by Jim Bouton
As my brother-in-law said, “Every play is exciting because you never know what’s going to happen. It’s not like regular baseball where flies and grounders are automatic outs.”
No matter what was happening on the field, the fans were stamping and hollering their pleasure in the stands. It was as if they’d been rooting for the Hillies all of their lives. And in some sense, maybe they had been.
The fans were so involved they actually got into the game. With the Hillies flying around the bases, an errant throw had bounced into a crowd of kids sitting in the grass along the left field foul line. Instinctively, a girl of about ten grabbed the ball and, in what looked like a practiced play, flipped it to the just arrived left fielder who picked it out of the air and fired it home, all in one motion, to prevent another Hillies run.
In the spirit of the evening, the crowd roared its approval of this fielding gem by one of its own daughters, and play continued without protest from the umpire or manager Chuck Garivaltis. Whatever its impact on the outcome of the game, the play led to a noticeable increase in the pounding of gloves among the kids along both foul lines.
In the seventh inning, Quintessential sang a song they wrote especially for the occasion: “Take Me Out to Wahconah.” You all know the tune:
Take me out to Wahconah
Take me out to the park.
Of all the old parks, well it’s still the best
I don’t care if it does face the west.
And it’s right in beautiful Pittsfield
Where baseball first made its mark.
So it’s root, root for our home team
At Wahconah Park.
Paula said later that Jimmy Ruberto could hardly contain himself. All night long he kept saying over and over, “I could never have imagined this. Not in my wildest dreams.”
In the bottom of the seventh, word came down from the booth that it was time for The Ol’ Knuckleballer to toss a few. By then the Senators had dinked and blooped and quick-pitched their way back into the game, and the Hillies’ lead had been whittled to 11–7. I had been hoping for a nine-run lead.
Fortunately, the knuckler was moving and it was three up and three down. No hits, no runs, no errors. This brought another roar from the fans, and I trotted off the field as modestly as possible, in the vintage manner.
How much happiness could I stand?
And where was Bill Lee? Evidently, ESPN had decided I should pitch to him leading off the eighth inning. This had the added theatrical advantage of having me bat in the bottom of the seventh. And you wonder why television producers make so much money.
Of course, I knew nothing about this plan, and therefore had not spent the past month also swinging a bat in my basement. In fact, the last time I had even picked up a bat was 1978, when I was with the Atlanta Braves. So I reached into the past and pushed a bunt down the first base line—a lost art today—and ran my ass off.
And I almost beat it out.
I was told later that as I was running to first, Paula was screaming at the top of her lungs, “And that man is sixty-five years old!”
Now, I just had to get Bill Lee out and I could die happy. But I knew that wouldn’t be easy because Lee, who is eight years younger than I am, still plays competitive baseball. And he can hit! At the ESPN taping session, the six-foot-three Lee was talking about a home run hitting contest he’d recently won.
I certainly didn’t want that to happen.
As I finished my warm ups, here came the Spaceman, swinging three bats and grinning. He was wearing a faded 1903 Red Sox uniform shirt, the one he keeps in the trunk of his car in case a game breaks out. This would be like a shootout between Bat Masterson and Billy the Kid. In front of their nursing home.
Fortunately for me, Lee tried to pull an outside knuckleball and hit an easy roller to first for the unassisted out.
This is the point at which any normal person would have walked off the field, tipped his cap, and treated himself to a cold Hillies Summer Brew. But no, I had to be a big shot and finish the game. Get the save. So I deserved what happened next—a walk, a few muffs, a couple of hits, and before I knew it the score was tied and Garivaltis had come to get me.
“What do you think?” said Chuck, kindly, not having removed a team owner before. “The score is tied. If Tommy [Rizzo] can hold ’em here, we can still win the game.”
Translation: Don’t make me yank you.
“Good idea, Chuck,” I said, and I left the field to sympathetic applause.
I found out later that Chip, in his only Steinbrenner-ish move, had told Garivaltis to take me out. And it was a good thing, too, because one of my problems is, I don’t know when to quit. If I had been a boxer, without a good corner man to throw in the towel, I’d be brain damaged by now. More than I already am that is.
Of course, we lost the game 14–12 and I was the losing pitcher. But no one seemed to care. The final out triggered a continuous standing ovation—not just to say thank you, it appeared, but to extend the evening for a few more minutes. I’ve never had so much fun losing a game in my life.
And they were still applauding when the Hillies and Senators strolled to the dish for the traditional Hip, Hip, Huzzah! This ritual is accompanied by brief remarks from the team captains, addressed to the opposing nine, to the effect that it was an honor to have shared the field of play with such upstanding and determined gentlemen.
I grabbed Chip and walked him onto the field for the ceremony, where we stood near the on-deck circle with our arms over each other’s shoulders.
“We’re bulletproof now,” I said, referring to our off-field opponents. “They can’t stop us.”
“That’s right,” said Chip. “They wouldn’t dare.”
By Sunday morning, emails, articles, and phone calls from around the country confirmed that something special had occurred at Wahconah Park the night before.
