Foul Ball

  Before going to bed, I checked my email and saw a note from Chip, who is now fully behind what he called “your new offensive of telling it like it is.” He wrote, “You should be the bad cop (the wild-man author of Ball Four who once again is showing no respect for the unspoken clubhouse rules) and I should be the good cop (still trying to be restrained and respectful).”

  Chip’s right. No more Mr. Nice Guy. From now on we’ll be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Except I can never remember which one is waxing and which one is waning.

  AUGUST 29

  WEDNESDAY

  As part of our plan to get endorsements from mayoral candidates, I picked up the phone and called Ed Reilly, who also happens to be a former mayor of Pittsfield. Reilly was both friendly and honest.

  “Given a choice between a new stadium and Wahconah Park, I’d choose a new stadium,” said Reilly. “But if I was mayor I would have treated you fairly.”

  “Do you think the Parks Commission will have the nerve to go against the mayor?”

  “They’re not likely to go against him,” said Reilly. “They’ve been told to wait. They’re sitting on their hands, trying to stall. Stalling you in the process. The first thing to stall was the college thing.”

  “They’re probably waiting for Bossidy to come up with the money,” I said.

  “I’m not sure the last one [new stadium] was going to be built without city money,” said Reilly. “The city lied about it. The city knew it was going to be required to invest money. They never told anybody they were going to have to put up money. The state wouldn’t give money to a private entity, only to the city—but only if the city participated.”

  “How much of the $18.5 million would the city have to pay?”

  “I don’t know,” said Reilly. “But somebody from the state told me that the city was lying about not having to put up some money.”

  “Why doesn’t the state step forward and say something?”

  “The state is a political organization,” said Reilly. “They want to wait and cross that bridge when you come to it.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A state official,” said Reilly. “He said to me, ‘I can’t believe they never told the people this.’”

  “Well, I can,” I said.

  Meanwhile, Chip and I have to cross our bridges before we come to them. At a strategy session, we agreed on the following: We can’t sit back and wait. We’re the people’s choice, and we need to try and prove that, any way we can. Pittsfield is clearly not a democracy, but officials may still be embarrassed to make an obviously bad decision. Call it an embarrasstocracy.

  Here are some things we can do:

  1. Debate and phone poll. This time, invite Fleisig and Bossidy to pick a date for a televised debate. One that would end with a phone poll they could help organize and authenticate.

  2. Ballot question. Ask the City Council to put the question of who should get Wahconah Park onto the November ballot. The Parks Commission may be reluctant to decide against us in October if they know “the people” will be choosing us in November.

  3. Unofficial ballot box. Have the Wahconah Yes! team man ballot boxes near voting locations during the September 25th primary. “Voters” would check one of three options: Bouton, Fleisig, or Bossidy and a “winner” could be announced along with the primary results.

  4. Petition drive. Have the Wahconah Yes! team gather signatures on a petition that could be used to put Wahconah Park on the November ballot, and/or encourage candidates to endorse us or risk losing the election.

  5. State Oversight Board. Make a presentation to the board that now controls Pittsfield’s finances. Show them the savings that can be achieved with our plan, and conversely, the likely costs to the city of a new stadium.

  We chose to go with options 1, 2, 3, and 4.

  For now.

  Within an hour, Chip had drafted a one-page press release entitled Debate Challenge Issued to Wahconah Park Petitioners, explaining, among other things, how it would work.

  “The suggested format for the debate would be to answer questions posed by the public, and to allow each of the three parties to comment, subject to judicious intervention by a moderator. The suggested format for the new telephone vote will be to count only calls received in the first minute of voting, originating from identifiable residential numbers listed in the June 2001 Verizon phone book, and eliminating calls made from numbers outside the Pittsfield Community Television viewing area.”

  The release also included this quote from me:

  “We will leave the field if we lose the vote, and we challenge our competitors to make the same promise, not just for Pittsfield, but for all of Berkshire County. For the good of Pittsfield and its proud heritage, we need to close ranks soon behind a single plan.”

  Then we sent it off to our fax and email lists. The one Chip faxed to Bossidy had a note attached that said, “Jim and I look forward to speaking with you.”

  Poor Bossidy. He’s probably so absorbed in the book I sent, he hasn’t had time to get back to us on the last letter.

  While Chip was taking care of the debate and phone poll, I was following up on the ballot question with Peter Arlos. And while I was on the phone with him, he asked me to hold on for a minute. “A very charming woman just walked into my office,” said Arlos, “and she has a question for me.” So I held on while Arlos spoke to the woman.

  When he came back on the line he was laughing. “Listen to the question she asked,” said Arlos. “She wants to know how to put Wahconah Park on the ballot in November. Whether to make it Wahconah Park versus a new stadium, or your proposal versus Bossidy and Fleisig.”

  The woman’s name was Katy Roucher—an esteemed member of the Wahconah Yes! team—acting, it turns out, on behalf of a group that includes Dave Potts, Jonathan Lothrop, and others. You know you’ve got a good ball club when the players are working out on their own.

  “But it may be too late to get on the ballot,” said Arlos. “I’ll have to research it.”

