Chapter Eight

Education, Power, and the Political Arena

Politics is a simple word that means very different things to different people. For me, my first real education in politics didn’t come from campaigns or party meetings—it came from observation.

That education began at Albany Academy.

Even at a young age, I understood that Albany Academy was more than a school. It was a training ground. I went to class with the children of politicians, power brokers, and people whose names carried weight far beyond the campus. What struck me most wasn’t ideology, but behavior—how influence worked, how alliances formed, and how rules bent quietly for those who knew how to use them.

Years later, when I stepped directly into the political arena myself, I realized how familiar it all felt. The same dynamics were present. The same patterns. Money and politics running on parallel tracks, occasionally separating but always reconnecting in the end. Once you’ve seen it, you see it everywhere.

Why I Ever Got Involved

People often ask why someone like me would ever choose to get involved in politics. The short answer is this: I talked myself into it. Twice. And both times, I swore it would be the last.

There is something intoxicating about the idea of influence—even when you enter with good intentions. Power has a way of convincing you that you can fix things from the inside. That belief is what pulls people in. It’s also what chews them up.

Looking back now, when I consider whether actions taken against me later in life may have been politically motivated, I don’t dismiss the possibility. Politics has a long memory, and threats—real or perceived—are rarely forgotten.

The 2015 Town Supervisor Race

In early 2015, roughly two years after my retirement from law enforcement, the local police union was locked in a contentious contract dispute with the town supervisor. Support from leadership was minimal, and tensions were high. Union signs were everywhere. People were paying attention.

That spring, the Republican Party announced its slate of candidates. Among them was a young attorney, Jim Foster, running for Town Supervisor. Jim had grown up locally and graduated from Bethlehem High School before returning from New York City. He was a good man with good intentions—but he had one major obstacle: most people didn’t know who he was.

At the same time, two Town Board seats were up for election, but only one Republican candidate had stepped forward. The second seat was vacant.

I thought about my Uncle Carl, who had been deeply involved in local politics in Otsego County. He was a small-town businessman who took care of people quietly and consistently. His reputation mattered more than party labels. I believed—perhaps arrogantly—that I had built a similar kind of goodwill over a lifetime.

No one approached me. No one recruited me. The idea came entirely from my own head.

I asked Jim to meet me for coffee. I told him plainly: his vision aligned with mine, but his anonymity was a problem. I proposed a simple strategy. I would run for the open Town Board seat, walk the town with him, introduce him to my network, and draw voters to the ticket. Even if people didn’t vote for him, I encouraged them not to vote for the incumbent—while voting for me.

It nearly worked.

After an election with over 10,000 voters in a town of roughly 40,000, Jim lost the supervisor’s race by seven votes. I lost my race by about 240. Had I not run, Jim has since said he would have lost by over a thousand votes.

There was talk within the party, unbeknownst to me at the time, of pushing Jim aside and sliding me into the supervisor’s slot. I’m glad that never happened. That election could have altered my life—and not for the better.

What I learned was invaluable: I could move numbers. I could organize. And perhaps most importantly, I had just proven that I was a threat.

Once the brief arrogance wore off, clarity followed. I did not belong in that arena. I had no financial insulation, no appetite for cultivating the kinds of alliances that politics demands, and no tolerance for the dirt required to survive long-term. The game was ugly, and I was too clean.

The Second Lesson (2019)

In 2019, after moving into a new home, I found myself drawn in again. This time, it involved an open seat for Albany County Legislature District 36. A long-time conservative incumbent was vacating, and the political climate—particularly in the wake of the #MeToo movement—made the outcome predictable.

Initially, I tried to convince my then-wife to run. She declined, wisely. Eventually, with no one else stepping forward, I convinced myself I could handle it. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I had been researching and preparing since October—voter data, turnout models, outreach plans. The party, however, didn’t get serious until January. When I arrived at the committee meeting to be voted on, I discovered—without warning—that someone else was running.

It became clear very quickly that this was not accidental. I WON the Republican line decisively, but the other candidate retained the Conservative line and ran in opposition. The race turned ugly fast, and I realized I was fighting not just an opponent, but my own supposed allies.

That experience ended my involvement with the party entirely. I resigned from the committee the following year. That was when I finally understood something fundamental: there are no teams in politics—only temporary alignments. Of sound mind, I withdrew registration from ANY party.

Behind the Curtain

Politics will use you, drain you, and discard you. It is a money game, and if you cannot afford to lose—financially, emotionally, or reputationally—you shouldn’t play.

Once you’ve seen behind the curtain, conversations with most people become difficult. Debates about voter fraud, for example, miss the point entirely. It exists. It always has. On both sides. The only real argument is who does it more effectively. I didn’t learn that from theory—I learned it from experience, including from people who proudly wore the opposite party’s label.

When I turned sixty, I realized something bittersweet: the best part of aging is what you learn. The worst part is also what you learn.

Final Advice

A few years ago, a young man I’d played baseball with as a teenager was referred to me for advice about running for Town Supervisor. I invited him to sit on my porch and gave him the only honest guidance I had left to offer.

1 Don’t do it.

2 Run, and run fast!

He didn’t listen.

He lost by the usual large margin.

Some lessons can’t be taught. They have to be lived.