by Jim Bouton
This was too much for the audience. Amid the laughter, a number of people hollered out “So what?”
Kerwood: So what? The answer to the question ‘so what?’ from my perspective is that now if someone goes in and votes three yeses, are they truly giving you a representation of what they feel or are they going in just to vote three yeses across the board? You could say well, the greatest number of yeses wins, but that’s going to be dictated by voter turnout.
People were laughing derisively—maybe because they expected more from the Western Massachusetts Director of Economic Development. (I’m not making that up.) Kerwood became even more agitated.
Kerwood: Excuse me, I have the floor. We listened to you guys. I am stating my opinion, and what I believe, and whether you like it or not, the system as outlined, can be subject to manipulation…. You know, people can disagree with me but that’s my opinion and if we’re talking about the democratic system and a process of fairness, we know that whether you like it or not there are people out there that are going to try to manipulate the system, be dishonest, not play by the rules, I mean that is just a fact of life, and I think last Tuesday probably was a good demonstration of the fact that not everybody plays by the rules.
The audience groaned loudly at the reference to 9/11. But there was no stopping an idiot on a roll.
Kerwood: We’ve got to make sure that the system is as foolproof as possible… but again, that’s my opinion, and until we can resolve this issue I don’t feel comfortable voting on the amendment.
The dialogue went on in this vein, but for all intents and purposes, it was over. Without Brassard, it was clear that the ballot question would be defeated 6–5. The only thing that remained was a further glimpse into the minds of some Pittsfield city councilors.
Massery: This country has gone through too much, this city has gone through too much…. There’s no way I’m going to support this. And none of us should. Let’s just forget about it.
Guzzo: It’s non-binding. It’s advisory. I mean, come on. Look what this issue has put this community through. I’m still trying to get over it and I’m a pretty strong individual.
Bianchi: Maybe baseball is not a top-ten issue, but the principle of allowing people to have a voice in what happens in this community is. And I believe we are on the verge of making a change in how things are run.
But not tonight.
After voting 6-to-5 against putting the question of who should get Wahconah Park onto the November ballot, the Pittsfield city councilors moved on to new business—their American flag ties and lapel pins firmly in place.
SEPTEMBER 21
FRIDAY
Peter Arlos called this morning. He said we didn’t have to worry about last night.
“You guys are in,” he said, in his all-knowing guru voice. “You just gotta wait. You’ll be a lot stronger by Tuesday.”
By that he meant the primary election. Arlos believes the two mayoral candidates will be Sara Hathaway and Jimmy Ruberto.
“Ruberto is a new-stadium guy,” said Arlos. “He would have voted for the Civic Authority. Sara is for you guys. She’s got a little class about her.”
Arlos also made a prediction about Bossidy.
“The state isn’t going to give Bossidy any money,” said Arlos, scoffing at the notion. “The economy is collapsing. Hotels are empty.”
The Oracle of Delphi has spoken.
SEPTEMBER 22
SATURDAY
“It’s not about saving Wahconah Park anymore,” said Chip. “It’s about beating the evil empire.”
Chip and I spent the morning running back and forth in his driveway, spraying Day-Glo orange paint through hand-made stencils onto three-by-four-foot poster boards, then quickly setting them out to dry ahead of threatening clouds. The posters said “Wahconah Yes!—Petitions—Sign Up Here.” The reason for the Day-Glo was so that people could see them at night if they came directly from work to vote in Tuesday’s primary election.
This would be our last stand—a balls-to-the-wall effort to get as many signatures as possible between now and October 5, the date of the Parks Commission decision. The signed sheets would have no legal authority; it was too late to force a ballot question. But they could have a psychological impact, especially if we got something like 8,000 signatures—more than the number of votes that defeated the Civic Authority—and plopped them on somebody’s desk.
Whose desk, we’d worry about later.
We had spent most of yesterday on the phone with our supporters, putting together teams to man the polling stations. Or rather stand in the vicinity and corral people before or after they voted. Tomorrow we’d be meeting with the Wahconah Yes! team at Bagels Too, to hand out materials and go over strategy. As if it were a perfectly normal way to spend a weekend.
“We are now over the edge,” I said to Chip, surveying a lawn filled with large Day-Glo spray-painted cardboard squares. “We are crazed warriors. All or nothing. Do or die. Ahabs chasing the whale.”
Tonight in the car, on the way to dinner. Paula and I talked about the “crusade.”
“Chip and I are those rare individuals who could pull off something like this,” I said. “Who else could do such a thing?”
“Single people, mostly,” said Paula.
SEPTEMBER 23
SUNDAY
Big day today.
I picked up Chip at eleven o’clock for the drive to Pittsfield and our noon meeting at Bagels Too. We had wanted to make it earlier but too many people said they wouldn’t be back from church yet.
The trunk and back seat of my car were piled high with supplies—thirty posters, ninety-six clipboards and pens, a ball of string to tie the pens to the clipboards, scissors to cut the string, 5,000 proposal summary handouts, and 1,500 petition sheets. And we already have about 500 signatures from Rick Jones’s aborted petition drive.