  Whatever happens with the ballot question, better it should come from someone in Pittsfield than two maniacs from South County.

  Before going to bed, my fellow maniac faxed me the online version of tomorrow’s Eagle that pertained to us. Above the masthead, where they promote special stories, was a picture of me and the headline BOUTON LASHES OUT AT PARKS BOARD: SOUTH COUNTY PARTNERS UPSET BY DELAY IN BASEBALL DECISION.

  The story, by reporter Bill Carey, quoted a few lines from my letter to Nilan, including the words “shamefully rude and unwarranted” and “Go take a shower.” Unfortunately, Nilan—sounding polite, warranted, and clean—was quoted as saying that he had no comment on my letter and that he hoped we would keep our “proposal on the table.”

  The story also announced our new “debate challenge,” which is already being met with gales of indifference. Carey quotes Fleisig saying he is “not in favor of a polling system that is neither scientific nor accurate and does not appear to work based on [their] last failed attempt,” and that our debate format “may, in fact, hurt the Berkshires’ chances of securing a team in any league with this continued divisive mentality.”

  And whose fault might that be?

  The mayor says “the fix is in.” The City Council president says he’s getting “an unbelievable amount of shit” from new-stadium councilors “and others.” A mayoral candidate says state officials told him “the city was lying about not having to put up money.” A state senator says he “knows” decisions are being made at a bar. And the Parks chairman is going around telling people we’re “out” before the Commission has voted.

  And Chip and I are somehow responsible for “this continued divisive mentality”?

  Well, too bad.

  Everybody’s just going to have to live with it.

  AUGUST 30

  THURSDAY

  I woke up depressed this morning.

  I’m thinking the debate is not going to happen. We’re probably too late for
the ballot question. And my letter to Nilan went too far.

  Whenever I get depressed, which isn’t very often, I need to be doing something that seems to address the problem. Even if it turns out to be a colossal waste of time, while I’m doing it, I feel better. If I were in the middle of the ocean in a rowboat, with no hope of being rescued, I’d feel better if I were rowing.

  That’s why I couldn’t wait to make the mechanicals for our sign-up sheets, and posters, and wall banners, which is what we’re going to need for our ballot box and petition drive ideas. As I worked, I listened to the Larry Kratka show, with the entire radio hanging out my office window. Kratka’s guest was mayoral candidate Jimmy Ruberto, who asked this question: “What is the Bouton group going to do for jobs?”

  Now we’re responsible for the economic revival of Pittsfield. I called Chip and told him we needed to open a factory, too.

  Chip and I hammered out the language that would appear on the petition people would be asked to sign:

  I support the Bouton, Elitzer, and Margenau long-term commitment to Wahconah Park, and I oppose a new stadium built in Pittsfield at any location with any type of financing. I also support the above statement, or its equivalent, being placed on the November 2001 ballot as a yes or no choice.

  “I think we should go to Jonathan’s thing tonight,” I told Chip, referring to the fund-raiser for City Council candidate Jonathan Lothrop at the Italian-American Club up in Pittsfield. Lothrop had said that a lot of our supporters would be there, including some other candidates.

  “It might be a good opportunity to put together a team to run the petition drive,” I said.

  “Good idea,” said Chip, “and I’d love to go, but I’m going to be with my dad tonight. It only takes one of us. And you should be the one to go since you’re so popular you could be mayor.”

  “Thanks.”

  At about five o’clock, I stuck our proposed petition sheet and some color posters—which I still carry everywhere—into my saddle bag and rode up to Pittsfield. The Italian-American Club is located on Newell Street, in the heart of GE country. Driving on East Street, before I got to Newell, I passed abandoned GE buildings—giant, brick hulks that looked like the set from a gangland movie.

  Making a right onto Newell—next to a field enclosed with barbed wire and a sign saying Keep Out—I saw a truck container sitting in the weeds. Spray painted on the side of the container, in large black letters, were the words “GE poisoned my land with PCBs. Under the backroom deal, GE and EPA will leave this land contaminated. Newell Street will never be clean.” Underneath that was a skull and crossbones.

  A few yards down Newell, on the left, just before Gina’s Beauty Studio, I passed the seat of government in Pittsfield—DelGallo’s. It was surprisingly small, considering its importance. Just a one-room box stuck onto the front of what looked like a two-family house. Even though the door was wide open, I avoided the urge to go in. Maybe because I was alone. Where would the cops even begin to search for my body? Assuming they wanted to find it.

  A half-mile down on the right was the Italian-American Club, a one-story, wood, brick, and cinderblock building that looks like it’s been added onto over the years. An American flag flies proudly in front. To the left and right are abandoned buildings. One has signs that read Moldmaster, Berkshire Business Ventures, No Trespassing, Property of General Electric, and Violators Will Be Prosecuted. The other has signs saying Ravin Auto Body and Closed. Just behind these buildings flows the Housatonic River.

  After parking my car, I ran into Dan Bianchi who was being earnestly lobbied by an older woman, on some matter or another. Dan smiled and said he’d see me later.

