by Jim Bouton
Soon Paula arrived in her famous lime green jacket, the one she wears to Old Timers’ Games at Yankee Stadium so I can pick her out of the crowd from down on the field. It felt like a bouquet of flowers had just been delivered to the Council chamber.
The audience seemed to be composed of three groups: petitioners, politicians, and our supporters. The only anti-Wahconah person not part of a presenting team was our man Frank Bonnevie, standing over against the wall, karate arms folded across his chest, surveying the scene.
Maybe I was wrong about our chances in a fight.
As the room filled up, Chip and I sought out Cliff Nilan to see if he’d buy our home team argument and let us bat last. Nilan is a fit-looking fifty-four, with a gray brush cut and a Roy Rogers face. His youthful appearance, small stature, and serious manner combine to give the impression of a junior high school student-council president. Nilan also leads the league in tics and mannerisms, especially when he’s nervous.
Nilan listened to our request with a look of studied indifference. “Whatever you want,” he said. Then he tugged on his ear and ran a finger inside his collar.
Come to think of it, Nilan would make a good third base coach.
As Chip and I returned to our seats, Fleisig entered the room.
“Who’s that?” asked Paula.
“Fleisig,” I said. I recognized him from his picture in the paper.
Fleisig was accompanied by a small entourage, which included three men and a young, blonde woman. Fleisig is about six-foot-two, nice looking, about thirty-seven, with close-cropped curly brown hair. He looks like he could have been the president of his college fraternity, or a poster boy for the Young Republicans Club.
“Uh-oh,” said Paula.
“What do you mean, uh-oh?” I said.
“He’s got a beautiful speaking voice,” said Paula. “Deep and resonant, like a radio voice. And it really carries. Make sure that you speak up.”
It was a beautiful voice. And familiar, too. Seemed like I’d heard it just recently. On a web site, maybe. Something to do with a horse.
Of course, the first thing Fleisig did was go up and speak to Cliff Nilan. That can’t be good, we figured. And we were right. After few twitches and a neck crane, Nilan was signaling for Chip and me to come back up.
“Fleisig wants to go last,” said Nilan, reaching into his pocket. “So I’m going to flip a coin.”
Rather than risk losing our phone poll, Chip and I thought fast and proposed a compromise: We’d let Fleisig go last if we could each have a three-minute follow-up to the other’s presentation.
“What’s this going to be,” said Fleisig, “a debate?”
“Not at all,” said Chip.
“In any case,” I said, “you’d still have the last three minutes.”
Fleisig thought it over.
“I guess it’s okay,” he said, annoyed, even though he was getting what he wanted. “Let’s just get started.”
“Whatever you want,” said Nilan.
Satisfied that neither side had gotten an advantage, the Bouton and Fleisig teams returned to their seats.
“Look at Fleisig,” said Paula, giving me a nudge and nodding toward Fleisig, who was seated a few rows ahead and across the aisle. “A jacket, a tie, and no socks. Pure Hamptons.”
Finally, at 7:00 p.m., the long-awaited Parks Commission public meeting to entertain proposals for the use of Wahconah Park was called to order with an announcement by Chairman Cliff Nilan.
“The Commission has decided,” said Nilan, running a finger under his nose and stroking the full length of his tie, “that we would not have public input this evening and would just listen to the presenters presenting their proposals.”
So much for a public meeting.
Nilan’s announcement was accepted by the audience with a rolling of eyes and an exchange of glances and whispers. There were no raised voices, no shouts about democracy or power to the people. Just a resigned silence.
After thanking Councilor Gary Grunin and his Orders & Rules Committee for “letting us use this room,” Nilan introduced Councilor Matt Kerwood, who, Nilan said, “has a wonderful idea.” Kerwood’s wonderful idea turned out to be an Adopt-a-Park program for the city’s parks, modeled after the familiar Adopt-an-Ugly-Highway-Sign program where a company or organization gets its name on a billboard for cleaning a section of highway—or, more likely, pays cash for a billboard and lets the highway department do the cleaning. Next thing we’re going to see is Adopt-a-Canyon, or Adopt-a-Redwood Forest. Unfortunately, my Adopt-a-Driveway program still has no takers.