We were loaded for bear. Not to mention wolves, weasels, and horse’s asses.
As we drove through Pittsfield in our jam-packed car, we joked about getting stopped by the police. In my best Slim Pickens voice I tried to imagine what that might be like.
“Well, well, well, loookie here. Ah do declare. If it ain’t Mr. Jiiim Booo-ton and Mr. Eee-litzer. I’ll just have ta call down ta the Mayor’s office and see what he wants ta do with you boys. Heh, heh, heh.”
A half-dozen supporters were already waiting when Chip and I arrived at Bagels Too. They helped us unload the stuff from the car and began tying the pens to the clipboards. Others moved tables around to make room for the stacks of materials that would go to the teams manning the polling stations. By noon, the room was filled with people tying, sorting, and stacking. And asking questions.
What happens if it rains? Bring umbrellas. Are we allowed to set up tables? No. What if somebody tries to stop us? Tell them you have the right to be there. And get the names of anyone who hassles you!
When it seemed that everyone was there, and before people started leaving with their materials, Chip stood up to explain the mechanics of the plan, review the handouts, and try to solve any problems.
There were fourteen polling stations. We still needed captains and workers for some of them. Maybe we could move people from stations where we had a surplus. Polling station 6B had workers but no captain. Katy Roucher knew some people who could help out. Morris Bennett had an extra worker. The room was buzzing.
Then Dave Potts, who had been standing quietly on the periphery with his wife, Grace, just observing, raised his hand. To tell us, basically, that we were overplaying ours.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” said the firebrand-turned-mayoral candidate. “The people are pretty worn out on this issue from back before you came along. And you got them on your side now, but you don’t want to go too far, be too pushy. You don’t want to alienate them.”
The room got quiet. Suddenly the air had been sucked out. Here we were with all these people, and everything spread out on the tables. Several team members had alre
ady left with their materials. What was Potsy suggesting? That we just scrap the whole thing?
There was that word again. Pushy. And while we needed to be pushy with the opposition, we certainly didn’t want to do it with our supporters. What Potsy was saying made me uncomfortable, but it felt right. Maybe we were about to cross a line. Chip looked like he was ready to say something. I wanted to head him off.
“I think we should listen to what Dave is saying,” I said, jumping in quickly, before Chip could defend our plan—if that’s what he was thinking of doing.
“The other thing is this,” said Jim Moran, a tall, slim man with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses. “If you don’t happen to get a majority, on a rainy day when people are in a hurry, they’ll say we lost our own vote.”
That one really hit home—rekindling my fears about the phone poll. I looked over at Chip, who was looking back at me. We smiled reluctantly. We knew they were right, without having to talk it over.
“Let’s have a show of hands,” said Chip, as a nod to democracy—or a last-ditch effort to salvage the day. “How many agree with what Potsy and Jim Moran are saying?”
Just about every hand in the room went up. There were even a few sighs of relief—including my own. The petition drive was dead.
“But what are we going to do with all these clipboards?” I said, trying to be funny.
“We can save them for the 44A petition drive,” said Potsy, and everyone laughed.
The 44A charter provision is vital to what I refer to as Pittsfield’s “marching veto” form of government.
“We’ve done it before,” said Potsy, “and we’ll do it again.”
Then they all helped load the stuff back into my car.
“Dave Potts should be the mayor of Pittsfield,” I said to Chip, on the way home. “If he can stop us with a few words, he can stop a freight train with his bare hands.”
We talked about what a shame it was that Potts probably wouldn’t survive the primary vote on Tuesday.
“He’s a little too plain spoken,” I said.
“A Jimmy Stewart type,” said Chip.
What was interesting was that Potsy had tapped into an unspoken feeling among the group that our petition plan was too much. Why hadn’t anyone else said anything? Probably because they didn’t want to hurt our feelings. They know how hard we’ve worked on this, and they didn’t want to disappoint us.
Sweet people.
SEPTEMBER 24
MONDAY
There was one good thing that came out of last week’s City Council meeting. The last item of business was a Peter Arlos petition recommending that the Parks Commission hold a public hearing before they make a decision. It passed unanimously. When something important looks like it’s going to pass, they vote unanimously.
Finally there will be a public hearing—the first ever on this issue—at a time to be announced by the Parks Commission.
I’m figuring it’ll be on a Sunday at about 4:00 a.m.
SEPTEMBER 25
TUESDAY
Today I drove Paula to Newark for her flight to Amsterdam. She’ll be spending a week with her daughter Hollis and Hollis’s Dutch husband, Gert Jan, who are expecting a baby.
This was our first time in the New York area since 9/11.
Our first glimpse was from a distance—across the Hudson River. I never thought I’d be so shocked to see nothing. Nothing but a gaping hole in the skyline. And I never liked the World Trade Center, to be honest. I had always thought it was unimaginative and out of scale. And yes, arrogant. But now I missed it dearly. Missed it as a place where people lived and worked, and that now symbolically represented our entire country.
Looking at the empty space, with the smoke still drifting up, was disorienting. I wondered what new horrors might be in store for us. What would happen next? But I kept these thoughts to myself because they were not airplane flying thoughts.
