Foul Ball

by Jim Bouton

  But I knew immediately that she was okay or Paula would have said something right away. Liz—who I call “Shlibeth” because that’s what I called my aunt Elizabeth when I was little—is the executive director of the Lower Manhattan Council for the Arts, and part of our Berkshire family.

  “I was able to get through to her son Chris, the one who lives in Brooklyn,” said Paula. “And he said Liz was one of the last ones to make it out alive! She had had an early breakfast meeting with some guy, and he had to get to another meeting, so she went down with him in the elevator and she had just gotten off in the lobby as the first plane hit.”

  “Thirty seconds later and she would have been trapped,” I said.

  The temporary shiver of relief only emphasized the agony of what was unfolding on television. Paula and I stood and held each other as we watched the unbelievable scenes. People hanging out of windows, and looking down. For what? A net? A lower ledge? My God, what must that be like? The few times I’d been to the World Trade Center, I couldn’t go near those windows, and now people were hanging outside them!

  We saw people jumping, the only alternative to burning or suffocating. We cringed at the heart-stopping sight of a couple holding hands on the way down. I thought I saw a man pretending to relax in the air, with one knee bent and his hand behind his head, as if he were lying in a hammock. I thought that took tremendous courage and cockiness, and I wanted to know his name.

  Paula and I asked ourselves what we would have done.

  “I think I would jump, too,” said Paula, who is so afraid of heights she gets nervous when I go near a ledge of any kind. “For the sense of some kind of final choice.”

  “If we had been together we would have held hands, Babe,” I said. “And if I were alone, I like to think I would have had the nerve to do a swan dive, as a joyful ‘goodbye’ to my friends, and final ‘fuck you’ to the terrorists.”

  My heart ached for those poor people. I couldn’t bear to watch, and yet I felt I somehow owed it to them—to bear witness to their final moments.

  Later, we sought comfort with the Elitzer family.

  “At least you have your boys with you,” said Paula. “We wish our kids would come up and stay with us for a while. That’s why we built the house with all that extra space. Jim and I had actually talked about having a place they could all come and live if there was ever a disaster.”

  “It’s funny that we still call them kids, isn’t it?” I said, “Even though they’re all grown up. And they’ll never know how much we love them and worry about them, until they have kids of their own.”

  Cindy and Chip nodded in agreement and smiled lovingly at their boys. Daniel, Sam, and Jacob, three hip, former New York City kids who would normally have rolled their eyes at such sentiments, nodded thankfully, too frightened to do anything but snuggle close.

  Tonight’s Pittsfield City Council meeting was canceled, of course, as was a mayoral candidates’ debate at Berkshire Community College. No new dates were scheduled.

  It seemed as if the world as we knew it had been canceled.

  Everything was on hold.

  SEPTEMBER 12

  WEDNESDAY

  I woke up this morning with that awful, surprised jolt I used to get in the weeks after Laurie had died. Yes, it was true. It did happen.

  I couldn’t erase the terrible images. The sight of those people jumping. The thought of all those firemen running into that building, knowing it might collapse. All the families who’ve lost their own Lauries. Today, in bed, in the safety of Paula’s arms, I broke down and cried.

  I was also afraid. Afraid that it could happen again, the next time with nuclear weapons. All those Russian missiles, the dismantled ones stripped for plutonium, being offered for sale around the world. People hating us for no good reason. People hating us for plenty of good reasons.

  God knows we’ve made enough enemies. Supporting dictators around the world whenever it’s to our economic advantage. Buying Arab oil with dollars that are used to subdue the Arab people. Polluting the world in the name of progress. Refusing to sign any treaty that holds us to account or restricts us in any way. Paying less than our fair share.

  Who knows when or where the next attack will be? And what do we tell the children—the little ones?

  I remember when I was about eleven, I followed the Korean War in the newspapers. Every day they printed a map of Korea, showing the shifting battle line between the GIs and the North Koreans. The American space got smaller and smaller, until it was just a bubble at the tip of the peninsula.

  One night, before I went to sleep, I asked my dad if the North Koreans were going to push the GIs into the Pacific Ocean and then come over here and get us.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” said my dad, a Navy veteran who had been a PT instructor during World War II. “That won’t ever happen.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because the American fighting man is the best fighter in the world,” he said. “Nobody else comes close. In fact, Americans are such good fighters we can defeat armies in their own countries.”

  “And we have the oceans, too, right, Dad?” I said. “They could never cross the oceans.”

  “They could try,” he said, “but we would bomb them before they even got to the docks. And we have a country that can make anything it needs.”

  Then my dad would tell me the true stories about my uncles who flew bombing missions over Germany during World War II. And about my grandfather, Edgar Bouton, the Westinghouse engineer, who had helped invent the top-secret “deck-edge” elevator that turned the tide against Japan.

  Kamikaze pilots were disabling our aircraft carriers by flying down the elevator shafts located in the middle of the ships. Prior attempts at making deck-edge elevators—which could move laterally along both sides of the ship to bring up planes from multiple bays—had always failed because the ocean waves would sweep them into the water. That’s when Grandpa, and some others, came up with the idea for an elevator made out of tubes, which allowed the water to flow through the elevator.

