by Jim Bouton
Paula was right. I may be known as the Bulldog, but Chip is the Energizer Bunny.
At 12:15 p.m., we emailed the following press release to city officials and the local media:
My partners and I announce regretfully that we have withdrawn our plan to renovate Wahconah Park and bring professional baseball back to Pittsfield, MA. It is clear that we no longer have the necessary support of the City officials who on January 13, 2004, invited us to return with a proposal we had originally made in 2001, a proposal that was substantially improved by our current plan.
We don’t want to stand in the way of other opportunities for the city regarding baseball, and we will ask both independent leagues to consider favorably any other Wahconah-based proposals which may come their way.
Sincerely,
Jim Bouton
President of Wahconah Park, Inc.
Twenty minutes later, Chris Speranzo called and left a message on Chip’s answering machine, wondering if our announcement had been widely released. Then Chip left a message on the mayor’s machine, saying that it had been. We heard nothing more from City Hall.
One wonders what the mayor would have done if he thought he’d been the sole recipient of a draft press release. More begging, perhaps? A suddenly signed revised license?
It felt as if we had just dodged a bullet.
CHAPTER 25
“Whodunnit?”
According to the Berkshire Eagle, we had done it to ourselves. The day after Chip and I bowed out—October 7, 2004—Everhart’s editorial (David Scribner had been asked to resign for reasons that had nothing to do with his lack of journalistic skills)—BOUTON, ELITZER PACK IT IN—contained these gems:
That Jim Bouton and Chip Elitzer would pick up their ball and go home, blaming Pittsfield officials for their woes, is graceless but hardly surprising… the pair were not team players…. That they gave up so easily raises questions about the depth of their devotion to the project…. It is important to note that at no time during either of their bids for use of Wahconah Park did the partnership actually have a baseball team…. Mr. Bouton is now free to write Foul Ball 2, with a new cast of characters to flay.
The irony of course is that if the Eagle had been doing its job there wouldn’t have been a need for Foul Ball in the first place. It’s not just their biased editorial page. They lack the old-fashioned “nose for news.”
After Chip and I bowed out, Tony Dobrowolski called to ask if I thought the timing of the Bid Protest was suspicious.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I’m just a reporter,” he said.
Not being reporters, Chip and I wanted to find out exactly what had happened.
“This is a regular ‘Whodunnit,’” I said.
“It was the perfect crime,” Chip said. “We were screwed no matter which way we went. It cost us time and money. It was made to look like our fault. And they have deniability.”
However, the perfect crime leaves no clues. And we just happened to have a few. But first there were the coincidences.
Beginning with a story in the Eagle on the very same day as the above editorial. On the front page of the B section—LOTHROP CLARIFIES STATEMENTS ON TALKS WITH DOYLE—City Councilor Jonathan Lothrop is quoted as saying he inaccurately described the ex-mayor as having “approached” him about a strip club ordinance, when in fact a meeting was arranged by a “third party.” Fellow by the name of Tim Craw.
Besides the question of why Doyle felt he needed an intermediary (and whether a fee was involved), the funniest part was Craw’s explanation for why he had brokered the meeting. Craw said he was concerned about the ordinance and thought Doyle would “help make it stricter.”
“Can you believe these people?” I said to Chip.
“They’re just trying to give you some good material for the movie,” he said, looking at the big picture.
Then there was the relationship between Doyle and Attorney General Thomas F. Reilly. It turns out they were friends, too.
“That might explain why the AG agreed to a hearing in the first place,” I said. “As Dan Valenti pointed out, a union protest normally goes to the Inspector General first, and he decides if it’s worth taking to the AG.”
“I wonder if Reilly circumvented the Inspector General when he cleared Doyle of wrongdoing back in 2002?” said Chip.
“Maybe they both broke the law,” I said.
The big question has always been this: Why didn’t Ruberto sign the revised license that his own city solicitor had co-authored, a remedy the Attorney General invited in his remand back to the city?
I played Watson to Chip’s Sherlock Holmes.
“Even if Ruberto is telling the truth about the AG saying he wouldn’t approve the revised license,” I said, “why didn’t he sign it anyway and put the AG on the spot?”
“Maybe someone didn’t want Ruberto to put the AG on the spot,” said Chip, raising an eyebrow. “Someone who got the AG to issue an ambiguous opinion in the first place.”
Even if the scheme hadn’t been orchestrated from the beginning, the Attorney General’s opinion offered an excellent opportunity to stop us. Just call the mayor and make a deal. Here’s where the clues come into play.
Clue #1. THE PREDICTION
On the morning of September 21, after a press conference at City Hall, Tim Craw told WBRK news director Len Bean, in conspiratorial tones, “I can’t give you the details, but there won’t be any baseball at Wahconah Park in 2005.”
The above quote was confirmed by Bean, after Dan Valenti had brought it to our attention.
“Craw’s prediction about there being no baseball at Wahconah Park,” said Chip, “was delivered as he was coming out of the press conference that announced the airport compromise. I think the two are connected.”
What would a press conference about an airport compromise have to do with Wahconah Park?
