part for me was the final Hillies workout—a bunch of guys still wearing their assorted outfits, but now playing with a certain confidence and precision. They had it down. Catch and flip, rather than pump and gun. But still swinging from their asses because they love to hit. The Senators would be in for a shock.
“We’re going to cream those guys,” I told Chip. “We’ve got some ballplayers here.”
Chip smiled like a greedy owner.
After the workout, I handed out the game day itinerary and the comp tickets for the players’ wives and girlfriends. I also reminded the guys that this was a theatrical experience as well as a ballgame, and that they should use the vintage jargon and manners at all times.
The highlight was handing out the new Hillies uniforms and the official Hillies duffle bags. For players, it’s always a thrill to put on a new uniform, no matter what team it is. How does it fit? How do I look? Since there were no mirrors in the parking lot, where I had the uniforms in the back of my car, the players had to appraise each other.
“These are cool, man.”
“Hey, Dude, you look like Ty Cobb.”
“No Dudes,” I reminded them. “We’re ballists.”
Our only concern was the weather. It had rained most of June and it looked like we might get more of the same for July. A rainy weekend would be a major setback for us. In view of the importance of the event, I asked for assistance from someone I had not seen in seven years, but think about daily.
“C’mon, Laurie,” I said, in one of my private conversations with her. “See what you can do about a nice day. For your Dad.”
And she obviously had some influence, because July 3rd was glorious. Not just spectacular, but one of those summer days you remember for the rest of your life.
Thank you, sweetheart.
The only cloud on the horizon was a Bid Protest, filed with the Massachusetts Attorney General by the New England Council of Carpenters, Local 108. The carpenters were claiming that WPI and the city were not following proper procedures with respect to renovating Wahconah Park.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Paula.
“Another nuisance,” I said. “It can wait until after the game.”
I awoke that morning with a feeling you sometimes have, when you know it’s going to be a good day and the only question is, How good? I lifted my Hillies drawstring duffle bag—which held my Hillies uniform and my 1964 Yankees logo-free spikes—placed a bowler hat on my head, and gave Paula a goodbye kiss. She’d be coming later with the newsboy caps and the music.
At nine, Wahconah Park was already in motion. People scurrying here and there with clipboards and boxes and all manner of stuff in their arms. I grabbed a bunch of food vendor signs and hustled over to the tents. On the way I ran into Pete Lamb, the food service manager at a local yoga center, who was helping us for the day. He looked at my face and made a patting motion with his hands and said, “Breathe… breathe…”
I wasn’t working very efficiently. My head was already into the game I knew I’d be playing in later. I’m not a multi-tasker. I can do consecutive but not simultaneous. If you want me to fix the sink and answer the phone, you’re asking for a flooded kitchen.
Especially when it comes to baseball. It’s not that I’m actually thinking about pitching; it’s more that I’m not thinking about anything, thus clearing the way for whatever instincts might still be in there. I’d only be pitching to one or two batters, but even that would take some focus, especially with the crowd and the real possibility that if my knuckler refused to show up, I could be out there all night. I did not want to provide the evening’s fireworks.
By noon, it looked like the attendance might go beyond 2,500, the advance ticket sale. A number of people had come to the gate, saying they were from places like Virginia and Canada and could they still get tickets? Amazing.
At three o’clock we had to start letting people into the ballpark even though the tickets said: Game at 7:00, Gate opens at 4:00. By four o’clock, there were already several hundred people in the food court, some of them buying Hillies shirts and drinking Hillies Summer Brew. They were buying a fantasy, I thought to myself. From the Thin Air Company.
Then, as if on cue, coming through the gate and into the food court—wearing 1890s Hartford Senators uniforms, and carrying a large wooden water tank and a shiny brass spittoon—were what looked like Roy Hobbs, Ray Kinsella, Henry “Arthur” Wiggen, and their teammates. The enchanted fans surrounded the players—the adults tossing friendly taunts, the kids touching the water tank and the spittoon. The players joked back with the adults and tousled the hair of the kids.
I half-expected a director to shout, “That’s a wrap!”
At six o’clock the Hillies assembled in a parking lot, a few blocks from Wahconah Park, for the start of the parade. Lined up were thirteen antique cars, the Berkshire Highlanders Pipe Band, and fifty Little Leaguers holding a banner that read WELCOME HOME HILLIES.
Waiting to get into the lead car, a 1931 Chrysler Roadster supplied by Pete’s Motors, were Jimmy and Ellen Ruberto, dressed in period costume. The mayor wore a snazzy old-fashioned tux, and Ellen looked lovely in a wasp-waisted ankle-length dress and a big flowered hat. The mayor, who couldn’t stop smiling, shook my hand, and I gave Ellen a peck on the cheek.
