by Jim Bouton
In the lot behind City Hall, where we had parked for Valenti’s show, who do we see going in the back door but Craw’s old pal Gerry Doyle, looking dapper in a shiny black suit. Doyle of course is now a lobbyist, taking the standard career path of ex-politicians—experts at currying favor, having been curried themselves.
Was Doyle still lobbying for a waste transfer station (read dump) in a residential neighborhood? Or was he there to help facilitate a proposed strip joint in a residential neighborhood? I swear I’m not making this up. Now, if I said that the strip joint was going to be called the Bada Bing Club, that would be making things up.
October 2: Speaking of making things up, how about this quote from Mayor Ruberto in the Eagle? Responding to Chip’s comment that the mayor was refusing to sign the license because he has to negotiate with municipal unions—which originated with Ruberto in the first place—Ruberto said, “I want every collective bargaining unit to hear that I am going to respect the Attorney General’s position because I respect the right to organize.”
Now we were against the right to organize!
It’s that kind of absurdity that tells you something is going on.
October 3: Paula and I drove down to New York City to celebrate a family birthday. We talked in the car.
“I don’t know why you and Chip continue,” said Paula.
“Because it’ll be a wonderful thing,” I said.
“But look what you’re dealing with,” said Paula. “Doyle and Craw are pals. Craw is smirking because he obviously knows something. Potts wants to get paid. Nadeau doesn’t know the meaning of the word extortion. The mayor is dealing behind your back with Miles Wolff, and giving you no support. The banks want nothing to do with you. Jeff Cook and his boys are opposing you. The Chamber of Commerce won’t even meet with you. And they’re all pressuring the parks commissioners, who don’t have the strength to stand up to it. Just who are you doing this wonderful thing for?”
There was a long silence.
“The vast majority in Pittsfield,” I said. “Besides, if we bow out now, our opponents will call us quitters.”
“Better quitters than fools,” said Paula.
CHAPTER 24
“And if you quote me, I’ll deny it”
October 4: The two fools, plus their wives and supporters—who now included Hillies players and coaches, local union contractors, an investor who drove 22 hours from Boston, and our only significant Pittsfield investor—filed into Springside House for the 7:00 p.m. meeting in a last-ditch effort to save our plan for Wahconah Park. Also in attendance were an unsmiling Dave and Grace Potts, and the perpetually smirking Tim Craw.
Outside on the porch, a few commissioners peered anxiously in the window at the growing crowd, and then at their watches. It struck me that these were not the arrogant, plotting commissioners of 2001, but rather an uncertain and vulnerable bunch.
At the stroke of seven, just as the commissioners had taken their seats, City Solicitor Chris Speranzo burst into the room and, in a routine that looked choreographed, was immediately recognized by Chairman Gene Nadeau. Speranzo said he had a message from Mayor Ruberto regarding our agenda item.
“We are asking that you consider a motion to file,” said Speranzo, who looked nervous and out of breath.
A motion to file, like a motion to table, would forestall action on our request to have the commissioners endorse the revised license, copies of which we had sent to them with the revisions clearly marked. Evidently, the mayor wasn’t taking any chances that Chip and I just might change a few of the minds that Garivaltis had said “will be made up.”
“This is not the proper forum to negotiate a revised license,” said Speranzo, misrepresenting our purpose for being there.
Commissioner Elinor Persip, an attractive older woman with a long family history in Pittsfield, quickly sized up the situation.
“I just want to say that I am terribly sorry that all of this has happened,” she said, casting her eyes down. “And I feel that the commissioners are being put in the middle of this. But it appears to me, and I hate to have to make this statement, that some group or individual or someone has made a great effort to try to make Wahconah Park, Inc. fail.”
Nevertheless, Persip went on to say it was “not our responsibility” and that she would vote for a motion to file.
The amazing thing was that no one—not the commissioners nor Speranzo nor the audience—responded to Ms. Persip’s astounding charge that Chip and I were being sabotaged. There was no scoffing in disbelief or calls of outrage. It was simply assumed that we were being undermined. This was Pittsfield, after all.
Accordingly, the discussion proceeded as Speranzo had requested—not to the question of how the commissioners felt about the revised license, but whether or not it should be tabled. And what the consequences might be.
“If we go against what you’re telling us as our legal counsel,” said Mike Filpi, who happens to be the Financial Secretary of the Berkshires Central Labor Council, “shame on us because we can get ourselves in trouble.”
What kind of trouble was not explained.
Garivaltis was the only one who seemed to be worried about more than himself. “It is the health of my community that is at stake here,” he said.
Then he and Speranzo got into it.
Garivaltis:
Why would the Attorney General rule on a matter that involved private money? These are not taxpayer dollars. He has nothing to say on how they spend their money.
Speranzo:
I argued that exact position at the AG’s office. I argued for the city. I really wish we had won that case. Unfortunately we didn’t and we have to play the cards as they are.
Garivaltis:
They sent it back to you and the mayor.
Speranzo:
That’s right.
Garivaltis:
To act on it. Why can’t you act on it? It’s private dollars. They’ve got a million plus dollars that they’re going to put in… and they’re not asking for one dime from the taxpayers. That’s wrong. 100% wrong!
