Foul Ball Page 5

  “Structured baseball?” When I hear nonsense, I get nervous.

  We had a great time tonight at the Jacob’s Pillow Gala, the annual fund-raiser for the famous dance festival. Lawns, tents, candles, the whole thing. Paula and Cindy are on the Gala Committee, which means they get to stuff envelopes and write little notes on the invitations that say “Hope to see you there” and “Will you be needing another table for ten this year?” And buy new outfits. Chip and I had responsibilities, too. Our job, besides wearing assigned clothing, was to meet and greet, and dance with our wives for the entire evening—without ever mentioning the words Wahconah or Park.

  So the first guy we ran into asked us how things were going up there in Pittsfield.

  JUNE 17

  SUNDAY

  Well, what do you know? Maybe there’s hope for the Eagle after all. In his “City Limits” column, in which he calls us an “intriguing trial balloon,” Dan Valenti writes, “It’s early going with much to be said and specified, but with that footnote, I’m throwing my early support behind [Jim Bouton’s] plan.”

  Valenti also happens to be Pittsfield’s most popular radio talk show host. It figures that he would look like a hippie, at least according to the picture that appears with his column. Right on, brother!

  JUNE 18

  MONDAY

  Big meeting with Mayor Doyle this morning. I picked up Chip at 7:30 at his home in Great Barrington, about thirteen minutes from my house in North Egremont. When you make the same trip over and over, you get to know precisely how long it takes. Like our drives to Pittsfield when we used to play squash at the YMCA: thirty-six minutes from Chip’s house on a nice day, in the off season, mid-morning. We’d take a slightly different route each time to see how many seconds we could shave off. We always took the back roads, past woods and streams and old barns. On some routes we’d let beauty trump efficiency until we ended up with the perfect drive.

  One time we saw a fox in front of his den and since then we never fail to look for the fox, no matter what else we have on our minds. And we have plenty on our minds—like politics and world affairs, none of which we agree on. Another time we rescued a box turtle from the middle of the road and transported it to a swampy area behind Chip’s house. Were we nature lovers doing the right thing, or misguided “do-gooders” taking a turtle away from its eggs? Just the kind of topic to eat up thirty-six minutes.

  On the drive up to Pittsfield today we talked about the mayor’s show of support for the New England Collegiate Baseball League.

  “We can’t share Wahconah Park with a college league team,” I said. “That would mean baseball every night of the summer. It’s too much of a drain on the facility. You need the road trips to get the field back in shape, clean the locker room, make repairs, stuff like that.”

  “Plus,” said Chip, “a nonprofit collegiate team would draw too many fans away from us—the ones paying the expenses.”

  “The mayor probably knows that already,” I said. “But most people wouldn’t.”

  “We’re going to look mean-spirited if we decline to share the ballpark,” said Chip.

  “Maybe that’s the idea,” I said.

  “The other thing the college league does,” said Chip, “is fill Wahconah Park until a new stadium can be built. That’s what the Mayor has said he still wants to do.”

  “Why is he still talking about a new stadium?” I said. “He’ll never get reelected on that. What do you think the benefits are for him?”

  “Maybe it’s the legacy thing,” said Chip. “Mayor Doyle Stadium.”

  “Maybe they’re going to let him play third base,” I said.

  “What we have to do,” said Chip, “is to win him over and let him take credit for the idea. Same thing we offered to Berkshire Sports & Events.”

  “If the meeting doesn’t go well today,” I said. “I’d like to try something a little offbeat. Get close to the bone. Ask how he’d like to be remembered by his grandchildren. Does he want to be remembered as a politician who just served his time? Or as a man who stood up to power?”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” said Chip. “If you can find the right time to say it.”

  We parked next to City Hall in a one-hour spot. We figured the meeting shouldn’t take much longer than that since the mayor’s secretary had said he had meetings all morning long. We let her know we had arrived, and we waited in an outer office where we examined an assortment of plaques on the wall that paid tribute to Mayor Doyle. Several of them commemorated the 1998 settlement agreement with General Electric, in which GE has to compensate Pittsfield for decades of dumping PCBs.

