by Jim Bouton
Today’s Wall Street Journal had a few things to say about Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs and the second-oldest ballpark in the major leagues—built in 1914, just two years after Fenway Park in Boston. In its “Review & Outlook” column, the Journal congratulated the Cubs’ owner, the Tribune Company, for spending its own money—a modest $11 million—to upgrade the ballpark:
When ordinary people want to fix up their homes, they generally don’t knock them down and build from scratch. But when taxpayers foot the bill, ambitions become more Neroesque. Earlier this year the Pittsburgh Pirates razed a Three Rivers Stadium that was only 30 years old in favor of a far grander new stadium also funded by the public—and despite a public referendum that had rejected it.
Pittsburgh. Pittsfield. See any similarities?
On this topic, the argument used by Berkshire Sports & Events to justify a new stadium—that most of the $18.5 million cost would come from state money, not Pittsfield money—is very misleading. Aside from the question of why state taxpayers should have to finance distant stadiums, there is the matter of the hidden cost to the cities that use those state funds to build stadiums. States don’t have “stadium” money. They have “economic development” or “regional tourism” funds available for certain projects. If a city chooses to build a stadium with its share of that money, then it can’t build something else. It can’t go back to the state and say, “Thanks for the ‘stadium’ money, now we’d like some ‘concert hall’ money.”
Chip called this afternoon.
“I took a friend to watch a game at Wahconah Park last night,” he said “and I went up to the press box to say hello.”
“How was the view?” I asked, wondering what it would look like from our Not-So-Luxury Boxes on the roof.
“Fantastic,” said Chip. “We could sell twelve to fourteen season boxes at $5,000 each—if the structure can support them.”
“The key thing,” I said, “is to build them from the same materials as the rest of the stadium, with open-air sides and backs, so they’re perfectly compatible—to keep the landmark designation.”
“We’ll have engineers and preservationists check it out,” said Chip. “As soon as we get the lease.”
“What’s happening on that front?” I asked. “Did the Eagle run your op-ed piece?”
“Yes they did,” said Chip.
“It’s a good thing,” I said. “Because your open letters and letters to Weiner and op-ed pieces were getting backed up like airplanes on a runway.”
“Or worse,” said Chip, “circling the airport waiting to land, and running out of fuel.”
“So what do you think our chances are right now?” I asked.
“Fifty-fifty,” said Chip.
JULY 21
SATURDAY—NEW YORK, NY
Old Timers’ Day.
At Yankee Stadium. I still get a kick out of walking in there. “I once pitched here,” I say to myself, almost in disbelief. How the hell did I do that? It seems so impossible now.
But then the fans remind you, in the most pleasant of ways.
“Heyy Bullldogg!” they holler as you get off the bus with the other players. A few old guys still remember some night that you fanned eight, walked two, and won 3–1. Nights I can’t even remember.
And then there’s the clubhouse, with the old timers sharing lockers with the current players, who are all six-foot-three. Moose Skowron, one of my favorite Yankees, believes the old timers were better. Still wearing his 1950s crew cut, he’s a little perturbed at me for thinking otherwise.
“Some of the guys are upset with you,” he says, sitting there in his baseball underwear, sipping a cup of coffee. “You shouldn’t be saying today’s players are better.”
“Who’s upset?” I ask.
“I’m not saying,” says Moose. “Just some of the guys.”
“It’s only one opinion, Moose. I’m sure I’m outnumbered.”
“You shouldn’t say it even if you think it,” says Moose.
Out on the field, the day explodes—reporters, cameras, fans, friends waving, people hollering. Keith Olbermann, my favorite TV sports guy, comes over with a prized treasure—a 1969 Seattle Pilots autographed baseball. I smile as I recognize the names, identifying one he couldn’t figure out. And I think to myself that I am holding a baseball that once sat in a box of a dozen, on a table in the tiny clubhouse at old Sicks Stadium. Four dozen balls a day that we never saw again.