  “It was so top-secret,” my dad had said, “that even today you can’t find any photographs of aircraft carriers showing the deck-edge elevators.”

  The American fighting man, the oceans, my uncles, Grandpa. It was all so reassuring. Especially when, a few weeks later, a new bubble appeared on the map of Korea. This one was way up north, above the bubble down south, cutting the North Koreans off.

  Dad was right! I had nothing to worry about.

  But what certainties can we offer children today when war can be waged with a bomb in a suitcase? And the enemy lives right down the street?

  How could this happen? I’ve heard people say. But how could it not, if you think about it. We’re sitting ducks.

  So what is one to do?

  As the comedian Mort Sahl once said, back in the ’60s, “You’ve got to fight the madness.”

  I thought that’s what Chip and I were doing, on a much smaller scale. But now there is a new and bigger madness in the land. How can we go back to Pittsfield and talk about ballparks, when real madmen are blowing up buildings with people in them? Would it be disrespectful?

  It’s the same thing I asked myself after Laurie died. How can we go on without Laurie? Without Laurie. It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t seem fair.

  Yet we did it.

  And as Chip said, “What else can we do?”

  What else indeed? I’m too old to reenlist in the army. The last thing they need is a sixty-two-year-old private first class, the highest rank I had achieved, fighting the battle of the New Jersey Turnpike down in Fort Dix, in 1963. No, my job now is to finish our minor skirmish here in Pittsfield. Fight the madness in my own backyard.

  Consistent with that charge—and while still glued to the TV—I decided to write another letter to the park commissioners. This is just a few notches down the futility scale from rowing a boat in the middle of the ocean.

  Dear Commi
ssioners:

  You could perform a great service with two simple actions:

  1. Take the ball away from Jonathan Fleisig, whose continued presence in the game blocks our ability to get a Northern League team and thereby improve our already superior offer for the benefit of Pittsfield.

  2. Recommend that a decision between the two remaining groups, Bossidy and Bouton, be left to the voters as a ballot choice in November.

  The benefits would be substantial:

  A. Mr. Bossidy would have extra time to refine his proposal.

  B. Our strengthened offer would raise the bar for Mr. Bossidy, maybe moving him to bring some serious jobs to Pittsfield. The Bossidy/new-stadium group would have to continually sweeten its offer to beat us out.

  C. Unfair pressure would be removed from your shoulders, and no one could complain about the result.

  D. The baseball matter would finally be over in November.

  E. The losing group could happily support the winning group, knowing it was their competition that generated the best deal for Pittsfield.

  F. Cliff Nilan and I could shake hands at home plate.

  Sincerely,

  Jim Bouton

  Then I attached a separate sheet that matched our proposal against Fleisig’s, in a “Tale-of-the-Tape” comparison—the way they do with boxers before a big fight. But instead of Height, Weight, and Reach, I used categories like Immediate Capital Investment, Percent of Maintenance Costs to be Assumed, and Percent of Local Ownership. It looked like an upcoming bout between Mohammed Ali and Mister Rogers.

  Tonight we had Cindy and Chip over to our house for dinner, the Elitzer boys having decided to be with their friends. Paula told the boys that if they had any inkling that they might not be safe, they should call and we would come get them.

  Chip said he thought Frank Boulton might have lost some friends yesterday. Frank used to work for Cantor Fitzgerald, whose offices were on the top floors of the World Trade Center.

  SEPTEMBER 13

  THURSDAY

  Amazingly, life moves on. The mundane ordinariness grabs our attention and we turn to it with guilty relief.

  And so it becomes somewhat noteworthy that yet another candidate has signed Jonathan Lothrop’s petition, asking the City Council to put the Wahconah Park question onto the November ballot. It is now clear, from the candidates who have signed, that no matter which way the November election goes, there will be at least a 6-5 majority on the new council in favor of our proposal. What good this will do if the Parks Commission has decided in October in favor of Bossidy or Fleisig is anyone’s guess.

  Chip and I decided not to attend tonight’s memorial service for the World Trade Center victims at Wahconah Park, scheduled by Mayor Doyle. We thought it would look like grandstanding. We’re not citizens of Pittsfield and we didn’t want to assume a relationship beyond what already exists, whatever that is. We did find it interesting, however, that the mayor chose Wahconah Park as the city’s most appropriate gathering place.

  SEPTEMBER 14

  FRIDAY

  Chip called Frank Boulton today and learned that he had indeed lost a lot of his friends and a family member at the World Trade Center. His wife’s youngest brother was killed, leaving three children and a pregnant wife. Frank was at his office in the ballpark, though, even with no games being played right now.

  “The ballpark is my refuge,” Frank said.

  Chip dodged a bullet with Frank about our ballpark—he avoided getting bad news from the Atlantic League. We need to keep the Atlantic League option alive going into the next City Council meeting, now scheduled for the 20th. Otherwise, if asked, we’d have to say we have no team and no options at the moment, allowing our opponents to freeze us out for what they would say are our own shortcomings. But we’re still in the game.

