Foul Ball

  “But you won’t,” said Paula, “because the two of you are motivated by a game that’s stacked against you. And because they don’t want you to have it, you’re even more determined to get it.”

  “But we really believe in what we’re doing,” said Chip. “It’s not just an exercise. We’ll actually do what we say we’re going to do.”

  “A lot of good things get done because of people’s characteristics,” said Paula. “Look at Churchill.”

  “We’re the right guys at the right moment for Pittsfield,” I said.

  “If I didn’t believe that,” said Paula, “I wouldn’t have been behind you.”

  There was a long pause.

  “For what it’s worth,” said Chip, “after the meeting Smitty came over and shook my hand warmly, looked me in the eye, and said, ‘You did a really good job. Excellent presentation.’”

  “I’m not sure that means anything,” Paula said.

  “Maybe we made them an offer they can’t refuse,” said Chip.

  “The only thing I would do over,” I said, “is my comment to Massimiano about getting the keys back so we could go in and make repairs to Wahconah Park. It was too sarcastic. I should have put it in the form of a teaching fable—about a king who loses his castle because he won’t give anyone the keys to help him defend it.”

  “I like that,” said Paula.

  “Personally,” said Chip, “I liked Jim’s sarcasm better.”

  “I still don’t understand how they can go against you guys,” said Cindy. “Especially now that everyone’s seen Fleisig up close.”

  “They can always find a reason,” said Paula.

  “Because, hey, you know what?” I said. “Anybody can have a bad day, OK?”

  CHAPTER 8

  “An unbelievable amount of shit”

  AUGUST 14

  TUESDAY

  I woke up with a brainstorm today: We should have an artist draw a picture of our proposed improvements to Wahconah Park. And the artist’s name should be James Akers. The other day, Akers was having copies made at Kwik Print and saw our bound proposals sitting on the counter. Because he’s a baseball fan and had been following our adventure up in Pittsfield, he left a note for me at Kwik Print, asking if he could be of any help.

  And so it was that Chip and I ended up having lunch today at Gon San with Jamie Akers. Between rounds of Shige’s special sushi, we explained what we hoped to do at Wahconah Park and showed Jamie the pictures we had pulled off the Internet. As Chip and I talked, Jamie’s pencil raced over the paper tablecloth. In a few strokes our Taste of the Berkshires food court and our Not-So-Luxury Boxes came to life.

  “That’s actually better than we imagined,” said Chip, marveling at the power of a few lines on a piece of paper.

  “This is just a sketch,” said Jamie. “It would help if I had a few more pictures to work from. Any chance that you’ll be going to Wahconah Park?”

  “Not until tonight,” I said. “And we wouldn’t be able to have the prints ready for you until first thing in the morning.”

  We laughed. And then we told Jamie we were on a tight budget.

  “No problem,” he said. “Let this be my contribution to saving the ballpark.”

  This is like walking down the street and finding an artist holding a sign that says Will Sketch For Tickets.

  I picked up Chip at six o’clock for the drive to Pittsfield. Our plan was to have me do the open mike, giving Chip a well-deserved night off, and then go to Wahconah Park to take pictures and watch the game.

  In the car we talked about what I’d say during the open mike. Even though the City Council would not be making the decision on Wahconah Park, the open mike was a good way to publicly address the Parks Commission, and to reinforce our proposal.

  “One of the points you need to make,” said Chip, “is that everything in our proposal is negotiable. That requires them to at least sit down with us and try to work something out.”

  “I’ve already got that covered,” I said. “And then I’m going to deal with the ‘not-owning-a-team’ business again. We need to pound home why that’s an advantage for Pittsfield.”

  “Then you deal with the lease,” said Chip, “and you’ve got it.”

  “Then I have a surprise at the end,” I said, “that I’m not going to tell you about.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Chip.

  It was fun walking into the Council chamber tonight. Like returning to the stadium where you pitched a great game the night before—it sort of feels like you own the joint. And our Wahconah Yes! teammates—Potsy and the crew—were already beginning to settle into the last few rows.

