“In August, I presented you with a plan as you had requested, to bring a professional baseball team to Wahconah Park,” he began. “You asked me for everything, from proof of the team to articles of incorporation, a litany of items. Each and every one of them I gave you and I stand by them today.
“While the majority of the things you asked for, I gave you, I just want to reemphasize one thing that you didn’t ask for, and that’s my heart. I love baseball. I love independent baseball and I once again would love to be part of your community.”
This was a blatant copyright infringement of my marriage proposal to Wahconah Park at that City Council meeting last month. In the interest of keeping things polite, I decided to let it go.
“The only other thing that I would really like to mention today,” Fleisig went on, as only he can, “to take a three-hour drive, is simply that what’s gone on in the last couple of weeks, I am kind of in awe of. I’ve spent my time in New York City dealing with some of the worst things that anyone could ever imagine. I read my newspaper for the last couple of weeks and it talks about death, and I read about things in the Eagle and it talks about baseball. And what community is supposed to be is about getting things together, so Mr. Bouton”—at this point, Fleisig turned to face me as I sat in the audience—“let’s just stop all of this, let’s stop the fighting, the politics.”
“Jonathan,” Nilan interjected, “address the Commission.”
“I’m sorry,” Fleisig said. “I just publicly want to say let’s just get along. Let’s not fight or bicker. I’ve never written any nasty letters. I’ve never done anything, and if it ends up that you choose Jim and the Atlantic League, I’ll do everything I can to try to help the City of Pittsfield and to try to make it successful for you, OK, in whatever way that I can. And if I’m lucky enough that you choose me, I hope that the other parties will do the same.”
The message was clear: He hadn’t written any nasty letters because he’s dealing with life and death in New York City.
“You know, next year when baseball season rolls around, it’s hopefully going to be the Atlantic League or the Northern League, but the community has got to get together,” Fleisig continued. “That’s the only way anything ever works, and I found that out from Bakersfield to Topeka to Lynn. It only works if everyone here, from the commissioners to the public, does things together as a team. And we may think that the team in between the lines is important, but it’s really not. It’s the community and the fans and you people up there, so whatever way you go I’ll respect it and to me that’s the most important nowadays. So, thank you and I appreciate the opportunity to talk. Thank you very much.”
Nilan then called my name. The question was, should I stand up and say that this is all bullshit, that they’re missing a golden opportunity for a genuine airing of views? Why have Fleisig drive three hours to make a three-minute speech? Don’t waste his time. He’s here, we’re here, let’s get it on! Or should I just go along with the nonsense? Afraid of giving them a reason to reject us, I’m sorry to say I just went along.
Standing at my seat in the third row, I said, “We’re here tonight just to answer questions.”
“The Commission’s not going to have any dialogue tonight,” Nilan said. “If you want to stay after and answer any questions, you can do that.”
“We’ve already made our case,” I said, feigning confidence.
Nilan asked Chip if he wanted to say anything.
“No, I don’t,” Chip said.
Nilan then introduced people from the audience who walked down to the podium to have their say. They included Peter Arlos, Rick Scapin, Joe Guzzo, Dan Bianchi, Dave Potts, Jonathan Lothrop, and a parade of private citizens, all of whom spoke in favor of our proposal for Wahconah Park.
But the speaker everyone liked best was the last one—a stocky, white-haired lady who limped down to the podium, using a cane. Clarissa Boos, stern and clipped, spoke slowly and forcefully into the microphone.
“Wahconah Park,” Boos began. “I went there when there was just a plank from home plate to first base and home plate to third base—to watch baseball games.” Pausing for effect, she shook her fist at the commissioners and shouted, “Now, you have a chance to do something for the City of Pittsfield. And you better start doing it!”
The audience roared its approval, whooping and hollering—the pep rally that Nilan had said he didn’t want. The funny thing was that Boos had not even mentioned which proposal she supported. But nobody had to ask.