With that important business out of the way, Nilan introduced team owner James Ryan and commissioner Tom Hutton from the New England Collegiate League. This was the preliminary bout preceding the heavyweight fight. In summary, a Collegiate League team plays twenty games, and since it’s nonprofit, it can pay only part of the maintenance expense. Their presentation took about twenty minutes, but it seemed like forty. As a courtesy, the commissioners asked a few questions and the audience applauded politely.
The room grew still for the main event.
“Before Mr. Elitzer and Mr. Bouton come up,” said Nilan, “I want to recognize several councilors in the audience—Councilor Bianchi and Councilor Lee, President Hickey, Councilor Scapin, and Councilor Kerwood, and Councilor Grunin are here. And I think the city bodes well by these councilors showing an interest in this matter. Okay, Mr. Elitzer and Mr. Bouton.”
Chip, batting in the lead-off spot, moved to the podium. Facing the commissioners, with his back to the audience, he began by tossing thank yous around like bags of peanuts. He thanked the commissioners “as volunteers who often have a thankless task.” He thanked them for taking on the responsibility of caring for thirty parks, “something for which you are not often publicly thanked.” He thanked them for “taking upon yourselves the task of having to choose the best proposal.” He even thanked them for “giving us the opportunity” to speak in the first place.
Chip is nothing if not polite.
After introducing Eric and me from the audience, Chip brought up the list of eight “minimum criteria” that had been suggested by the Parks Commission. Chip said our proposal addressed not only those eight but “other important areas the commission may want to consider in evaluating not only us but the other people who are presenting tonight.”
Beginning with management.
“You’ve heard it said that the three most important things in real estate are location, location, and location,” said Chip. “In the same way, venture capitalists say the three most important things in business are management, management, and management.
“In Jim Bouton we have a former baseball player who’s also a writer, and in Eric Margenau we have a successful sports entrepreneur,” said Chip. “I’m the interchangeable piece—investment bankers are a dime a dozen.
“And since a partnership takes on all the attributes of its partners, we can say that our partnership has won twenty games for the Yankees, won several World Series games, and written a best-selling book. We can say that we have successfully owned and operated fourteen minor league sports teams, and that we were involved in taking Federal Express public.”
This reminded me of Bob Uecker’s line after his Milwaukee Braves roommate, home run slugger Eddie Mathews, had hit his 399th home run. Uecker, then a back-up catcher, went around saying, “Me and my roomie have 400 home runs between us.”
“You’ll find all this in the proposal we have submitted to you,” said Chip. “But you should rely not just on what we tell you about ourselves, but on what you can also learn independently.”
At this point, I had to stifle a smile because I knew what was next. Chip was taking a slight detour from the proposal.
“Here it comes,” I whispered to Paula.
“The Internet, for example, can be a source of information,” said Chip. “Go to one of the search engines, like Google. Type in the name Jim Bouton. Type in Eric Margenau
, Chip Elitzer. Learn about the other presenters, too. Type in Jonathan Fleisig.”
Sometimes Chip can be cruel.
Then it was my turn for the marketing and facilities portion of our proposal.
“Knock ’em dead,” whispered Paula, as I stood up to take my turn at the podium. For a guy who does motivational speaking for a living, I have to admit I was a little nervous.
“Our goal is to double attendance,” I began, “by marketing three underappreciated assets to local, regional, and national consumers.
“One, a locally owned team that will be a source of pride and stability, and a new reason to go to the games.
“Two, a legendary ballpark with its own logo and historic identity, whose quirky charms are as interesting as the game itself.
“Three, Independent League baseball, which offers superior play, more local players, and returning favorites.