  Once again, the festivities started off with a bang. Tonight’s surprise was a motion to move the open mike session from its customary first place on the agenda to much later in the evening. Supposedly, this was necessary because the clock was ticking on some highly paid consultants who had been invited to make a presentation. The vote to delay the open mike passed 8–3. The “no” votes belonged to the Three Amigos.

  Announcement of the delay produced a groan from the back of the room. That’s because most people come for the open mike and then take off. Now they’d have to wait through an hour or two of boring council business.

  “This was done on purpose,” said Chip. “They wanted to take us out of prime time. The open mike is a thorn in their side.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “There’ll be a lot fewer people watching TV at nine o’clock than at seven.”

  “It’s like when they enforced the ‘three-minute rule,’” said Chip. “And it was by the same 8–3 vote.”

  “Since I’m taking care of the open mike tonight,” I said, “you go to the game and I’ll meet you there afterwards.”

  “No,” said Chip. “I’ll stay here in case you need me.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Go to the game, take the pictures we need while it’s still light out, and I’ll meet you at the ballpark. If I’m not there when the game’s over, you come back here.”

  “No, I’ll stay here,” said Chip.

  “That’s stupid!” I said. “No sense both of us sitting around. You’re not going to say anything anyway.”

  “I’m staying,” said Chip.

  “Okay, goddamn it,” I said, “we’ll both go to the game. And I’ll come back about eight thirty, in time for the open mike.”

  “All right, let’s go,” said Chip. “But I’m coming back with you.”

  It’s like we’re married, for crissakes.

  So off we went to Wahconah Park. And right after our sausage and peppers at the concession stand, we went on a photo shoot. We shot every possible view from every conceivable angle. While Chip was shooting the grandstand from the field, I was shooting the roof from the bleachers. We looked like detectives gathering evidence at a crime scene.

  Meanwhile the stands were filling up. “Good luck with Wahconah Park,” people would say to us. Or, “Aren’t you the baseball guys?”

  “Would you mind if I took a picture of you taking a picture of my girlfriend?” one guy said to me.

  Then there were the autograph people. Of course I said yes. I always say yes to autographs. It’ll be a sad day when nobody asks.

  But I’ve noticed that autograph seekers generally do not care if you are involved in doing something at the moment. I’ve had people ask for my autograph while I was standing at a urinal. No kidding. One day I’m going to be dying on the street and some guy is going to ask for my autograph. “Can’t you see I’m dying?” I’ll tell him. “I just want one,” he’ll say.

  Suddenly it was 8:30 and I knew the open mike would be starting, and I didn’t want to miss it. Now where the hell was Chip? And how was I going to find him in that crowd? I couldn’t just holler his name. Then people would really know we were nuts.

  So I did the only thing I could do; I headed for the car. I figured Chip would know where I was, and he could either stay at Wahconah and wait for me o
r have someone drop him off at City Hall.

  Then I heard a voice from above.

  “Wait for me!” said Chip, “I’ll be right down.”

  There he was, on the roof of Wahconah Park, with a camera dangling from his neck. I hadn’t seen him that high up since we built the tree house.

  We arrived at the Council chamber in time for me to deliver my open mike remarks, which I had written out in advance.

  “My partner Chip Elitzer and I have six minutes between us,” I said. “How about I take up four minutes and Chip takes the night off? We just saved you two minutes.”

  There was a moment of hesitation as the councilors weighed the two-minute benefit of less Bouton/Elitzer versus whatever four-minute trick I might have up my sleeve. But the two-minute savings won out, and Council President Tom Hickey nodded his acceptance.

  “I want to address three points with respect to our proposal last night before the Parks Commission,” I said. Then I went over the things that Chip and I had talked about in the car: how Wahconah Park would be available for high school sports, how any long-term investment would require a long-term lease, and how willing we are to negotiate.

  With a minute to go, I came to my favorite part—the hearts and flowers moment.

