John Delach

Part One: The Big Orange Dog

Harry was the first of the big orange dogs who became our family dog and showed us why Golden Retrievers are special. He set the standard for all to come. Bright and alert, his favorite pastime was swimming in the still waters of Stone Pond in Marlow, New Hampshire. Stricken with arthritis early on, his passion continued even when walking became difficult. We rigged a wooden ramp covered with carpet fabric to assist him getting into and out of the back of our truck. We chauffeured him to local ponds and his nose sensed water before he could see it. Excited and agitated, he had little patience until he knew we had arrived at his favorite destination.

Disregarding his infirmity, he rushed from the truck as soon as we opened the rear gate and jumped into the pond. Strong again, he started swimming and what a swimmer he was, fast and smooth with deliberate strokes that created a graceful wake that spread across the water as he progressed in his pursuit of the tennis ball I had launched from the shore. To accommodate his range and speed, I hit the ball as hard as I could with an old Prince tennis racquet. Upon reaching the ball and capturing it in his mouth, he would return in his triumphal and graceful manner. As soon as he reached shore, he released the ball, turned and plunged back into pond swimming in the direction that he anticipated I would hit the ball next. Watching for the telltale splash, he picked up his pace and swam in that direction. If he didn’t see a splash in a timely manner, he lifted his chest out of the water and began swimming in larger and larger circles until he spotted the floating ball.

Time and again, he continued to retrieve balls without noticeable fatigue or loss of interest. His endurance never ended. It was me who finally gave up on the idea that I could outlast him. Once, out of the water, his pain and stiffness returned and he let me help him back into the truck. When necessary, I lifted him in my arms so that he didn’t have to negotiate the ramp. I didn’t mind getting drenched in the process.

Part Two: Morning Swim

Instinctively, she senses the water. Perched on the back seat of our SUV, Maggie extends her nose out through the partially opened window, her senses and  experience tell her that this is the way to the beach. Like a child, after a long automobile ride to a favorite seaside destination, she cannot contain herself as the Gulf of Mexico reveals itself.

Mary Ann lets us off before continuing on to her journey to her morning tennis lesson. Maggie and I will make our morning trek along the beach and back to our Sanibel rental. Maggie is a maniac, an ill-behaved Golden Retriever who luckily found her way to the two of us who can deal with her insanity.

Once on the ground, I place my hand under her collar. Tugging, bucking, crying, she pulls me along until I secure my footing into the sand. I speak to her as I look up and down the beach. “It’s okay, Maggie, it’s okay.” The beach is clear; only a few early morning shellers, no unattended children and no other dogs. I take her collar in one hand and draw her close making her leash go slack. With my other hand, I open the clasp and let go.

Maggie crouches and pushes off with all her strength, kicking up sand as she bolts toward the water quickly closing the distance until she reaches the surf and plunges in. She swims through small breakers, turns, catches the next wave and body surfs back to shore.

I jog toward the sun and Maggie darts ahead, establishing her own routine. She explores the beach, searching for sticks and coconuts to carry, sea gulls and osprey to scatter, or a decaying fish to sniff and, if its scent is acceptable, to roll upon.

“Maggie, stop that.” I yell, but she ignores me until I have moved too far ahead for her to be comfortable. She stops and trots to catch up, overtakes me and veers back into the water, tail held high, to ride the surf again.

And so, our morning routine unfolds until we reach the public beach  populated with a few early arriving families ending my insane Golden Retriever’s daily morning activity to run freely and frolic in the surf.

She understands. I attach her to the leash as we begin our land journey back to the rental. I am proud that she loves swimming so much. When she came to us, she didn’t know how to swim. We taught her using tennis balls having her fetch them at the water’s edge. We threw them further and further until she had to accept floating and began to understand how to swim and reach them. Maggie quickly caught on to what being an aquatic retriever was all about and she even learned how to body surf.    

As we walk back to the house, she’d looks at me and whines. I look back at her and say: “It’s okay girl, tomorrow is only a day away.”

Fog, not dense, but persistent, reduces visibility forcing James Russell-Dunford, the captain of the Maasdam, to warn us that he might be forced to abort the planned west-to-east transit of Prince Christian Sound. “We will be approaching an entrance to the sound in a half-hour. Helicopter observations report the sound to be ice-free, but we’ll have to see if the fog persists when we reach the entrance before I can commit to a passage.”

As he maneuvers the cruise ship, the fog dissipates revealing the mouth of the fjord and the brown-gray rock that is Greenland. Still Captain Dunford remains cautious, “I may have to turn around if conditions deteriorate, but right now I am satisfied with visibility and ice conditions.”