Because the shocking thing was that no one had stood up for Fleisig, who sat through the whole meeting. I wondered what he was thinking. Exactly what “community” did he expect would “get together” for him? He couldn’t even count on his pals. Where were Mayor Doyle, Andy Mick, Mike MacDonald, the new-stadium councilors?
No doubt, behind a closed door somewhere.
Nilan then asked for “a motion to close the public hearing.”
This was the topper. What had been announced as a public hearing—before it became a public meeting that morphed into an open mike session—miraculously closed as a public hearing.
It was like a public hearing sandwich—with no meat.
Or a game of three-card Monte.
As we left the building, Chip remembered a line from Quick Draw McGraw, the 1960s television cartoon show. Spoofing frontier justice, Quick Draw explains the town’s judicial system to a captured suspect.
“We’re gonna give ya a fair trial,” says Quick Draw, “and then we’re gonna hang ya!”
OCTOBER 2
TUESDAY
I woke up feeling great this morning, and not just because Paula was home. The Parks Commission, I believed, has got to give it to us. How can they ignore the overwhelming sentiment at last night’s meeting? They had invited the people to speak. As Chip said, “What are they going to say, ‘Thank you very much, fuck you?’”
“It would lead to massive anger and cynicism,” I said. “They can’t possibly give it to Fleisig.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Paula. “If a toad came hopping along with a team, they’d give it to him.”
But Peter Arlos thinks we have a good chance.
The Oracle of Delphi called me this morning to say that Curt Preisser is “grasping at straws.”
“He said you refused to present your income tax returns for three years,” said Arlos.
“Nobody submitted tax returns,” I said, laughing. “We’re not applying for a loan. That was just a way for them to pry into our personal lives.”
“On his way out of the meeting last night,” said Arlos. “Preisser said, ‘you’re backing fakers, they don’t have a dime.’”
“That’s funny,” I said, “because we don’t need a dime. We’ve already got people lining up to invest. And Eric Margenau owns five teams himself.”
“I’m just telling you what he said,” Arlos explained, before shifting gears. “Some good people spoke up for you last night. Lou Costi and Sue Gordon. Their support was big. Two business people, well respected. They took a risk, putting their businesses on the line.”
Evidently, Preisser is grasping at straws in neighboring states. Frank Boulton told Chip that Preisser had called him yesterday to ask if it was true that we’re welcome to play in the Atlantic League next year. Of course, Frank said yes. Which is not necessarily what the people of Pittsfield are going to hear.
OCTOBER 3
WEDNESDAY
Today is the fiftieth anniversary of “the Shot Heard Round the World,” one of the most memorable events of my childhood.
I can still hear announcer Russ Hodges:
“Branca throws… THERE’S A LONG FLY… IT’S GONNA BE, I BELIEVE… THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT!… BOBBY THOMSON HITS INTO THE LOWER DECK OF THE LEFT FIELD STANDS… AND THEY’RE GOIN’ CRAZY.”
As a twelve-year-old Giants fan this meant only one thing. I had to get to Iriana’s house as fast as I could. Robert Iriana was a Dodger fan
and we used to argue all the time about which team was better. Or which player was better, Duke Snider or Willie Mays? Pee Wee Reese or Alvin Dark?
Iriana lived on the opposite side of town, which in Rochelle Park is about a mile away. Running non-stop, I arrived to find what seemed to be an empty house. Nobody answered when I rang the doorbell and the shades were pulled down. Finally, after about ten minutes of ringing and knocking, Mrs. Iriana came to the door.
“Robert’s not feeling well,” she said.
I told that story to Bobby Thomson the first time I met him, at a sports dinner in New York. He laughed and said he had heard a lot of stories like that over the years. But I never told it to Ralph Branca. Like Robert, he may still not be feeling well.
The Parks Commission will announce its decision tomorrow night at City Hall in Pittsfield. Unfortunately, it’s one of the few nights I’ll be out of town. I’m giving a speech in Cooperstown to the Life Insurance Council of New York. Instead of coming with me, Paula will go to Pittsfield with Cindy and Chip, to be my eyes and ears and take notes.
Proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction, Chip and I got an Instant Message today from Jim Goldsmith, our first contact with him since the Bob Wirz deal fell through. This time, Goldsmith was offering to represent us in trying to get a Northern League franchise.
Which franchise? Any franchise, evidently, including Wirz’s! Goldsmith said he could act as an intermediary with Miles Wolff to possibly get us an expansion franchise. We told him no thanks.
“I guess Goldsmith thinks we’re desperate,” I said, “with the decision coming tomorrow night.”
“I don’t trust him any farther than I can throw him,” said Chip. “He’s offering investment banking services. I’m an investment banker. You can’t kid a kidder.”
“How can he represent both us and Wirz?” I asked.
“He can’t,” said Chip. “Working through Goldsmith would be like trying to do fine needlework wearing heavy mittens.”
Email from Gene Nadeau:
> Good luck tomorrow night. I’ll be there.
> Wouldn’t miss it for the world. My opinion is
> if there is security, it won’t bode well for
> your proposal. Having security will indicate
> an unpopular decision is forthcoming.
OCTOBER 4
THURSDAY
D-Day. As in Decision Day.
I left the house this morning for Cooperstown, having absolutely no idea what might happen tonight in Pittsfield. On the drive through the Catskills, past the rolling farms and the fruit stands and the cavern signs, I got to thinking about what a great adventure this has been for Chip and me. It’s been a little less so for our wives. Okay, a lot less so.
But the two of us have had a marvelous time. We started out with a small dream and a big idea and ended up in a morality play. And no matter how it turned out, I was glad we had done it. Not just for ourselves but for the people of Pittsfield. Our experience confirms something they’ve always known—that the deck is stacked against them. Chip and I have provided an independent corroboration, and what’s more, we’ve made it public.
Imagine George Steinbrenner insisting that New York City not build him a new stadium, but rather allow him to invest private funds to renovate the existing Yankee Stadium in exchange for a long-term commitment from the city. Dozens would be hurt in the stampede to get his signature on a lease before he changed his mind.
But not in Pittsfield. There, it’s one postponement after another. And who knows what they’ll decide?
Tonight’s plan called for Paula or Chip to leave a message on my answering machine at home, so I could call in and get it as soon as I was finished with my presentation in Cooperstown.
And so it was that at 9:46 on the evening of October 4, 2001, I dialed my number, punched in the code, and heard the following:
“Hey Jim, it’s Chip,” he said in a tired voice. “It’s about 8:35. Paula just dropped us off. The meeting was over rather quickly. And it was a five to zip vote. Against us, I probably don’t need to say. And boy, as soon as it was over, I just wanted to get out of there. Dusty Bahlman was there and he asked if I had any comment and I said no. So I think we just retire to South County and get on with our lives. It’s up to Pittsfield now.”
In spite of having anticipated this, my first reaction was anger. How could they do this, not to Chip and me, but to their fellow citizens? How will they face their neighbors? What do they tell their co-workers?
Then I calmed down. I felt sorry for them in a way. The parks commissioners were just pawns. It was never between us and Fleisig. It was between us and a new stadium. Us and the newspaper and the bank and the law firm. If Tom Hickey, the president of the City Council, had been taking “an unbelievable amount of shit,” imagine what the commissioners faced.
It was a decision driven by fear. They were afraid of the big boys and they were afraid of us. Afraid to engage us on the issues. Afraid to field questions. Afraid to sit down and try to work something out. But most of all, they were afraid to have their beliefs challenged. To believe in what they were doing—and they wanted to believe—they had to avoid us at all costs. Even if that meant twisting themselves into pretzels.
It’s no surprise that they voted unanimously. They needed to protect one another. Safety in numbers, even if it’s only five. If you rang doorbells in Pittsfield, you wouldn’t find one person who preferred Fleisig over us.
That’s why I didn’t take it as a personal loss. I didn’t feel defeated. I felt as if I had pitched a helluva ballgame and just hadn’t gotten the calls.