  After about five minutes of plaque viewing, we were ushered through a small anteroom into “the corner office,” as Dan Valenti likes to call it. This is a not-very-large, high-ceilinged room with wood paneling, tall windows, and a dusty-rose carpet. A large, framed photograph on the wall features Charles Hibbard, the first mayor of Pittsfield. The date reads 1891.

  Mayor Gerald S. Doyle, Jr., son of a former Pittsfield commissioner of public works, rose from his desk to shake hands. Also greeting us was Tom Murphy, the director of community development, whom we remembered from the North End restaurant, and who we’ve learned is the mayor’s cousin. A regular family dynasty. There was a hearty hello all around—four guys looking to work things out.

  Doyle, tanned and fleshy with a balding dome, settled into his swivel chair, looking somehow retired. His style, as exhibited this morning and at the Bousquet meeting last week, is a combination of regular-guy affability and unjustly accused fury, creating the overall impression of a pugnacious maître d’.

  Murphy, a tall, puffy-faced man with thinning blond hair, is a second-banana type of guy. A right-hand man who sat to the right of the mayor with a pad of paper on his lap.

  Murphy started it off with small talk about some problems they were having with the newspapers and the police officers’ union. Then things veered to the Bousquet Ski Area where George Jervas had apparently violated some building codes by laying water pipes close to electrical lines, but the city had given him a break, and he would never be a problem.

  I wondered what Murphy meant by that.

  After about half an hour, with Chip and me smiling and nodding, the mayor finally said, “Let’s talk about Wahconah Park,” and lit a cigarette. Instinct told me not to ask him to refrain from smoking.

  “First of all,” said the mayor, “you sent your open letter to the wrong guys. The City Council doesn’t run this town, I do. The people you need to see are the park commissioners—who make recommendations to me. And on Wahconah Park, it’s not a lease, it’s a license agreement that I negotiate. All it needs is my signature and I don’t have to get anybody’s approval.”

  It’s good to be the king.

  Chip and I, as humble servants, then delivered our pitch, the highlight of which was that the mayor could be a hero. “The people want our plan for Wahconah Park,” we said, “and that issue alone could get you reelected.”

  The mayor and Murphy seemed to be attentive as Chip and I spoke, the mayor puffing on his cigarette and gazing into the distance, as if the logic of our plan was somehow sinking in. We had already been there for over an hour and there was no effort to discourage us, as there had been at the North End restaurant.

  At one point the phone rang, and the mayor’s eyes rolled up. Grabbing the receiver, he listened for about three seconds and shouted, “That fuckin’ asshole’s a waste of time!”

  Greatly irritated, the mayor punched a button on the phone, listened for a second and said, “Very.” Then, after about five seconds of highly annoyed listening, he said, “Fine.” Then he hung up.

  Sometimes it’s not good to be the king.

  But our meeting was going well. So well, in fact, that I had no need to deliver the “close to the bone” speech I had suggested on the drive up. It would have been out of place with a mayor who seemed to be considering what we had to say. And we couldn’t believe how m
uch time he was giving us. What had happened to all his meetings? Chip joked that we were probably going to get a parking ticket.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said the mayor. “If you get a ticket, just send it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

  It’s good to know the king.

  With nothing decided, but nothing rejected either, the meeting ended. And as Chip and I walked out the door, we offered the mayor one more shot at the legacy thing.

  “You could be known as the mayor who saved Wahconah Park,” I said. “I can see you throwing out the first pitch on Opening Day.”

  Doyle and Murphy both smiled at the thought. Murphy probably figuring he could be the ball boy.

  And when we got to my car there was no ticket on the windshield—possibly because of a job action by the police officers’ union.