Speranzo:
(flustered) I understand where you’re coming from.
To explain where he was coming from, Speranzo launched a barrage of verbiage so convoluted as to be unintelligible, ending with his own version of the now classic defense of the indefensible: “This is not where I want to be, but we have to do what we have to do with what we have.”
With that, Speranzo beat a hasty retreat to where he wanted to be—outside the building—relieved not to have to do anything more than he had to do with what he had.
Undaunted, Chip and I plowed ahead.
Why not? We had a better story than the city solicitor. We had a 91% union project, we had $1.2 million in private money, and we had two teams. We even had color pictures.
“Not only do we have access to a professional team,” I said, waving a manila folder with the flourish of a magician, “but we now have a name for that team. A name that’s been right before our eyes all along at Wahconah Park. Hanging up there in the rafters… the Pittsfield Owls!”
During the happy applause, which did not include the commissioners or Tim Craw’s group in the back, I distributed copies of our 2005 Pittsfield Owls logo, as it would appear on the uniforms.
“We are looking for the Owls to take their rightful place alongside the Hillies,” said Chip, jumping in with the zeal of a missionary. “Leagues will come and go, but with a community-owned Wahconah Park and its ownership of two teams, we’re well on our way to establishing Pittsfield as the Santo Domingo of baseball in America.”
More applause. And an interruption from the chairman.
“Just a second,” said Nadeau, a distinguished-looking fellow with a full salt-and-pepper beard. “This really wasn’t part of the agenda. I know it’s a promo for the endorsement but I would prefer us to stick to the license agreement. I don’t really want to engage the audience.”
Let’s hear it for candor, at
least.
Shifting gears, Chip talked about our “vision of Pittsfield being a year-round sports mecca.” He said we were on track to “exceed expectations,” allowing us to “go back to our investors” and raise even “more money for an indoor arena,” establishing “a virtuous cycle” that would “keep the tourist dollars flowing year round.” Chip said he wanted the commissioners to know “what could be possible if we don’t derail it tonight.”
Chip also pointed out that it was not “highly unusual” for the Parks Commission to make a recommendation to the mayor, as Speranzo had said. In fact, “it is the role of the commissioners to recommend to the mayor,” said Chip, as was done “three years ago with the Fleisig proposal,” months before it was negotiated by the mayor.
We then asked Nadeau that members of the audience be allowed to address the commissioners.
“This wasn’t advertised as a public hearing,” said Nadeau.
“But these are not simply members of the public,” I explained. “They’re part of our organization and are speaking on our behalf.”
“Howard Cronson, one of our investors,” said Chip, “has driven all the way from Boston and will drive all the way home tonight.”
“I guess my decision is that we’ve heard the pitch,” said Nadeau. “My feeling, as far as I’m concerned is, again, I’m not a negotiator.”
I wanted to scream at Nadeau: You’re not being asked to negotiate, damn it, you’re being asked to recommend!
Powered by a surge of anger, I took the floor.
“We came back on a promise,” I said loudly, addressing the entire room, “that we were going to get cooperation, we’d get democracy, we’d get openness, we’d get fairness. That we would not run into procedures that prevent people who have come here and given their time, and their energy, and their love for a ballpark to be brushed off with tabling something. No!”
I couldn’t stop, and besides it felt good.
“This city is sick and tired of people passing the buck,” I said, even louder. “You are parks commissioners! I’m sure you’re here because you love the parks. It’s a simple question. You’ve seen us in action. You’ve seen what we’ve done so far. Do you think it’s a good idea to have us in Wahconah Park? If you do, vote yes because this is the only way we’re going to play—with a modified agreement. If the mayor doesn’t want to sign it he doesn’t have to, but let him know how you feel! Let him know how you feel about us.”
All the hours of hard work were pouring out of me.
“Let [Parks Director] Jim McGrath tell you about Chip Elitzer getting down on his hands and knees vacuuming rooms at Wahconah Park that haven’t been cleaned in over thirty years! Our wives up until 2, 3, 4 in the morning, bookkeeping, paying bills, emptying our bank accounts, putting it all into Wahconah Park, and we’re going to come here and have you tell us you’re going to table it?! You don’t have any thoughts on the matter? You don’t have any wishes? You’re going to table it? This is bullshit!!”
The room burst into sustained applause.
“We didn’t table the Hillies,” I sputtered. “We didn’t table ESPN. We’re not tablers. That’s how we get stuff done.”
It seemed like a good place to stop.
“I understand that,” said Nadeau. “My thing is, once again Jim, and I understand your outburst, but we are not negotiators.”
Does the word oblivious mean anything?
A man in the audience stood up.
“I don’t know these two gentlemen from a hole in the ground,” he said, “but I’m for them 100%. And common courtesy is to hear from these other people that have come a great distance to speak. Thank you.”
Another burst of applause.
The words of this stranger were so starkly and stunningly true that even Nadeau had to nod his reluctant approval.
And the speakers spoke.
A Hillies player: “It doesn’t sound like you’re risking much by just telling the mayor, ‘Hey we’re backing these guys.’” Applause.