  And Wahconah Park is our refuge.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Somebody get Mr. Bossidy a chair”

  SEPTEMBER 15

  SATURDAY

  Chip and I decided to pay a surprise visit to Rick Jones this morning. It was pretty obvious he was no longer running the petition drive—he had not made or returned any calls, there were no banners in the store windows, and the team captains were saying they hadn’t heard from him after sending him their signed petition sheets. In fact, they were now holding on to them.

  For the hell of it, I called UPS to see if the Wahconah Yes! buttons had been delivered. The answer was yes. “Saturday, September 8, at 10:47 a.m. Package left on rear porch.” That was a week ago.

  We felt pretty certain that we knew what had happened—Tom Murphy had scared him off. The trick was going to be getting Rick Jones to admit it. Since I had been the one to recruit Rick in the first place, I told Chip I should carry the ball, and he agreed.

  When we arrived at Rick’s house, we understood why the buttons had been left on the rear porch. The front porch was under construction, with a gaping hole in the ground and two-by-four supports holding up a small overhang. It was a small house in a neighborhood that seemed to be under, or in need of, repair. A “Rick Jones for City Council” sign was stuck in the ground next to a mailbox by the street. Rick’s truck was in the driveway.

  We rang the doorbell, but nobody answered.

  “When I look at this house,” I said to Chip, “the word vulnerable comes to mind.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s home,” said a woman in the next yard, who was repairing a wall that had collapsed.

  Thinking Rick might be at his girlfriend’s house, I called him on my cell phone. He answered.

  “Hi Rick,” I said. “This is Jim. I’m over at your house with Chip. We were in town and thought we might pick up some petition sheets and get an update on what’s happening.” Rick said he would put on some clothes and be right over.

  About twenty minutes later, a pickup truck pulled into the driveway. Rick got out, looking very wary. We invited him to breakfast at a local diner. He agreed to come. We sat in a booth, Rick on one side, Chip and I on the other. It was 8:45 a.m.

  “So what’s happening?” I said, very friendly.

  “Nothing,” said Rick, looking nervous. “I’ve been busy.”

  I let his words sit there without saying anything, a neutral expression on my face. Rick’s brown eyes shifted back and forth between Chip and me. Except for the thinning hair, he could have passed for a high school kid who had just been called into the principal’s office.

  I smiled at Rick, who got a quizzical look on his face.

  “I want to apologize to you, Rick,” I said sincerely, because I meant it. “I take full responsibility for putting you in this position. I did not take into consideration the pressures you might have to face.”

  “We’re sorry for pushing you into heavy traffic,” said Chip.

  “What are you getting at?” said Rick.

  “Here’s the chain of events,” I said, gently. “Tom Murphy leaves a message on your answering machine and suddenly there are no window banners, no buttons, only a few petitions, and no returned phone calls. If you were watching a detective movie and saw that, what would you think?”

  Rick’s eyes got a little watery.

  I reached across the table and touched his arm.

  “I admit I backed off,” said Rick, embarrassed.

  “What did Murphy say to you?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” said Rick, a little too quickly.

  “Nothing?” I asked, incredulous, looking directly at him. He knew he couldn’t get away with that.

  “He just asked me why I was against a new stadium.”

  “That’s it?” I said. “I thought he wanted to meet with you.”

  “We never met,” said Rick. “He never called back.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said, calmly. “You had never spoken to Murphy before in your life and all of a sudden he calls up and asks why you’re against a new stadium? What was he doing, taking a belated poll?”

  Rick fell into that state known as �
�a loss for words.” He smiled as a holding action, thinking hard with his eyes.

  “When did Murphy say that?” asked Chip.

  Rick swallowed hard.

  “Here’s something that did happen,” he said, in a sudden burst.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Stanley called… and chewed my ear off for an hour,” said Rick. “He said, ‘The mayor is out to get you.’”

  “Who’s Stanley?” I asked.

  “The plumbing inspector,” said Rick. “The mayor called Stanley and said, ‘Who the fuck is this guy? I want to pull all his permits, all his boss’s permits. I want to see if he’s been moonlighting.’”

  “In other words,” said Chip, “the mayor said he was going to fuck you.”

  “That’s exactly what he said,” said Rick.

  There was a moment of silence while Chip and I digested this.

  “You know that’s against the law,” I said, evenly.

  “It’s a violation of the Bill of Rights,” said Chip. “Freedom of speech and freedom of assembly. A mayor and an incumbent city councilor making antidemocratic common cause.”

  “You should take this to the newspapers,” I said.

  “I’ve already done something about it,” said Rick. “Stanley is writing a letter to the mayor saying, ‘Here’s the information you requested on Rick Jones.’ And he’s going to give me a copy.”

  “If you make it public before the City Council meeting on Thursday,” said Chip, “you could have a positive impact on good government.”

  “That’s the thing about Gerry Doyle,” said Rick, now getting fired up. “Nobody ever stands up to him.”

  “It’s your civic duty and your boss’s civic duty to tell the story,” said Chip.

  “You’d need to get it to the Eagle by Tuesday,” I said.

  “I’ll get the letter on Monday,” said Rick.

  The three of us finished breakfast and Chip and I paid the bill.