His caution is warranted. The Maasdam carries almost 1,300 passengers and a crew of over 500. Even though visibility is greatly improved, the day promises to be wet and cold enough to force me to prepare carefully before I venture out on deck to observe and photograph this passage. No shorts this July 23, 2010; the air is close to winter here in the North Atlantic.

I don jeans and a golf shirt, rain pants, a nylon wind breaker, wool vest and a water-proof rain jacket. I cover my head with a Tilley rain hat; grab a towel to protect my digital camera when not in use and off I go to the open stern of the ship. I pick the stern to document this passage avoiding the wind, spray and misery of the open bow.

What a passage! The low-lying rocks that frame the entrance quickly rise up to form  rugged and barren cliffs with peaks close to 5,000 feet producing canyons that tower over the ship. How different it would have been had sun been out, but the low clouds and mist add drama that trumps color. The passageway twists and turns as the captain navigates the ship through channels that narrow to less than 300 feet. Layers of clouds wrap around the cliff faces, clinging to the sides obscuring their flanks, but allowing crags and peaks to poke through. Other times, the drab gray, brown and green formations rise triumphantly free of the mist.

I am able to roam the deck freely taking photos from various vantage points as not many of my fellow “cruisers” delight in taking on the cold, rain and wind. Those that do don’t stay long and our ranks are thinned to a foolish and hearty few after the first hour.

Waterfalls drain pockets of ice and snow, so many that soon I take them for granted. The channel follows a crazy quilt pattern with twists and turns revealing new drama. Glaciers descend down mountains, some directly into the sound. They calve icebergs that dot the sound. Fortunately, the bergs are widely spaced and do not pose a danger. The captain’s enthusiasm grows as we continue and, at some point he silently decides we will complete the journey including a side-trip to the lone Inuit village in the sound.

Approximately 150 men, women and children inhabit Aappilattoq, an isolated hamlet of  small metal-sided houses perched precariously on flat rocks and earth at a junction of canyons. Painted bright blue, red, and yellow, they clash with the dull, dreary land; appear transient, as if by tomorrow they will be gone without a trace.

The inhabitants fish for sustenance and hunt seal to make a living. The captain sails the Maasdam past the village into a wide basin to make a 180 degree turn to continue the west – east passage. The ship’s horn bellows as we complete the turn calling out boats from the village, white open skiffs propelled by huge outboards. Four appear, a single man in the first, two in the second, six in the third including three children and three adults in the last. Two of the drivers stand steering by means of long handles attached to the motors. They wave and take photographs of us as we take photos of them.

Before lunch, my wife surprises me with a welcome cup of hot, thick Dutch pea soup the crew is serving on several decks. It is so good that I have more with lunch; a welcome respite from the wind and rain. But I don’t tarry and I leave my wife and mates to resume my vigil. Not one of them thinks to join me and I can’t blame them.

The rain is relentless, ultimately forcing me to seek shelter where I wait and watch for the next bend in the channel, the next waterfall, iceberg, mountain top or glacier. Covering the top of my camera with a succession of dry towels, I dash out to photograph each scene before making my retreat.  When we leave the sound just after 4 pm, I have taken over 250 photos. Tired and wet I am pleased with the experience, especially since my expensive Nikon digital camera survived the elements.

What an experience. A glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey is my delight as I remove my soaked gear, take a shower and prepare for dinner.

Goal Line Stand

John Delach

October 2026

Last Sunday, October 4^th, I attended the Giants home game against the Arizona Cardinals with my son, Michael and his two sons, Drew and Matt.

I am going to keep this piece simple and ignore the ride to and from Long Island to New Jersey, the comradery, the good food, drink, the conversations at our tailgate, the weather, and our trek into and out of the stadium.

I am going to ignore the back and forth scoring that occurred during 95% of the contest and concentrate on the last 5% of this game.

Please note that I can’t identify almost all of the names of the players who participated in the action. Also, my timing is close, but less than accurate.

As this scene opens, the Giants have just committed a pass interference penalty giving the Cardinals a first down, eight yards from the Giants goal line at our end of the field giving the four of us a bird’s eye view of Big Blue’s goal line stand.

The Giants are winning by six points meaning the Cardinals must score a touchdown to tie the game and a single extra point to win the game. They only have eight seconds left on the clock with no time outs left.

The Cardinals decide not to call for a running play because, if the runner fails to score, time will run out before they can run another play.

The entire crowd is standing. And completely engaged hoping our team prevails:

First down: The Cardinal QB throws a ball toward his receiver in the end zone that the Giants defender breaks up for an incompletion and no flags.