“Our marketing strategy,” I said, “is based on ‘share of customer’ rather than ‘share of market.’ We want to capture for Pittsfield some of the tourists who are already flocking to Tanglewood, the Norman Rockwell Museum, Shakespeare & Company, MASS MoCA, the Williamstown Theater Festival, and the numerous restaurants throughout the county.
“Besides,” I said, “you can only eat so much sushi. Then you need to have a hot dog.” This got a laugh from the audience and a smile from the commissioners.
“Imagine Wahconah Park as a town square,” I said. “Where people come early to hang out, grab a bite to eat in our ‘Taste of the Berkshires’ food court, visit with neighbors. Imagine Pittsfield and Wahconah Park with their own jackets, hats, and T-shirts. Imagine a Walkway Museum and Hall of Fame with photos and artifacts going back to the late 1800s.
“Our plan calls for local, regional, and national marketing,” I said, “with placement of brochures in local B&Bs, cross-promotions with cultural organizations, and the inclusion of Wahconah Park on national historic site maps—the ballpark that refused to die.”
“As far as publicity,” I said, “reporters from around the country often call to ask what I’m doing these days. I tell them about everything except Wahconah Park—because I want to save that story until we’re ready. But I can open that tap at any time.”
As I was saying this last bit, the commissioners looked uncomfortable. Especially Nilan, who played with his pencil and pretended to look at some papers. The others looked down, or at each other.
“As year-round custodians of an irreplaceable asset owned by the city,” I said, launching into the facilities part of our plan, “we plan to invest no less than $250,000 in capital improvements before Opening Day 2002.”
This was our big surprise and I paused to let it sink in.
“A quarter of a million!” I said. “Invested right here in Wahconah Park. Something no team owner has ever done before.”
The only reaction to this from the commissioners was a decided non-reaction. It was as if I had said we were going to add an extra water fountain.
“In addition to the $250,000,” I said, “our partnership will pay for all maintenance and repairs to Wahconah Park, on a year-round basis. Repairs that have cost the city of Pittsfield more than $500,000 over the past five years. That $500,000 could pay for a lot of street lights. Or a fire truck. Or high school sports.”
I talked about improvements that would be phased in over the years. How we could alleviate flooding in the parking lot. How we’d enlarge the locker rooms and restrooms. How moving the concessions from under the wooden grandstand would reduce the risk of fire. How an $80,000 paint job with an undercoat and rust protection would be better than the usual quick spray-paint. How our Not-So-Luxury Boxes would be compatible with the style of the stadium.
“We are going to do things right,” I said. “Long-term. And permanent.”
Then, like a tag-team match, I turned it back over to Chip.
“As far as a long-term lease or license is concerned,” said Chip, “we believe Pittsfield is best served by granting us a time frame that enables us to plan projects and commitments from the perspective of an owner, not a renter. This contract could be canceled by the city immediately upon our failure to provide any one of the following:
“One, professional baseball.
“Two, a minimum of $250,000 invested by opening day 2002.
“Three, a minimum of $25,000 annually in capital investments.
“Four, year-round maintenance and repairs.
“Five, reasonable use of Wahconah Park for other events.”
At this point, I began to notice a certain stillness in the room. The only movement—except for Nilan’s mannerisms, and the relentless vibrating of Matt Kerwood’s left foot, which looked like it had a motor in it—was the synchronized nodding of heads.
“This is not a ‘take it or leave it’ proposal,” said Chip, as if it needed to be sweetened any further. “We are willing to talk about any and all ideas the Commission may have to achieve the same ends.”
While the commissioners contemplated the ramifications of actually talking with us, Chip moved on to the ownership structure.
“By November of this year,” said Chip, “we will be making an offer to sell 51% of the team to a broad base of Berkshire businesses and individuals, with a preference for the citizens of Pittsfield. We will do it not because we need to do it, as has been suggested in some quarters, but for marketing and political reasons. Local ownership will provide a sense of fan loyalty to bring fans to the ballpark, and it will make it difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to move Pittsfield’s own ball team to another city.”