The expansion of the Pittsfield Municipal Airport had been a four year battle that pitted local farmers, homeowners, and environmentalists against “an elite group” of businessmen—a group that had threatened to confiscate property under eminent domain, close an important road, and destroy a Wild Acres habitat while removing property from the tax roles and appropriating $1 million of local taxes, all, wrote Jonathan Levine, “with little regard for meaningful public involvement.”
“We stand to lose up to 100 acres and our most productive land,” said Ed Watroba, speaking of property his family had farmed since 1915. “If they were going to build a hospital or a school I would understand, but this isn’t going to benefit the general public.”
Pittsfield native Ann Truran said the benefit would go to “those who are already comfortable,” while others paid with health and environmental costs just so a few private jets can “swoop in and out.”
For some citizens, the airport expansion, supported by the Berkshire Eagle and questioned by the Gazette, was “another Civic Authority,” involving many of the same players, using the same “scare tactics” and the spreading of “false information” in behalf of a “famously flawed project.”
In December, 2003, the beleaguered expansion opponents, led by City Councilor Jonathan Lothrop, developed a compromise plan that would give the businessmen “90% of what they want.” But the hardliners, led by Jeff Cook, refused to budge and the compromise sat for almost a year. Which is why it came as a big surprise when they suddenly gave in.
Clue #2. THE TIMING
“We’re creating a new model of how to do business in Pittsfield,” Ruberto had said in announcing the airport compromise, a major goal of his administration. “A model based on sensitivity to individual interests.”
The question was, What individual interests led the hardliners to yield—at that particular time?
“I think they agreed to the compromise,” said Chip, “in exchange for the mayor’s agreement not to sign our revised license.”
“In other words,” I said, “Ruberto traded the airport for the ballpark.
”
“That’s right,” said Chip. “But the mayor figured he wouldn’t lose the ballpark because he thought he could convince us to live with the Bid Laws.”
“And Craw made sure that wouldn’t happen,” I said, following Chip’s logic, “at the meeting where he threatened to make us re-bid everything.”
“That was the same day as the press conference,” said Chip. “It was the announcement of the airport compromise that sealed the deal with the mayor. And that freed up Craw to slam the door on the Bid Law option that afternoon by demonstrating how impossible he’d be to work with.”
Clue #3. THE SMIRK
“That could explain why Craw was smirking at me before the meeting,” I said. “He wanted me to know that he knew we were already screwed because he was about to lower the boom.”
“I think he blindsided the mayor, too.” said Chip.
“I’ll bet that’s why Ruberto walked out with Craw and didn’t come back for ten minutes,” I said. “He was giving Craw hell for scaring us off.”
“Remember how sweaty and agitated Ruberto was when he did return,” said Chip. “That’s when he started begging us.”
“And that’s why he always said ‘I can’t sign it’ instead of ‘I won’t sign it,’” I said, regarding the revised license.
We paused to marvel at the scheme, which we both agreed was way beyond the capabilities of either Doyle or Craw.
“So, in the hours between the press conference and our meeting,” I said, “only Craw and a very small group, maybe only one other person, knew there would be no baseball at Wahconah Park in 2005. Can you imagine what a big shot Craw must have felt like, knowing he was personally going to finish us off?”
“He couldn’t wait to tell someone like Len Bean,” said Chip. “Just like when Doyle told Ray Parrott ‘the fix is in.’”
“Guys like Doyle and Craw cannot resist letting people know how close they are to power,” I said.
“Beavis and Butthead,” said Chip.
To test our theory, Chip sent an email to Jonathan Lothrop, who was also going to be one of our stockholders.
Chip to Lothrop:
> Just out of curiosity, I’d like to ask you a few
> questions about the airport compromise. Please
> call me at your convenience.
Lothrop to Chip:
> What did you want to know?
Chip to Lothrop:
> I know that you started as a strong opponent of
> the original “maximalist” airport expansion plan,
> and that one of the strongest proponents of that
> plan was Jeff Cook. Some months ago, you began to
> champion a compromise plan. From accounts I read,
> the “maximalists” held firm for a while. At what
> point in time did they agree to compromise, and
> how did that come about?
Clue #4. THE STONEWALL
Lothrop never responded. In our various communications since we met him in 2001, it was the first time he had failed to do so.
“In the game of Clue,” I said, “you would postulate that, ‘Someone did it, with an airport compromise, in the mayor’s office.’”
The mayor would deny it, of course. He would say we walked out because, “They didn’t have the money”—as he later insisted on the Dan Valenti Show. That charge, which became the mantra of many city officials, added to the smokescreen that included, “They didn’t have a team” and “They didn’t want to play by the rules.”
But what else could they say?
Would the mayor say: “I was afraid to stand up to the Attorney General?” Or, “I traded 950 feet of runway for Wahconah Park?”
Would the councilors say: “We can hand over $1 million to the Colonial Theatre and protect them from the Bid Laws, but we can’t get the mayor to sign a piece of paper that wouldn’t have cost the city a dime?”
Would the commissioners say: “We had the last shot at saving the best deal anyone ever offered for Wahconah Park and we tabled it?”