  Inside, the Italian-American Club turned out to be a low-ceilinged catering hall, with a large main room and a bar in the back. A multicultural catering hall. Against the wall to my left, as I entered, were several long tables of food—guacamole, Polish sausage, Swedish meatballs, lasagna, something with rice, brownies, cookies—obviously all home cooked, and arranged potluck style in an assortment of platters and bowls.

  Not wanting to call attention to myself, I made a beeline for the food and mingled with some people near the coffee machine. There I scanned the room for familiar faces, spotting Dave Potts, Anne Leaf, Gene Nadeau, Katy Roucher, Councilman Rick Scapin, mayoral candidates Henry Hebert and Peter McHugh, and State Senator Andy Nuciforo. There looked to be about sixty people, either seated at tables or standing around.

  With a paper plate full of lasagna, I headed for Nuciforo, a handsome little guy with black wavy hair and glasses. I knew he wasn’t going to have much time, so I got right to the point.

  “Hey, Andy,” I said. “We’re being nibbled to death by so-called experts and city officials who say we can’t do this or that because of environmental reasons. We need someone like you to say maybe we can—if that’s true.”

  “I can’t do that,” said Andy. “I have to be neutral.”

  “If the others wanted information, you’d give it to them,” I said.

  “I can only answer questions,” said Nuciforo.

  “Okay, I’m asking you,” I said. “Are there any exceptions to EPA regulations that might allow us to deal with things like the parking lot?”

  Nuciforo smiled, displaying the charm that gets him elected.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get that information for you.”

  “And while I’m at it,” I said, “are state funds available for historical landmark improvements?”

  “I’ll check on it,” said Nuciforo. “Bossidy is already asking about state funding.”

  Then someone started tapping their knife against a glass to get people’s attention, as Jonathan Lothrop picked up a hand-held microphone. Jonathan thanked everyone for coming and introduced his wife and daughters as the reasons why he wants a better Pittsfield. Among notables in attendance, I was introduced as “a special guest who wants to save Wahconah Park” and received a nice round of applause.

  I waved humbly, with a mouthful of cookies.

  Toward the end of the evening, a dozen or so people, including Potsy, Nadeau, Leaf, and Roucher, along with Elaine Soldato, Thelma Barzottini, and City Council candidate Rick Jones, gathered around a large table to talk about the petition drive. I handed out copies of the sign-up sheet that Chip and I had drafted.

  “Here’s what you and Chip should do,” people started saying to me as soon as I sat down.

  I looked around and smiled.

  “No,” I said, gently. “Here’s what you should do. This is your battle. Chip and I are suggesting a strategy—and we’ll give you the materials and advice—but it’s your ball game.”

  I explained that Chip and I did not want to get too involved in Pittsfield politics—beyond trying to sell our plan to the people and the politicians. It’s why we decided not to come out for or against any particular candidate. We wanted to be advocates for a plan, not political operatives. Besides, if we had to get our own signatures, what would that say about our support?

  “We’ve already done this so many times,” someone said, wearily.

  “I know,” I said. “And you have to decide if you want to do it again. But if it’s something you care about, you can either march now or you can march later. This time you’d be marching for something, not against.”

  This appeared to register, and the focus shifted to the details. There was some concern about the language on the sign-up sheet, which a few of them felt would not be allowed on a ballot.

  “They will attack anything that’s not explicitly worded,” said Anne Leaf, the seventy-year-old artist who, along with Potts and Nadeau, had led the petition drive that sank the Civic Authority.

  “They’ll challenge whatever language we use,” I said. “But this is a political battle, not a legal one. Chip and I wanted to draft something that would be clear and unambiguous to everyone—from a county judge to a city councilor. The final ballot language can be legally crafted.”

  Katy Roucher, a pr
etty woman with reddish brown hair, had a different problem with the language.

  “I don’t like the words, ‘I oppose a new stadium built at any location with any type of financing,’” said Katy. “It should just be what you’re for and not against.”

  I thought about that for a minute. This was a document these people needed to believe in, if they were going to go out and sell it. On the other hand, I didn’t want to take the guts out of it.

  “If we get 10,000 signatures on something that just says ‘I support Wahconah Park,’” I said, “our opponents will say they could have gotten the same 10,000 signatures on a petition that said ‘I support a new stadium.’”

  A few nodded in agreement.

  “The June 5th referendum didn’t mention a new stadium,” I said, “only the Civic Authority. So when it was defeated, the new-stadium people were able to claim that it wasn’t against a new stadium. This time we have to kill the new stadium in order to save Wahconah. The two are incompatible.”

  This they all seemed to understand.

  “But Katy makes a good point about the rest of it,” I said. “So let’s take out the words ‘built at any location with any type of financing.’” And I crossed out that part with my pen.

  After a little more tinkering, everyone felt comfortable with the wording.

  “Now we need some team captains and a leader,” I said. “The captains will organize their own teams to go out and get signatures, and the leader will distribute the numbered sign-up sheets to the captains, keeping track of who has what, and collecting the completed sheets.”

  Within a few minutes, we had a dozen captains. But no leader—the result of work schedules, family obligations, and what Anne Leaf described as “petition fatigue.”

  “I can’t go through that again,” said Anne, who speaks with a husky, Tallulah Bankhead voice. “Too many threatening phone calls.”