“Where’d you get it?” I ask.
“eBay,” says Olbermann.
“What did you pay for it?”
“Nine hundred and fifty dollars,” he says. “A bargain.”
“If only we had known,” I say.
Before the game I warmed up with Rick Cerone, a Yankee catcher from the ’80s, who also happens to own the Newark Bears of the Atlantic League. I briefed Rick on our plans for Wahconah Park and told him we wanted to buy a franchise.
“It’s the right time,” he said. “We need another team.”
“When does the league have to know by?” I asked.
“September’s not too late.”
“I hope we know before then,” I said.
On Old Timers’ Day, the game itself is anticlimactic. If you’re a pitcher, what you try to do is not give up a home run, which is what everyone tends to remember. The problem is that the one thing the old timers can still do is swing a bat. What they can’t do is make a nice running catch in the outfield with the bases loaded when you need it. Hitting is what everybody wants to watch anyway.
Well, almost everybody.
Fortunately, my knuckleball was jumping, if you can believe that. Who knew that a pitch I learned when I was twelve years old would still be working fifty years later—at Yankee Stadium? But then how many pitchers my age have a sushi chef they can pitch batting practice to?
What happened in the game? Let the record show that the old right-hander pitched two scoreless innings, six up and six down. As a result, I may never get invited back again.
JULY 22
SUNDAY
Speaking of old timers, Alan Chartock turned sixty today. Paula and I drove up late from the city last night so we could attend the party today at his house in Great Barrington. As my gift to Alan, I didn’t say a word about Wahconah Park.
When I finally checked my phone messages, there was one from Gerry Denmark of Berkshire Bank.
“I just want you to know,” said Gerry. “That a letter went out to Andy Mick saying, ‘Thank you, but we’re going to dissolve BS&E. But we would support a new stadium if it went ahead.’ I hope that gets the ball rolling. I wish you luck.”
That was good of Gerry. It looks like the bank, at least, does not want to be seen as standing in our way. That’s a good sign.
JULY 23
MONDAY
Another good sign is the response we’re getting from the people of Pittsfield. Folks are starting to make phone calls, write letters, and lobby on our behalf. A local CPA named Sandra Herkowitz, for example, recently wrote to City Council President Tom Hickey asking how he could say that he hadn’t received our proposal yet, when in fact “on July 10 a proposal was faxed to Mr. Nilan, Mr. Doyle and to you.” She then wrote to Cliff Nilan, urging him to “expeditiously meet with the Bouton group.”
A fellow named Ken Ramsdell is making Wahconah Park a top priority for his Voter Vigilance Committee. And in addition to Dave Potts, Gene Nadeau, and Anne Leaf—the anti-Civic Authority activists who are solidly behind us—we have people showing up at council meetings to applaud and lend support. Chip and I now have a mailing list, a fax list, and an email list of the rapidly expanding group we call our “Wahconah Yes! Team.”
It seems like the whole town is behind us.
This morning, Chip and I were in-studio guests on the Dan Valenti Show and the lines were jammed with callers, all of them in favor of our plan for Wahconah Park. In fact, except for Frank Bonnevie, we have yet to find anyone except the mayor who’s publicly opposed
, and that includes public officials, candidates for office, and anyone who stops us on the street. Which is happening a lot since we had our picture in the newspaper.
“Please don’t give up,” people say to us in some variation or another. “We’re behind you.”
“We are not going away,” we tell them, which is how we signed off this morning on Valenti’s show.
“We’re like the U.S. Marshals,” I said to Chip. “Riding into town to save the people from the corrupt sheriff.”
“And his low-down, good-for-nothing deputies,” said Chip.
Late in the day, the news came down from Pittsfield. It arrived in a press release that someone had faxed to Chip. Jonathan Fleisig, owner of the Massachusetts Mad Dogs, the dormant Northern League franchise, had been welcomed this afternoon at City Hall by Mayor Doyle.