  Following our meeting with the mayor, we looked for a place to eat. It had to be someplace local because we had promised to meet a writer from the Pittsfield Gazette, a small weekly newspaper, at the Pittsfield Astros Media Day at Wahconah this afternoon. The season is about to start in the New York–Penn League, which plays from now until the end of August.

  After driving up and down North Street, we settled on the Lantern, a dimly lit joint with neon beer signs and curtains in the window. The place had “great burgers” written all over it—the kind of place we could never take our wives, due to the conspicuous absence of free-range mesclun greens and roasted-vegetable gallettes drizzled with a housemade coulis of hoisin sauce and double-crusted fennel seeds.

  Chip and I ordered burgers and talked about Mayor Doyle.

  We agreed that if he really wanted to be reelected, he’d back our plan for Wahconah Park—unless he’s already accepted his reward for supporting a new stadium. On the other hand, he had seemed to be open-minded, even asking for a letter describing how we plan to proceed. We were optimistic. And the burgers were great.

  “Did you notice that he looks like Tony Soprano?” said Chip.

  “Let’s hope he’s not armed,” I said.

  Media Day is where reporters wander around the field with cameras, notepads, and tape recorders asking players and coaches, and a manager (called “the skipper”) how the ballclub is shaping up and what kind of year they’re going to have. The correct answers are “Good hustling ball club” and “We’re going to surprise a few people.” This actually gets written down and recorded, and then everybody eats lunch consisting of cold cuts and potato salad.

  Today the Pittsfield Astros—last year known as the Pittsfield Mets until the major league Mets ended their working agreement with owner Bill Gladstone, who then hooked on with the Houston Astros, and who next year will be moving to a new stadium in Troy, New York—said hello and goodbye to Pittsfield.

  Media Day was scheduled for ten-thirty in the morning, so it figured to be mostly over by the time Chip and I got there. We didn’t want to steal any thunder from the Pittsfield Astros, who will need all the noise they can get, so we just skirted around the periphery of the ballpark.

  After speaking to the guy from the Gazette, we were spotted by Dan Valenti, who came over to say hello. I could tell it was Dan because he looked like his picture and he was wearing jeans and a flowered shirt to complete the ensemble. Dan is a skinny little guy, with glasses and shoulder-length hair streaked with gray. He looks like a wasted guitarist from a ’60s rock band.

  We thanked Dan for his support yesterday and complimented him on his independence. Considering the position of his bosses at the Eagle, was he ever worried about losing his column? “If it happens, it happens,” he said. “That’s the small stuff. Besides, my column is good for their credibility. And I don’t need it.”

  Freedom is never having to say “I need it.”

  The next thing we did was check out the possibilities for two ideas for revitalizing Wahconah Park. First was our “Taste of the Berkshires” food court—a collection of booths featuring specialties from local restaurants that would augment the hot dogs and beer. The second was our “Not-So-Luxury Boxes”—a retro version of corporate suites that would go up on the roof, if it can take the load.

  That’s when we ran into Rick Murphy, the general manager of the Pittsfield Astros. Rick, who’s in his mid-thirties but looks like a kid, is the cousin of the mayor’s right hand man, Tom Murphy, who, of course, is also a cousin of the mayor. Anybody who is anybody in Pittsfield is related to somebody who is not just anybody.

  “What is this, Appalachia?” said Chip.

  We introduced ourselves and asked Rick if he had a moment, but he acted as if we had asked him for his wallet. He cocked his head at a funny angle, took six steps backward, and began squinting at us. Since he was now out of range for civilized conversation, Chip and I took a few steps forward. Rick took a few steps back. Forward, back. Forward, back. It was like at a cocktail party where some overbearing guy with bad breath and no respect for personal space marches you across the room—only we were the guys with the bad breath.

  Finally accepting Rick Murphy’s six feet of personal space, we asked why he seemed reluctant to speak with us. With his mouth twisted in what looked like pain, which I first thought might be from the braces on his teeth, Rick let on that he didn’t appreciate what we had said about him.