“All I can say is WOW!!! Bravo, and way to go,” wrote Jamie Dobrowski of Pittsfield. “What a happening.”
“It was a picture postcard come to life,” wrote Joe Palladino, reporter for a Waterbury, Connecticut, newspaper. “A jittery old black-and-white newsreel that burst into living color, and a stroll through a museum where you were permitted to reach out and touch the history.”
“Loved the Hillies on TV,” emailed Dick Silc of Tucson, Arizona. “Will be there next summer.”
Even the Berkshire Eagle—but not the editorial page—paid tribute with a front page photo and a story headlined: IT WAS A FINE PITTSFIELD VINTAGE.
“An unbelievable event,” wrote Gary Goldberg-O’Maxfield, of Hartford, who was at the game. “It seems more from a movie than reality.”
If this were a movie, the story would end right here. Fade to black over exploding fireworks and triumphal music. But it was not a movie. And this is not Hollywood.
It’s Pittsfield.
Where heaven barely lasted the weekend.
CHAPTER 21
“You guys are starting to rub me the wrong way”
A few days after the game, Potsy asked us if he could “borrow” the Hillies for a benefit game to help a guy named Dave Southard with his medical bills. We told Potsy we’d consider helping Southard in some other way, but we didn’t want our new Hillies brand to be used in an event over which we had no control. Also, we were still recovering from the July 3rd game and didn’t want to lose focus on our main goal—renovating Wahconah Park.
That’s when Potsy began talking about a mutiny on the Hillies, some of whom, according to Potsy, wanted to continue playing. A mutiny! Great. One game and we’ve got an insurrection already.
To head off a possible half-baked production by Potsy and some Hillies, Chip and I proposed two more games—July 31 in Hartford, and September 4 at Wahconah Park. At a barbecue that we had planned as a thank you to the team and a return of their uniforms, the players voted yes to playing both games. They understood why we didn’t want them playing without us. And they did not appear mutinous.
I took the moment to congratulate them on their marvelous play and predicted they would thrash the Senators in the next two games. Especially since the losing pitcher had just retired, and they wouldn’t have to put up with any more celebrity-walk-on bullshit.
But Potsy wasn’t finished.
On July 19, I got a call from Chuck Garivaltis asking if we’d heard about Potsy’s email to the parks commissioners asking them to get us to donate proceeds from the September 4 game to the Dave Southard Fund. As a commissioner, Garivaltis knew that Chip and I would be at the meeting that evening to request a second use of the ballpark. I thanked Chuck for the heads up and said we’d see him later at Springside House.
What the hell was it with Potsy? Now he was sandbagging us—a mere sixteen days after our validation of Wahconah Park! “It’s a good thing we didn’t draw ten thousand fans,” I told Chip, “or he would have had us killed.” To try to straighten things out, we asked Potsy to meet us at the Lantern, before the Parks meeting.
“Potsy,” said Chip, after the burgers arrived. “We told you how we felt about using the Hillies. Why are you going behind our backs?”
“Because you won’t listen to reason,” he said, thrusting his chin out to underline his reasonableness.
And he wouldn’t budge. For Potsy, the July 3 game was now ancient history. He seemed to think that the Hillies were some kind of civic asset he could personally exploit. The more we talked, the angrier Potsy got. Suddenly, he exploded.
“You don’t own the Hillies!” he barked, pointing a finger at us.
“As a matter of fact, we do,” Chip said, quietly.
“No, you don’t,” said Potsy, indignant. “It belongs to whoever owned it a long time ago. You didn’t buy it from them.”
I explained that a trademark is owned only through “use” and that an unused mark falls into the public domain where it can then be claimed by a new user, which is what we were.
Potsy just sat there, his jaw clenched, staring straight ahead. He was like a guy off his meds. It was kind of scary.
This was a different Potsy from the one who had always been on our team. The Potsy who loved Wahconah Park. The Potsy who led the charge against a new stadium, who had fought City Hall and won. The Potsy who was going to be our facilities manager!
That Potsy, who Chip and I once likened to Jimmy Stewart, had turned into Lon Chaney, Jr.
At Springside House that evening, with nothing at stake but a routine approval of our September 4 game date (our use of the ballpark would not be automatic until 2005), only a handful of people showed up. Besides the five commissioners—Chuck Garivaltis, Gene Nadeau, Mike Filpi, Elinor Persip, and John Marchesi—there were a few petitioners, Dusty Bahlman of the Eagle, Jonathan Levine of the Gazette, Sam Elitzer, and a grim and determined-looking Dave Potts.
Last on the agenda, Chip began, as usual, by thanking people—the commissioners, the groundskeepers, the clean-up crew—for a “magnificent performance” on the July 3 game.
“But the principal purpose of our being here tonight,” said Chip, “is to request permission for the availability of Wahconah Park for the Labor Day weekend.”
What happened next can best be explained by an edited transcript of the hour-and-thirty-two-minute response to Chip’s request. Beginning with the first words from Commissioner Filpi.