The umps were in the bag.
By the time I finally got home, it was about two o’clock in the morning. Paula, who had been sleeping with the light on, gave me a groggy kiss and pointed to her notes which she had placed on my side of the bed:
In the car on the way up, I’m tense and so is Cindy.
“I will never ever buy, own or carry a firearm,” she says emphatically. “I’m much too volatile.” Obviously, Cindy’s expectations are as gloomy as mine.
At a quarter to seven, all the seats are filled and people are standing in the hallway. A police officer in the back, next to Curt Preisser. Complaints, and nervous humor.
A nearby church bell begins to toll, loudly. Rick Scapin cocks his head in the direction of the sound and says, “That’s for us!” Cindy laughs. “Ask not for whom…,” she agrees.
Tony Massimiano reads a prepared statement. A line about Wahconah Park “not being available for high school football” jumps out. Even I know that’s not true.
Conant is next. He says he never saw a license agreement so how can he “vote on an agreement when I cannot read it?”
The guy called Smitty says the Bouton group has “some good marketing idears” [sic] but are in over their heads. All “sizzle and no steak.”
Jim and Chip are described as people who “fail to grasp the enormous responsibility” of caring for “this jewel in the system’s crown,” and who, unlike the charitable Mr. Fleisig, would keep revenues earned by the local high school for their own benefit. Derisive snorts and laughter erupt periodically from the otherwise well-behaved audience.
Wahconah is described as “a historic landmark” and “a national treasure” that must be protected from “private groups” who want to wrest control of this beloved park.
Cliff Nilan winds up by going clearly over the top. Handing over Wahconah Park to a “private group” would be “like a parent signing away the rights to his children’s future.” And then his “children’s children” would no longer be able to enjoy “the glow of Wahconah Park’s lights.”
I kid you not. Pukesville.
One by one they vote for “the Fleisig proposal.” And then it’s over. The audience files out quickly and quietly. There is bitter disappointment in the air, embarrassment.
Cindy, Chip, and I walk to the car without a word. Once inside, doors closed, Cindy turns to
Chip and sums things up:
“That’s it, Chip Elitzer.” Whenever she calls him by his full name, you know an important statement of policy is about to issue forth. “I don’t care what happens in January (meaning with the new administration). This has taken too much toll on our family. Pittsfield doesn’t deserve you.”
Amen to that. Let’s put it down and move on.
What I want to do now more than anything is give Jim a big, long hug.
And so she did.
CHAPTER 14
“The Secret Meeting”
FALL 2001
Peter Arlos called on the morning after the November elections. “Congratulations!” he said. “You won the mayor and six new council members.”
Naturally, he had predicted the outcome. “Sara Hathaway will defeat Jimmy Ruberto,” he had said. “The guy’s got everything—prominent family, Italian—made every stupid move in the books.”
He had also predicted the City Council winners and losers, including the defeat of Jim Conant.
Right after the Commission had handed down its decision, Conant had written a letter to the editor of the Eagle, which repeated the lies that Chip and I wanted to confiscate “high school game revenue” and prevent events “such as the candlelight vigil that was recently held at the park.”
“Conant can’t win,” Arlos had said. “He doesn’t have the brains God gave a billy goat. Callers have been giving him hell on the radio station. Here’s what I’m telling ya. People don’t like controversy. They don’t like noise. They got Peter Arlos. That’s enough.”
And they also had the Eagle, which provided a valuable guide for voters—in reverse. With few exceptions, whomever the Eagle endorsed, the people voted against, and whomever the Eagle ignored, they voted for. As a result, Ruberto, Conant, and Massery lost, and Arlos, Tuttle, Vincelette, and Arpante all won.
The only new-stadium guys who survived were Kerwood and Lee. Jonathan Lothrop, who just missed getting elected, was not helped by the Eagle’s refusal to give him credit—or even mention his name—for having sponsored the candidate’s petition that nearly forced a ballot question on Wahconah Park.