  This came as a surprise to Chip and me since neither of us had ever heard of him before. What had we said?

  “I’d rather not talk about it right now,” said Rick Murphy, squinting and puckering his lips as if he were sucking on a lemon.

  After a halting discussion about why “right now” might or might not be the best time to talk, Rick finally allowed as how he was offended that our marketing plan called for a more aggressive promotion of Wahconah Park—as if he’d been sitting on his hands for three years. In spite of the fact that we had never mentioned Rick Murphy’s name or his marketing program, being gentlemen, Chip and I apologized for any negative inferences that might have been made. Then we asked him if he had any thoughts about working with us in a possible transition.

  Murphy, still cocking, squinting, puckering, and backing off, now folded his arms.

  “We might consider selling you our mailing list,” he said.

  JUNE 19

  TUESDAY

  At about five o’clock this morning I heard a noise coming from my office, which is right next to our bedroom. “What’s that?” murmured Paula, lying next to me in a full spoon. “Sounds like the fax machine,” I said. Paula buried her head in the pillow. “I told you we shouldn’t have put your office next to the bedroom,” she said. I promised to redesign the house after lunch and got up to close the door.

  But before I closed it, I took a peek to see what Chip had faxed me—because I knew it was from him. Chip, whose office happens to be next to his bedroom, now has Wahconah Park on the brain, and he can’t sleep if he’s got a brilliant idea, or if a letter has to be drafted. Cindy, who is less articulate than Paula at five o’clock in the morning, just groans before she rolls over. Chip says Cindy expresses her thoughts to him later in the day.

  Today’s fax is Chip’s response to Mayor Doyle’s request that we describe how we plan to proceed. I added my two sentences, and Chip faxed it to the mayor, who is probably not sleeping at City Hall.

  Chip’s detailed letter described four steps:

  1. Acquire a long-term lease from the city.

  2. Buy an independent league franchise.

  3. Sell stock to local citizens.

  4. Improve Wahconah Park.

  The first step is getting the lease. This is the asset that will allow us to get the best deal for Pittsfield. Unlike team owners who use their league franchise to play one city against another, we’ll use Wahconah Park to play one franchise against another. They will be the ones who need us, instead of the other way around. Pittsfield will control its own baseball destiny. That’s the key to our plan.

  And right now, we’ll be able to bargain with franchises from two leagues—the Atlantic and the Northern. But
we can’t buy the team first. Because we’re dedicated solely to Wahconah Park, it would be folly to buy a team—or pay for an option we might not be able to exercise—on the mere hope of getting a lease on Wahconah Park.

  However, with a lease in hand and a buyer’s market—there are three dormant franchises in the Northern League and an expansion franchise possibility in the unbalanced seven-team Atlantic League—we could easily negotiate the purchase of a franchise within a few weeks. And we wouldn’t need to sell stock just to buy a franchise that will probably cost less than $500,000.

  We can take our time selling stock—to cover whatever we don’t put in ourselves—while we field bids to improve Wahconah Park. Chip, who has raised millions of dollars for all kinds of deals, has good reason to believe we’d be oversubscribed.

  Immediate improvements to Wahconah would include bigger and better restrooms, our Taste of the Berkshires food court and Not-So-Luxury Boxes, and exterior painting. Longer term, we envision expanded locker rooms, a walkway museum, and a Hall of Fame.

  In his letter, Chip also reminded the mayor that he and Eric Margenau and I come with substantial credentials: “Our partnership brings over fifteen years of experience in building and running successful minor league sports teams. Of the fourteen professional teams currently or previously owned (eight of them baseball), twelve are enduring assets in their original cities. The other two are thriving in new homes after being forced to relocate by affiliated minor league stadium requirements.”

  But it all starts with the lease, and the sooner we get it the better. “Although we could wait until Labor Day and probably still make the 2002 season,” Chip wrote, “we would benefit greatly from a decision while most of the 2001 season remains to be played.”