  “Now I should say the rest of this on bended knee,” I began, as a few councilors got quizzical looks. “Wahconah Park, we love you. We don’t want to just use you for a few years like all the others.” Then I paused for effect. “We want to marry you. If you turn us down you’ll break our hearts, and the hearts of the people of Pittsfield.”

  At this point, all hell broke loose on the councilors’ faces. The Three Amigos loved it. Dan Bianchi, leaning forward on his elbows, hands clasped, was absolutely beaming. Joe Guzzo was doing his “heh, heh, heh” laugh and nodding in appreciation. Rick Scapin was grinning broadly and looking around, checking everybody else’s reaction.

  The other councilors, however, were not so thrilled, although Tom Hickey was sort of smiling. Gerald Lee and Paul Dowd sat there stone-faced. Bill Barry smiled weakly, looking for help. James Massery and Jim Brassard appeared to be smirking. Matt Kerwood was clearly searching for a clue as to how to react. And Gary Grunin looked absolutely alarmed. He looked as if armed bandits—or maybe a large cat—had just entered the chamber.

  Meanwhile, the back of the room got a big kick out of the whole thing. During their sustained applause routine—which the Wahconah Yes! team has down pat by now—I could see the men were laughing and the women were all mushy. If it registered the same way with the viewers at home, we’ll be in good shape.

  After the open mike, Chip and I went out in the hallway to say goodnight to our teammates.

  “You guys are winning people over,” said Potsy, still laughing about my marriage proposal. “The whole town is with you.”

  “Wouldn’t it be fun,” I said, “if they gave it to Fleisig next week and we got to see what the public was capable of?”

  “Pitchforks and torches,” someone said.

  “Barrel of tar and some feathers,” said Potsy.

  On that note, Chip and I headed back to Wahconah to catch the end of the ballgame. Unfortunately, the concession stands were closed and there was nothing to eat.

  “When we get Wahconah Park,” I said, “we’ll make sure at least one food stall stays open until the last out.”

  “It’s a wonder we don’t get fat,” said Chip, “the way we eat.”

  “That’s because we’re constantly moving,” I said. “Like sharks, who have to keep swimming or die.”

  We went right to the press box because Chip wanted me to see the view from up there. And it was spectacular. If you want to know what the poets are talking about when they get dreamy about baseball, just go up to the press box at a minor league ballgame on an August night.

  “Can you imagine our Not-So-Luxury Boxes up here?” said Chip, looking out over the field.

  I had always appreciated minor league ballparks from the perspective of a player. The tiny dugouts—cozy or cramped, depending on whether you were winning or losing. The funky locker rooms. The bullpen sanctuaries, beyond the prying eyes of managers and coaches, where we’d trade insults with male fans and acquire the phone numbers of female fans.

  But the view from the press box at night is a whole different thing. From there you can see the entire experience, a self-contained world in which the game is incidental. Your eye pulls back from the players, to the wider panorama—beholding an activity of some sort, that appears to be glowing in the dark. Like a votive candle. Or an astronaut’s view of earth.

  The sensation is magnified at Wahconah Park, with its cozy grandstand, old-fashioned lights, and modest scoreboard. It’s like looking at the stars from a country lane as opposed to a city street.

  My fear is that Wahconah will disappear, replaced by the noise and hoopla of programmed fun and sponsor messages. Or worse, ruined with a cheap upgrade—like plaid slipcovers on a Louis XIV chair. That’s why our Not-So-Luxury Boxes must be done with the greatest of care—in Early-Wahconah style, with a corrugated roof, wood bench seats, and open on all sides.

  “Wahconah Park should be a working museum,” I said. “The Museum of Minor League Memories.”

  AUGUST 15

  WEDNESDAY

  This afternoon, I stopped at Chip’s after running some errands in Great Barrington. Usually I pull into his circular drive, check for signs of life, and if no one’s home I keep going. Today there was the usual gang of teenagers milling around, friends of the Elitzer boys, planning to do something that seemed to involve bathing suits and a board game.