Not likely.
And what might the Attorney General say? Had he really told Ruberto, or someone else, that he wouldn’t approve the revised license if it were sent to him?
“That would be a good question to ask him on the campaign trail,” said Chip. “The man who supposedly ‘fucked’ Pittsfield is running for governor of Massachusetts.”
Months after we had bowed out, Chip had a long conversation with Steve Picheny, whose tough love and good advice had gotten us to revise our prospectus and avoid some early criticism. As always, Steve was in our corner.
“Your motives were pure,” he told Chip. “You weren’t greedy like they’re saying.”
But Picheny’s prescription for success was still the same.
“You should have called Jeff Cook,” he said.
“We tried,” said Chip.
“You should have tried harder,” said Picheny.
“He’s an asshole,” said Chip.
“In sales,” said Picheny, “if the guy is an asshole, well, then you better learn how to sell to assholes.”
“We could have sold this anywhere,” said Chip.
“In any other city you could have got it done,” said Picheny. “But not in Pittsfield.”
When something like this happens in a democracy, somebody usually pays on election day. And there is a big turnover of politicians in Pittsfield, but nothing ever changes. For a very simple reason: The people running the city aren’t running for office.
But how do you vote a law firm, two banks, and a newspaper out of town? Pittsfield needs a U.S. Marshal to come riding in. Or an Attorney General.
Oops.
“A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about it,” said Chip.
This was six months after we had called it quits.
“It was real for me,” he said, the passion coming back into his voice. “It was tangible. It was going to be such an unalloyed benefit for Pittsfield. It was going to be fun. And it could have been something even bigger. Meaningful economic development—240,000 visitors, exceeding our investors’ expectations, tapping them for more money to build an arena, hockey, concerts, trade shows, and no taxpayer dollars needed…”
My partner’s voice trailed off, and I thought he might cry. This had been Chip’s dream—the dream of the idealistic investment banker with a graduate degree in economic development who could have lifted Pittsfield off the canvas by himself if they had let him.
“Look what we did with just two games!” said Chip. “Out of our back pocket. Without an organization. That was just a flavor of what we could have done with sixty games.”
“Our project would have done more for Pittsfield than the airport expansion and the Colonial Theatre combined,” I said.
“More than government handouts to the politically connected,” said Chip, “Pittsfield needs to attract private capital.”
“The city is used as a dumping ground and a piggy bank,” I said. “We represented a different way of doing things. And we were succeeding. That’s what frightened them.”
“They rejected us as a foreign body,” said Chip.
“The Eagle always talks about how rudely Bossidy was treated,” I said. “Here they kicked $300 million of net worth in the teeth.”
“And look at their motives,” said Chip. “Fear, revenge, greed, envy. Base motives. Nothing high-minded. Nobody seemed to have any concept of the public good. That just got my goat.”
“‘The few spoiling it for the many,’” I said, repeating a line from a condolence card we had received from Betty Quadrozzi.
“And they can blame the book,” said Chip, “but you know what? They did the same thing to us the first time around.”
“All they did was prove that the book was accurate,” I said. “If not for them, we’d be renovating Wahconah Park right now.”
“And they can still have that,” said Chip. “It’s within their power. The whole city
would have to get together. But it wouldn’t cost them anything.”
“What about our investors?” I said.
“They’d be with us in a heartbeat,” said Chip. “Right now, they’d follow us anywhere.”
There was a long silence.
“How is Cindy feeling these days?” I asked.
“She’s still disappointed for me,” said Chip. “She knew how alive I was for it.”
“And what are you feeling?” said Paula, who is always asking me questions like that.
“I think I’m feeling resigned,” I said. “But it’s hard to tell because I’m concentrating on the book. Chip says it’s like a death in the family, where you’re so busy with the funeral arrangements you don’t feel the full loss until later.”
“The reader needs to know how you feel at the end,” said Paula. “And that there is an end. Or else Paula will move out, you can tell them.”
Paula turned to look out the dining room window.
“Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever be rid of Wahconah Park,” she said wistfully.
“As soon as I’m finished with the book,” I said, “I’m going to get to work on that patio.”
“No you won’t,” said Paula. “You’ll be out promoting the book and that’s what I’m worried about next. That Tim Craw is going to rough you up, or worse.”
“He’s not going to do anything,” I said, scoffing at the notion. “He’ll get a guy from Toledo.”
What I have are pangs. Pangs of sadness, whenever I go down to our basement. Against the far wall, I see Hillies uniforms, cleaned and hanging on a coat rack. A dozen Hillies bats stand in a corner. Against another wall is a massive tower of boxes containing thousands of 1791 documents packed in mailing tubes. Next to that are plastic bins of Hillies T-shirts, Hillies hats, and Hillies tote bags, plus boxes of Hillies autographed balls and posters we had planned to sell at future Hillies games.
If I really want to feel bad, I visit the sample paving stones near the furnace. The ones that showed how, for $200, people could “Own a Piece of Wahconah Park” by putting any name and message on an eight-by-fourteen-inch stone implanted in the plaza “at one of America’s most beloved ballparks.”