“I can’t even look,” said Paula, and she focused her attention out the other window.
Before 9/11, Paula liked to get to the airport three hours early. Now she had to be five hours early. I went into the airport lounge and held her hand until she had to go through the machines.
Then I kissed her goodbye, trying hard not to wonder if I would ever kiss her again.
When I returned to the empty house, I called Chip to see what had happened with the primary. He said it had rained most of the day. Our petition drive would have been a soggy mess.
SEPTEMBER 26
WEDNESDAY
I woke up this morning with a simple idea: do nothing.
Don’t follow up with Frank Boulton on an option beyond 2002. Don’t meet with Sara Hathaway or Jimmy Ruberto. Don’t write letters to the editor or op-ed pieces.
Don’t push, but don’t go away.
Sometimes I think our persistence lulls people into thinking we’re going to somehow make it happen. So they’re letting us carry the ball—with their invaluable help, of course. But they need to take over. It’s their game, their city. We’ve done all we can do.
Leave it to the people now. Let the Parks Commission choose Bossidy. Let the City Council ratify the lease. Let the people organize a 44A against the ratification. Or, if the mayor signs a lease, let the new administration overturn it—if that’s what they want to do.
That might extend things beyond the point where we could still field a team in 2002, but it would give us the whole summer to prepare properly for 2003. And while we were fixing up Wahconah, we could stage some baseball events there. Maybe an Old Timers’ Game. Weekly clinics. I could call up my friend, Bill Lee, the “Spaceman,” and schedule a game of local players versus his Gray Sox, touring ex-major leaguers. I could pitch for either team. I’m certainly local enough. And gray enough.
I called Chip to tell him what I was thinking, about us doing nothing at this point and leaving it up to the people.
“It wasn’t what I had in mind,” said Chip, “but I think you’re right. It feels right. That’s the way to go.”
It felt even more right when the primary results were announced. These were the people who should be leading the way.
Just as Peter Arlos had predicted, it will be Sara Hathaway (39.2%) versus Jimmy Ruberto (31.9%) for mayor. Their closest competitors were former Mayor Reilly (8.4%), Gary Grunin (6.1%), and Dave Potts (4.2%). Five other candidates split the remaining 10.1%. According to Katy Roucher, the reason Potsy scored so low was that a lot of his supporters voted for Hathaway because they didn’t think he had a chance. I still think Potts would be a good mayor. A Harry Truman type.
The top vote-getter among the at-large candidates for City Council was none other than Arlos himself. I figure it was only modesty that prevented him from making that prediction. Unfortunately, Rick Jones was eliminated and Kerwood, Lee, and Massery are still in contention. Jonathan Lothrop, who is also still in the running, finished just behind Massery.
But no matter what happens with the four at-large spots, Chip and I calculate that the combined new City Council—which includes the seven ward councilors, with Bianchi, Guzzo, and Scapin running unopposed—will be at least 7–4 and possibly 8–3 against a new stadium and in favor of our proposal for Wahconah Park.
I called Arlos to congratulate him on his first-place finish and his prognostication skills.
“Nice going,” I said. “You’re batting a thousand.”
“You know what my strength is?” said Arlos. “Keep out of view.”
“That’s what Chip and I are going to do,” I said.
“The Eagle is calling the candidates about baseball,” said Arlos. “Jack Dew called me. I had to weave it in carefully. I told him the fact is that the $8 million isn’t there [for Bossidy]. And the council meeting last week was really about the abdication of democracy, not the ballpark.”
“He doesn’t want to hear that,” I said.
“Then he’s talking about you guys,” said Arlos. “And the quarter of a million dollars you’re going to p
ut in. He says, ‘How do you know those guys are serious, that they’re not fakes?’ I said, ‘They’ll get a bond.’ He found everything wrong, the park doesn’t qualify. He gave me every reason.”
“He’s only twenty-eight,” I said, “and he’s already a hack.”
“Bossidy can’t do this,” said Arlos. “He’s overwhelmed. He’s laying off people. He can’t put this together. The point is, everything is going your way. You just gotta be patient.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I said.
“I saw Cliffy today,” said Arlos, still savoring his big win. “I said, ‘Cliffy, I came in first without your endorsement.’ And he said, ‘I never want to speak with you again.’ There’s a lot of people who can’t handle criticism. You know what the key is? To be immune to criticism.”
“I was surprised to see Kerwood do so well,” I said, “after his performance the other night.”
“He was the only Republican,” said Arlos. “He did a mailing. And I told you what was going to happen to Grunin. He spent $40,000. That’s a hundred dollars a vote.” [Grunin actually got 807 votes at $49.56 each.]
“How much did you spend?” I asked, because I knew the answer.
“Nothing,” he said. “You know, I’ve been around a long time. I’ve been a shoe-shine boy, a paper boy. I was a three-sport guy—football, basketball, baseball. I even tried out for the Red Sox.”
“What was that like?” I asked.
“I’ve entertained you enough for the day,” said Arlos.
So I let him go. I knew he had to return to his duties as county treasurer, councilor-to-be, Oracle of Delphi, and noodge-at-arms.