This earned a few positive grunts from old-timers in the audience who have seen at least seven different franchises come and go through Pittsfield over the past thirty years.
“Now I want to move on to the topic of league negotiations,” said Chip. “While we may seem to be at a disadvantage because we do not already own a team, the reverse is true. As my partner Jim Bouton wrote recently in a letter to the Berkshire Eagle, ‘If we already owned a team, we’d be shopping around for a place to play,’ just as our opponents tonight are doing.”
Chip reviewed the familiar scenario where cities woo teams to come or stay with expensive new stadiums or upgrades, at taxpayer expense, only to have them leave if the city doesn’t do more. He explained that to change that balance of power in favor of Pittsfield, we needed a lever—an exclusive lease or license for Wahconah Park—that would enable us to negotiate the best deal possible between the Atlantic and Northern leagues.
“We propose to take advantage of a reality,” said Chip. “Which is that it is Pittsfield that has the scarce asset—a proven market for professional baseball in a historic ballpark that fans are passionate about. And we are asking you, on behalf of Pittsfield, to back our play—and change the balance of power between cities and teams.”
That was my cue to join Chip at the microphone for the grand finale. After asking the Commission to “recommend our proposal and exclude all other proposals,” I made one last humble appeal—in the name of common decency and for the good of mankind.
“I would like to direct my final pitch,” I said, “to Mayor Doyle, who has said that he has an open mind. If the mayor will choose our proposal, we will invite him to come back from his retirement and throw out the first pitch on opening day. Thank you.”
Thunderous and sustained applause—plus a few whoops and hollers—emanated from our sixty or so supporters filling the last four rows of seats and lining the walls in the back of the room.
And it went on.
And on.
“Any, any uh…” said Cliff Nilan, trying to make himself heard. But the applause continued. This was well beyond the usual polite “smattering” or the hearty “hear, hear” applause.
“Any questions from the Commission?” implored Nilan, as the applause extended past the “pay attention, we’re trying to make a point” level, and veered perilously close to “you idiots better listen to these guys.”
“Commissioner Conant?” said Nilan, grateful to see a raised hand, as the applause continued.
Then finally the applause stopped, but it wasn’t happy about it.
“I want to compliment you,” said Conant, “on a well-done and thorough presentation.”
“We worked all day on it,” I said. A few people laughed.
“You worked more than a day, I’m sure,” said Conant. “The point I wanted to make was, there was continuous reference to a contract, but I haven’t seen any copy of it. And I’m not going to vote for any proposal if I don’t see a contract.”
“We don’t have a signable contract,” said Chip. “But what we have is a written and bound proposal, which lays out the principal terms, that Jim will be handing to you now.”
With a bunch of our spiffy-looking proposals in hand, I walked along the front of the dais and dealt them out like playing cards to the commissioners.
“We felt it would be presumptuous for us to draw up a contract and say, ‘Here, sign it,’” said Chip. “Normal business practice is that before you start the lawyers’ clocks ticking, you like to know that there is substantial agreement. What really counts is, Do you like our proposal? And are the principal terms we’ve outlined acceptable? And if so, either our lawyer or your lawyer can take the first cut at drafting a contract—and that can be done in a matter of days.”
For the next twenty minutes, the questions and answers generated a barrage of verbiage between us and the parks commissioners best summarized as follows:
Massimiano:
I just want to say that I have serious concerns about essentially turning over Wahconah Park to you, almost on an ownership basis, for a period of what you describe as thirty years.
Bouton: The only way to get anyone to invest the kind of money we’re talking about is to give them enough time to earn it back. Otherwise, you’re going to continue with Wahconah Park the way you have been—with a cheap coat of spray paint, rags wrapped around the pipes, and the place coming down around your ears.
Massimiano: Your statements that you would be the ultimate arbiters of who could use the park and that you would keep the fees for the use of the park—high school football and baseball use those fees to support themselves. I find that troubling.