“This is unbelievable,” Ruberto said, looking at the pageantry about to unfold. “Fantastic.”
The best-looking vehicle was a 1934 Ford panel truck, which quickly filled up with players who couldn’t wait to play their roles. Standing in the back of the truck, they struck jaunty poses—bats over their shoulders, unlit cigars in their mouths. I got into a 1922 Starr convertible—“the oldest car for the oldest player,” said parade organizer Doc Piazza.
At 6:30 the bagpipes sounded, the car horns ooga ooga-ed, and we were on our way. My excitement was balanced by worry. This was a small parade—would we look compact or forlorn? How was Paula doing? It had been a long day. How were things going at Wahconah Park? Were the toilets working? How many fires was Chip having to put out? Most important, what was happening with the attendance?
As we turned a corner I could see Wahconah Park, a few blocks distant. But the vision was disturbing. It looked like there was an arm-flailing brawl in the food court, kicking up a dusty haze over the area, like you see in a cattle stampede. I squinted into the sun, trying to figure it out. Then I realized it was a stampede. Of people! Huge masses of them, surging in our direction and waving at us.
Holy smokes!
We had done it. We had pulled it off. Relaxing in the car, I felt a combination of triumph and relief. No matter what else happened, we had already succeeded. The rest would be just fun and games.
In the food court, the parade was stopped in its tracks by hordes of cheering people. They were walking between the cars, shaking hands with the players, and taking pictures. They ignored the car horns, probably thinking they were part of the entertainment, like the newsboys and the actors and the Scott Joplin coming from the speakers. I did interviews with two film crews while sitting in the car.
“This is amazing,” people shouted. “Thank you.”
I saw Paula working her way through the crowd. She was with her brother Alan and his wife Sally. They were literally jumping up and down. Paula was teary eyed.
“This is so wonderful,” she said, squealing with excitement and giving me a sweaty kiss. “It makes everything worthwhile.”
And people were still coming in. There were three long lines in front of the ticket tables. Paula said later that they ran out of tickets and were just stamping people’s hands for $3, for an opportunity to park a lawn chair or a blanket in the outfield.
When the parade finally entered the ballpark itself, I saw that the stands were as packed as the food court! I figured we must have close to 5,000 in attendance! For the trip to home plate, past the third base stands, the Berkshire Highlanders Pipe Band kicked into Badge of Scotland, and the parade took on the air of a procession. People screamed and shouted and the players waved back.
The game hadn’t even started yet and it was already one of the greatest nights of my life.
And the game didn’t start for another ten minutes, because after the players had disembarked, the cars couldn’t leave the field. There were too many people on the warning track. And they couldn’t move, trapped as they were between the outfield wall and the snow fence.
Milling around on the field wit
h the players, I looked up into the stands at the ESPN booth, behind home plate, and wondered how they were handling the delays. Fifteen minutes is a lot of air time to fill.
“Well, Bill,” I imagined announcer Ron Thulin saying to Bill Lee, “This is probably the first time a game was delayed on account of too many cars on the field.”
“They should just leave the cars out there,” I pictured Lee saying in response. “The team that dents the most cars wins.”
Finally, the cars crossed in front of the snow fence and the festivities resumed. Quintessential, wearing striped shirts with suspenders and newsboy caps, sang the national anthem, the mayor lobbed out the first pitch, and the Pittsfield Hillies took the field to a tremendous roar. A roar that continued halfway through the first inning.
I walked back and forth in the dugout, too juiced to sit.
The Senators jumped off to a two run lead in the second inning. In the third inning, an ESPN guy asked me to join Thulin and Lee up in the booth. We kibitzed on the air for a while before Tim Robbins joined us. I had invited him on the condition that he bring his wife, Susan Sarandon, who’s as beautiful in person as she is on the screen. Susan sat next to Paula, for what I’m sure was a high-level discussion about what it’s like when two very substantial women marry boys.
On my way back to the dugout, I ran into Chip, taking a break from his food court duty. The place was such a madhouse, I hadn’t seen him since before the parade. He had a huge grin on his face.
“It’s magical,” he said, as we hugged. “The whole panorama.”
By the fifth inning, the Hillies had pulled ahead 9–2, adopting a daring base-running strategy to take advantage of some Senators’ fielding miscues. (I hesitate to call them errors because of the difficulty of catching a ball with those little gloves, especially under the lights. But that’s part of the charm of vintage baseball.)