“Now we know why the park commissioners canceled their July 9 and July 23 meetings,” said Chip. “They were waiting for Fleisig.”
“And Fleisig was waiting until he had his deal worked out with the mayor,” I said.
The official announcement—FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE!—on City of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, stationery quotes the mayor as saying, “I was very encouraged by what Mr. Fleisig had to say about his ball club and his desire to explore the option of moving to Pittsfield…. We will evaluate his detailed and complete proposal along with any others we may receive.”
That same press release also quotes Fleisig: “The Mayor made it clear that he is open to all proposals for professional baseball at Wahconah Park and that if the Massachusetts Mad Dogs were to move here we would have to come up with the best proposal.” Attached to the press release is a letter from Miles Wolff, which says,
I have been following the story of Wahconah Park in your local paper in recent weeks. With regards to the proposal from the Bouton and Margenau group, I have never spoken with these men on the possibility of purchasing a franchise. I would like to make this statement as clear as possible. The Northern League does not have at this time an expansion franchise for sale, nor am I aware of any franchise negotiating with this group. Furthermore, sale of a franchise would need the approval of the Northern League board of directors. We would… encourage the Bouton group or other local interests to work with [Jonathan Fleisig], not against [him].
For the long-term success of professional baseball in Pittsfield, we all believe a new stadium is necessary in the future. However, in the short term the Northern League can operate in Wahconah Park until plans for a new stadium are finalized.
Well.
Between Doyle and Fleisig and Wolff, it’s hard to know where to begin. There are so many marvelously revealing comments.
Like all that business about proposals. The Mayor calls Fleisig’s proposal “detailed and complete,” but he says that it will still be evaluated with any other proposals “we may receive.” And Fleisig says that “the Mayor is clear that he is open to all proposals,” and that “to move here we would have to come up with the best proposal.” Is there some doubt about proposals being fairly evaluated?
It’s so transparent—like what a four-year-old might volunteer without being asked: “I didn’t take any cookies out of the cookie jar.” Oh, really? Let’s go take a look. Except you probably wouldn’t do that for fear you’d embarrass the child.
Which is how I feel about Miles Wolff. I’m embarrassed for the guy. I know him as a man who loves baseball, who once owned the Durham Bulls AA baseball team in the Carolina League, and who once wrote a fine novel about that experience called Season of the Owl. Now, here he is, pressured into creative writing of the worst kind: lying by omission. Specifically, the omission of Chip Elitzer from the “Bouton and Margenau group,” who Miles claims to have “never spoken with… on the possibility of purchasing a franchise.”
The “Bouton and Margenau group”?
Now I’ve seen our three-man partnership referred to—in short-hand—as “The Bouton group,” or the “Bouton and Elitzer group” (because Chip and I are carrying the ball at this point), but never as the “Bouton and Margenau group.” What stories in our “local paper” has Miles “been following”?
Why might Miles have excluded Chip Elitzer? Maybe because on June 22, Miles and Chip had an extended phone conversation about our plans for Wahconah Park and the possibility of our group buying a Northern League franchise. To include Chip he’d have to lie outright about having “never spoken” with us. Of course then he wouldn’t have been able to cast doubt on our credibility in favor of his man Fleisig, which was the point of his letter.
“Miles Wolff’s statement that he never spoke with us is absolutely Clintonesque,” said Chip, using one of his favorite terms of endearment.
You do have to give Wolff credit for one bit of honesty, however, no matter how unintended the consequences. His comments that “we all believe a new stadium is necessary in the future,” and that “in the short term the Northern League can operate in Wahconah Park until plans for a new stadium are finalized,” couldn’t be more clear about his and Fleisig’s intentions. I guess we can now add them to the list of people publicly supporting a new stadium in Pittsfield—a list that consists of a lame-duck mayor, a karate school owner, and a fellow named Ever-Scrib.
The good news is that since we knew Fleisig was coming, I had already started drafting a response. All it needed was some editing, which in my case means I would be working on it for several hours. Or as Paula says, “However many hours you have.”