An investor: “No competent investor would put money into a minor league baseball team under the Bid Laws.” Applause.
A union contractor: “I’m willing to take a chance on them if they’re willing to take a chance on Pittsfield.” Applause.
But none of it mattered. Not even an attempt by Garivaltis to lighten the mood.
“I’m voting for what I hope will be baseball in Wahconah Park in 2005,” he said, standing up to make his point, “and if that happens, the Hillies are prepared to challenge the Owls to a baseball game!”
The audience loved this idea, laughing and applauding.
“The only stipulation,” said Garivaltis, now pointing a finger, “is that the Owls have to use the vintage baseball gloves.”
The room howled with delight at this thought. Seasoned professionals outplayed by their own local boys.
Then their own local commissioners voted 4 to 1 to table our request for a simple vote of confidence. It had been exactly three years to the day after the Parks Commission had voted 5 to 0 against us, in favor of Fleisig.
We had picked up one vote in three years.
My mind went back to what Commissioner Persip had said about “some group or individual or someone” having made “a great effort to try and make Wahconah Park, Inc. fail.”
The question was, who? Besides the Attorney General. And “a couple of goons.”
October 5: But we couldn’t focus on that. We were already looking to the upcoming City Council meeting. And we had an encouraging email from councilor Dan Bianchi:
> Keep the faith, the people are with you.
In response to Bianchi, Chip posed a few questions that the councilors should ask the mayor:
1. Why aren’t you accepting the AG’s offer to revise the license?
2. What changed between the time that Chris and Chip co-authored the revised license in response to the AG’s opinion and about a week later?
3. Why does the City no longer support WPI’s right to pursue a privately funded project outside the Bid Laws?
4. Who is hijacking unionism’s good name to kill baseball in Pittsfield?
That afternoon, I stopped by City Hall on the chance that I could meet with the mayor. Ruberto seemed glad to oblige and invited me into his office. We smiled at each other in anticipation of something positive. He may have thought I was going to tell him that we would accept the Bid Laws. Instead, we chatted about the Red Sox and the Yankees and the playoffs.
It was in that relaxed atmosphere that we talked about “the larger story” in Pittsfield—from the role that Wahconah Park plays in the community to how the mayor would be remembered. I said that if he pulled back the curtain, stood up to our enemies, and signed the license, he would go down as a great mayor, maybe even a great man.
Ruberto smiled, as if he would think about it. And, pathological optimist that I am, I left his office with a good feeling.
But it disappeared that evening. In a phone conversation between Chip and the mayor, Ruberto said it would be futile to send the revised license to the Attorney General.
“There’s more to it than what you have in your hand,” Ruberto said, in reference to the AG’s opinion. “It goes beyond what he wrote in his decision. And if you quote me I’ll deny it.”
October 6: I woke up at 4:20 a.m. in a cold sweat. I had a terrible sense of dread that we were about to step into a trap. Different from the trap we were already in. Call it stage two: The mayor would sign the revised license but not support it—letting it sit in the AG’s office without a decision, while our investors’ money followed ours down the drain.
Eventually someone would make a phone call and the Attorney General would rule against us, and we’d be stuck with the Bid Laws. I pictured Craw with a bullhorn ordering workers down off their ladders because we had just violated union regulation 412.8c, or some such bullshit.
I wasn’t having a bad dream; I was having a bad reality.
I knew if it wasn�
�t Craw or Doyle or the AG, it would be somebody else—our enemies working “passively” and “actively” against us, while Mayor Ruberto stood on the sidelines, begging and wringing his hands.
Trap or no trap, we had to get out. And fast.
Unable to sleep, I tiptoed into my office and faxed a note that read: Chip, If you’re up, give me a call. But Chip didn’t call back until 6:00 a.m. He had slept late.
I told him why I felt we needed to abandon ship.
“You’re right,” he said, almost shockingly acquiescent. “If it’s not this, it’ll be something else.”
“Can you imagine down the road,” I said, not sure that my partner was really on board, “going back to the parks or the council to ask for something we hadn’t thought of?”
“We just saw what that would be like,” Chip said.
There was a long pause.
“So, what do you think?” I said.
“I think it’s right,” he said. “We really don’t have any choice, when you stop and look at it.”
“It’s a big decision,” I said. “Should we check to see if it’s okay with our wives?”
We both laughed.
When Paula woke up and I told her what Chip and I had decided to do, she said only two words. “Thank you!”
But she said them four times, loudly, with her arms raised to the ceiling, and her eyes uplifted to the sky.
Now, the trick was to call our partner Eric Margenau and our three other board members before emailing a public announcement, and to do all that before telling anyone else, including Ruberto. Especially Ruberto. My fear was that if we were to tell the mayor what we planned to do, he’d say he had just signed the revised license and was about to go public himself.
Not taking any chances, Paula scribbled a note and handed it to me while I was on the phone with Chip:
Tell Chip not to return any phone calls until this media announcement is a fait accompli—particularly no calls to or from Ruberto, or any other city official. NO NEW “INFORMATION” will alter the scenario we are surely facing. (Chip may still be fighting his own impulses to explain, educate, find a way to forge ahead.)