Filpi:
As you are probably aware, I guess you found out sometime today that one of the longtime parks department employees, David Southard… is on long term disability… severe financial constraints on the family. My only request to you would be I hope you would seriously consider donating X amount of ticket revenue to the Southard family… I know what you’re trying to do down there, but my intent is to help out David along with a lot of other people…. Part of building your team is to build community consensus… and get it to be a blue collar event. Some of the stuff you did at your [July 3rd game] was a little upscale. Pittsfield is not an upscale community. I don’t want to get into specifics…
Marchesi:
You’ll get a lot of mileage out of the City of Pittsfield if you donate the money…
Elitzer:
Sounds like a worthy purpose… but because we haven’t closed on our financing yet, everything is coming from our own checkbooks. We’re paying vendors, suppliers, engineers, architects… you name it, on a weekly basis. Right now that is all money out and the return will be in a successful 2005 season when we are an established organization…. That would be the time when we could show our philanthropic side.
Filpi:
Who has the naming rights to the Hillies? [Can] the Hillies have their own game at Wahconah Park with our approval as an independent thing, not through Wahconah Park, Inc.?
Elitzer:
Our belief would be no…. If they want to play a game, not as the Hillies, but as a collection of guys, we certainly have no say over that…. We have taken what was essentially an asset with zero value [the Hillies name] and with the July 3rd game begun to build a national brand… that will bring value to Wahconah Park.
Bouton:
I would like to see a number of different events to help the Southard family, and we would be happy to participate in those events.
Elitzer:
We could contribute a tented booth, if some volunteers wanted to staff it and sell raffle tickets.
Filpi:
What if the Southard committee set up a booth and sold food? For whatever percentage you get, whatever your split is.
Elitzer:
We would do the same deal as everyone else… depending on how successful the booth is, you could make a couple thousand.
Filpi:
Just to clarify, if we gross $1,000 what do we have to give you?
Elitzer:
$250.
Filpi:
Okay, that’s all I want to know.
Marchesi:
I’m all set.
Commissioner Marchesi, conspicuously unhappy with Chip’s answer, meant that he was “all set” to vote—against our request to use Wahconah Park. The body language of Chairman Gene Nadeau and Filpi was sending the same message.
Nadeau:
You said that the plans for next year are to have the Hillies play about fifteen games?
Elitzer:
Yes.
Nadeau:
I kind of wonder because… when we approved the license agreement several months ago, this vintage game wasn’t even a pipe dream, so I’m hearing that we need this to make some of the improvements… and that was never a thought back then when it was presented to us…. I think you’re going to hurt yourself, personally. I didn’t attend the game, you priced me out, personally. I didn’t go.
Bouton:
At three dollars?
Nadeau:
No, I wasn’t going to stand in the outfield, personally…. I’m getting too old to stand in the outfield.
Elitzer:
Two thousand people sat in lawn chairs.
Nadeau:
But you’re trying to make a profit on a thing you’re not looking to market next year. What you’re looking to market next year is your minor league team.
Elitzer:
Both teams.
Nadeau:
Well, but that wasn’t the plan initially. That wasn’t the plan that we first heard.
Elitzer:
Part of being successful is not to be wedded to the first thing you’ve thought of, or said…. We’re still working very hard with our construction manager to figure out what we can afford to do… we’re still committed to spend $1.5 million by Opening Day next year…. But to show a good enough return on investment… we need to have more like sixty home dates [forty-five professional plus fifteen Hillies]. So we ask your indulgence. We’re a start-up enterprise. We are by no means profitable.
By this time, Bahlman had left the room out of boredom. Levine as clacking away on his laptop. And Potts, who appeared bolted into his chair, still had the same grim look on
his face.
Nadeau:
I keep going back to what Commissioner Filpi said, is why care about making money? Just help us put on the game, give the blessings to use the uniforms and the Hillies and we go down there and you guys market it and let the [fans] pay $3 and have a good time.
Bouton:
Brand identity is key here…. Why do you want it to be a Hillies game? For a very simple reason. The Hillies now have a brand value attached to them… a premium brand… and we don’t want that brand value in the hands of anyone else. It would be equivalent to asking Godiva chocolate to use their name and boxes and molds, but you’d like to put any kind of chocolate in there and sell it [as] Godiva chocolate. Coca-Cola would never let you put anything else in their cans [just] because it’s a good cause. It would devalue the name. And anything less than a first class show would devalue the Hillies.
Marchesi:
OK, I’ve been listening here between you and him regarding this, OK. And I gather by listening to you that the Wahconah Park, Inc. is not interested in running a benefit for David Southard.
Bouton:
We are interested.
Marchesi:
No, I’m not hearing that.
Bouton:
We’d like to be involved in any other event. We’re not interested in using this particular game as a benefit.
Elitzer:
We are willing to have a booth operated on behalf of the Southard family. We are personally willing to come to any event that might be organized. We could even [bring] the Hillies players, if they choose.
Marchesi:
You know, I’ve been in favor of you guys but now I’m thinking twice, okay? You’re a good talker, but I’m really upset. You guys are starting to rub me the wrong way.