By 11:00 p.m., I still wasn’t finished.
“I’m getting ready for bed,” said Paula.
“It’s only 11:00, Babe,” I said. “I’ll be there in a half hour.”
At 11:20, I went to print it out and my computer froze, losing the entire letter. The entire goddamned letter. Now I know there are people who in this circumstance simply push the shift key, the escape key, and the tab key, while simultaneously holding down the control key with their big toe and poking a small triangle thing on the side of the computer with the end of a paper clip, and the letter magically reappears on the screen, but I’m not one of them.
Fortunately, I had saved some of it to my desktop and I was able to reconstruct it. At half past midnight, I went on the Internet to email it to Chip, but before I could hit the send button I received an instant message.
Chip: Is that you Jim?
Jim: Yep. I’m finished.
Chip: Don’t fax it, you’ll wake up Cindy.
Jim: I wasn’t going to. I’m emailing it. Fax me your suggestions in the morning. Good night.
Chip: Good night.
At 4:50 a.m. I hear the fax machine. I quietly get out of bed, close the door to my office so as not to wake Paula, and look at Chip’s edits. I like them. I don’t want to wake up Cindy so I go onto the Internet. Before I can hit the send button, an instant message comes on the screen.
Chip: I’m pissed. What we need is a truth squad.
Jim: I like our rapid response strategy.
Chip: We have to beat the story to market. Help people interpret the news.
Jim: Which needs a lot of interpreting.
Chip: We should add one more paragraph calling for an open debate.
Jim: Good idea. Then I’ll email it back to you.
Chip: I’ll send it to our fax list. You send it to our email list.
Jim: Talk to you later.
JULY 24
TUESDAY
At breakfast this morning I was bragging to Paula about how Chip and I would be quoted on the Dan Valenti Show today at nine o’clock about a story that won’t hit the streets until ten.
“It’s a slugfest,” I said. “They throw a left and before it lands, we smash them in the mouth with a right.”
“The mayor is going to think you stayed up all night writing that,” said Paula.
In my response to the mayor’s welcoming of Fleisig, I had asked, “What are the options for Wahconah Park?” And I listed five alternatives to our proposal:
1. Col
legiate League team that cannot afford to pay for repairs.
2. New York–Penn League team that would require a temporary waiver from the league to play in a substandard facility.
3. Independent league team owned by outsiders looking to play in a new stadium—such as Fleisig.
4. Any team whose owners are connected to BS&E.
5. Do nothing, which would run out the clock on our plan.
“All of the above options,” I wrote, “have the same common denominator: no long-term commitment to Wahconah Park, which therefore makes them acceptable to the Mayor and the new stadium die-hards.
“Only our proposal,” I concluded, “offers the commitment to Wahconah Park desired by the vast majority of citizens. We call on the candidates to state their position on our proposal as a clear signal to voters and current elected officials that they understand and respect the wishes of the people.”
Not the most stirring prose, but clear enough.
What did the Eagle do with the Fleisig story?
On the front page, under the headline FRANCHISE OWNER STEPS UP WITH WAHCONAH PARK PLAN, there was a story by Dusty Bahlman and a picture of Fleisig holding a ball. Bahlman had not challenged Miles Wolff’s lie by omission that he had “never spoken” to “the Bouton and Margenau” group. In fact, Bahlman quoted it. But he also quoted Chip as saying that we had spoken to Miles Wolff, without addressing the contradiction.
Bahlman also quoted Chip’s description of the Fleisig proposal “as a means to keep the cause of a new stadium in Pittsfield connected to political life support systems.”
The only deception was a subheading that quoted Mayor Doyle saying, “Mr. Fleisig brings to the table an established ballclub.” In fact, Fleisig has a dormant franchise, not an established ballclub. His Massachusetts Mad Dogs played only two years in Lynn—1998 and 1999—before he left town rather than pay for ballpark repairs.