Second down: See the First down above.

Third down: See the First and Second down above.

Fourth down: Four seconds left, cornerback Banks picks off the pass and returns it 102 yards for a touchdown as time runs out…and no flags!

Mike, Matt, Drew and I were crushing each other, jumping, stomping and shoving in ecstasy. Our buddy Jeff jumped on our pile joining us in our celebration of one of our Giants biggest goal line stands of all times.

What a hell of a win, and a win is a win, is a win!

Go Giants.   

President Trump made another basic change to the White House grounds, as usual,

without seeking Congressional approval. Curiously, this time, the media and all of us who react angrily to these decisions seemed to ignore it.

He approved the construction of a 100-foot in diameter helipad surface consisting of four-inch-thick durable granite slabs sourced from a California quarry designed to resist the intense heat and exhaust from the newer, heavier Marine One helicopters. It is located on the south lawn of the White House that was regraded so that the pad is completely flat and level with the horizon.

The Presidential Seal covers the entire diameter of the pad with an eagle-shaped centerpiece. Trump autographed the back of that piece before it was put into place.

Beyond helicopter landings and takeoffs, the sturdy pad is to double as a platform for outdoor events, gatherings and cocktail receptions. 

The defense contractor, Lockheed Martin paid for the project. (Sikorsky, the Connecticut based helicopter manufacturer, now a subsidiary of Lockheed Martin, built the new presidential copters.)

After a great deal of debate, Congress, the Defense Department and the Marine Corp agreed to introduce the Sikorsky VH-92A Patriot Helicopter as the new chopper for the presidential fleet. The Patriot replaces the Sikorsky VH-30 Sea King that had been in use for four decades. No matter your political beliefs, I believe, “It’s about time.”

Why a concrete helipad? After all, helicopters have been using the White House South Lawn as a landing and takeoff pad since President Dwight David Eisenhower began using copters in 1957.

The reason is the exhaust from this more powerful chopper is more intense and could set the grass on fire. The federal organizations responsible for the president’s safety and the Marine Corp agreed that a concrete pad was necessary before they could sign-off on the VH-92A being named Helicopter Number One.

Trump noted: Dwight Eisenhower didn’t need a Helipad at the White House for those little choppers, but America needs one now.”

The history of Helicopter Number One began with Ike who loved Camp David. After all, he re-named the presidential retreat that FDR had called Shang Ri La after his brother, his grandson and his own middle name.

While Ike loved Camp David, he hated the amount of traffic he had to endure to make the trip by car from the White House. On July 12, 1957, Ike made his first flight on a helicopter from the White House to the camp using a Bell Ranger (H-13J). This was a bubble topped helicopter, the civilian version of the copter made famous during the Korean War. (Think of the helicopters who delivered the wounded to the field hospital in the TV series MASH.)

The Secret Service loved it because of its reliability. It could carry the pilot and two passengers, but only one in comfort. Also, it didn’t have air conditioning and it flew at a speed of

100 MPH with a range of 150 miles. The Secret Service insisted that James Rowley, chief of the White House detail, join the president in the bubble by squeezing into a third seat.

“When the president arrived at Camp David, he was sweating from an uncomfortable ride. After spending the night at Camp David, Ike drove with his family members to their home in Gettysburg, but then flew back to Washington in the Ranger. That was his second and last flight on that uncomfortable bird.”

His next helicopter ride was on Sept. 6, 1957 on a Marine HUS-1 also built by Sikorsky. Ike was pleased with this larger military transport helicopter and ordered his staff to switch to this model. The HUS-1 remained in presidential service for Jack Kennedy and Lydon Johnson before being replaced by the first version of the Sikorsky SH-30A, the Sea King.

Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford were the first presidents to use the Sea King. The A-model was succeeded by several newer versions of the Sea King that served Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George Bush, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Joe Biden and Donald Trump, 45 and Trump 47.

The VH-92A should be this new bird! I envision that this copter will remain in service well into the future and the current model and its successors will serve at least a half-dozen of future presidents throughout the Twenty-First Century.

The new helipad was dedicated and went operational on Monday, September 21^st.

What should have been a simple ceremony turned into another three-ring circus as

the Donald lost his national television coverage because he had banned certain networks from the White House. This brought about a TV boycott by the White House press pool.

Peter Baker of The New York Times explained what happened at his dedication of the new helipad: “He (the President) was left literally shouting into the wind as he cut the ribbon on his new helipad recorded only by (Newsmax) that could not capture his voice over the roar of Marine One.”

Oh well, it seems that Trump’s action to ban certain TV reporters from the White House has come back to haunt him, and so it goes.    