  Chip handed me the paper with the latest Eagle droppings. Under the headline CLINGING TO BASEBALL IN PITTSFIELD, Ever-Scrib had written:

  From the rubble of a June 5 vote in which Pittsfield voters squandered a golden opportunity to build a new stadium… three proposals have emerged to keep baseball alive at aging Wahconah Park. All three were aired before the Parks Commission Monday night, but the process produced more questions than answers.

  Two proposals… would bring independent pro baseball to the city. The proposals for rehabilitating the ballpark and marketing the team offered by Mr. Elitzer and Mr. Bouton were admirable in their detail, particularly in contrast to the vague outlines provided by Mr. Fleisig. The grim reality, however, is that these gentlemen don’t have a team, and despite their tortured rationalizations that this is in some way a selling point, it is a serious deficiency.

  It is clear that neither of the independent league proposals are the answers to the Berkshires long-term interest in protecting its proud minor league heritage…. Wahconah Park is already two decades out of date and won’t last forever…. Someday the Berkshires will need to build a new ballpark, perhaps in North Adams, Lanesboro or Great Barrington if not in Pittsfield, and until that day, Pittsfield will struggle to make do while regretting its missed opportunities.

  “Can you imagine?” I said sarcastically, “People wanting to preserve their history?”

  “Yeah,” said Chip. “Who do they think they are?”

  “That fucking paper will not give up,” I said. “Neither will Goldsmith,” said Chip. “He called this morning and said Wirz is willing to go against the league. He’s offering to sell his franchise to us before Monday night.”

  “Hmmmm, Monday night,” I said. “What a coincidence. The same night as the decision.”

  We both laughed.

  “It’s absurd,” I said. “What does Goldsmith think we’re going to do? Give Wirz a deposit and then try to go get an approval from Miles Wolff?”

  “I told him the approval has to come first,” said Chip.

  “But he knows that,” I said. “So what’s he bothering us for?”

  “And listen to the price,” said Chip. “It’s $550,000. I just laughed and told him now it would have to be for something south of $450,000.”

  “For some strange reason the value of Wirz’s franchise just jumped by $100,000,”
I said, “and by Monday afternoon, it’ll be up to $650,000.”

  “I wonder if Wirz even knows what’s going on,” said Chip.

  “Wait until Wirz finds out how much Goldsmith, Fleisig, and Wolff have cost him,” I said.

  “Guess who else called?” said Chip. “Gary Grunin. He wants to meet with us. He said it’s important because he’s ‘going to be the next mayor.’”

  “The tide is turning!” I said. “The rats are deserting the ship.”

  “And I think we should meet with him,” said Chip, “even though he wants to use us for his own political advantage.”

  “Why help him?” I said. “You know he’s going to work against us behind our backs.”

  “He might,” said Chip. “But it can’t hurt us to meet with him. We’re not going to pose for pictures with the guy. We’re not appearing with him.”

  “That’s why Grunin looked stricken last night,” I said. “He realized he has to get on our bandwagon. Otherwise he has no chance.”

  “He wants to meet us for breakfast tomorrow in Pittsfield,” said Chip. “He doesn’t have the time to come down here.”

  “Tell him we’ll meet him at Carol’s in Lenox,” I said. “That’s half way and they serve a great breakfast. We can order bacon and eggs for us and a nice wedge of cheese for Grunin.”

  Later, Chip got a call from Tom Hutton of the Collegiate League. “He said they’re going to formally withdraw in the best interest of Pittsfield,” Chip said. “He thinks they’re being used by Fleisig. He said he didn’t want their bid to help or hurt anyone else.”

  “How about that?” I said. “A show of integrity. So rare these days. It’s almost shocking when you actually see it, isn’t it?”

  Then it was evening and I was finally ready to face it.

  Today was the fourth anniversary of Laurie’s death, and I need to be with Paula when I think about that. The idea that Laurie has missed out on four years now is profoundly heartbreaking. How can we just go on without her like this? It doesn’t seem possible. But we do it.