December 2018. Edited and reprinted September 2026

I wrote this to describe the worst Giants home game weather-wise that I ever sat through on December 16, 2018. The Giants lost that game to the Tennessee Titans by a score of 17 to 0.

On September 27, 2026, the Giants once again played the Tennessee Titans in a premature Nor-easter that first struck on Friday night, September 25^th. I didn’t plan to attend this game as I gave my tickets away to my oldest granddaughter and her boyfriend who is a loyal Giants fan, but had never seen Big Blue in person before. It rained all game long, but this time the Giants defeated the Titans 12 to 7 in a “hold your breath” victory.

I dedicate this re-write to all of my family and buddies who attended this game. Go Giants

And it Rained and it rained and it rained

Weather impacted every home game this season.

Game outcome, not withstanding, rain prevailed.

Shorter days, colder days, rain became miserable.

We endured, but no day at the beach for sure.

And it rained.

December 2^nd versus Da Bears. All day drizzle.

Mild enough, not cold, no wind, rain gear held up.

Stayed the course, all four quarters plus unwanted OT.

Joy prevailed, Giants won, hot chocolate surely helped.

And it rained

December 16, 2018. Prediction: All day-steady rain-non-stop.

Prepared: Socks wrapped in plastic, freshly polished work boots.

Waterproof down coat over sweatshirt, rain pants over jeans.

Rain hats, gloves and ponchos over everything.

And it rained.

Ready or not here we go. Joe swings by at 8 AM.

We joke: “Off to see a losing team in bitter rain.”

We few, the worthy. Summer soldiers long gone.

Yet other faithful re-appear, gather, tailgate, endure.

And it rained.

Game time, head in. The contest yet to begin.

Already losing, our rain defenses are failing.

 Water-proof turns out to be a relative term

 leaving us exposed to harm’s way.

And it rained.

Soldiers fighting a battle of endurance. Titans versus Giants.

Rain versus protection. Cold and wet versus dry.

Tyrannical forces prolong contest created to break us.

Game officials, TV and even the singer stretches by the rocket’s red glare.

And it rained.

Misery. By the Second Quarter my arms shiver.

“This is insane’” I stand: “Mike, I won’t return

until the second half.” None of us returned to our seats.

Drew and Jeff join Mike and me sheltered at halftime.

And it rained.

My alarm blasts alert: LEAVE NOW!

Drew, Jeff, and Mike SIGN ON next.

Joe and Justin need one more score.

Titans accommodate with a TD on a turnover.

And it rained

One last potty stop and a ten-minute trek to the cars.

A last, but hurried goodbye for the season, then shelter.

Shed as many sodden clothes as I can

Waze works with a tolerable post-game ride home.

And it rained

Once home, everything is damp or soaked.

No doubt, every woman in our lives intones:

“I told you so.” Of course, they are right.

We long-time fans rolled the weather dice that came up craps

And it rained, and it rained, and it rained.     

Part Two: The Club at the WTC

Revised September 2026 and originally published : October 2001

When the WTC opened, the building boom was over and the towers joined the waiting list of buildings needing tenants. The North Tower, Number 2, the first one completed, did fill up and lived up to its name as a world trade center housing steamship companies, freight forwarders and international commerce brokers of all types and description. The South Tower looked like a bust, but New York State came to the rescue housing state office workers on most floors.

I had ceased being a surveyor, but I remained in the Marine Insurance business as an insurance broker placing insurance for ocean going ships of every size and description.  Business brought me regularly to the North Tower. Located on the upper most floor was Austin Tobin’s crown jewel, The Club at the World Trade Center, his personal gift to power. A magnificent drinking and dining facility with private rooms, cigars, a staff that exuded the snobbery of a private club, three martini lunches and a men’s room so magnificent, it could be an appropriate setting for a national leader to lay in state. The Club kept its own accounts and neither cash nor credit cards were accepted.

When the press became aware of the privacy and opulence of The Club, all hell broke loose. How could a public agency promote a subsidized private club? Tobin had to pacify the press and politicos and so, at night it became “Windows on the World” the unique public restaurant 110 floors in the air. The NY Times first review read in part: “…as to the quality of the food, you cannot beat the view.”

At lunchtime, The Club remained members only. A mentor, Charlie Robbins, introduced me to The Club. Charlie drank Bombay Gin Martinis and loved to entertain there. He especially liked to show it off to visiting British brokers and their wives. This was an era when British firms sent their senior and most promising junior brokers to the United States for two or three weeks at a time. The Labour Governments tax rate was 90% and these trips provided an alternate method of compensation. And so, they came to New York in May and October when the weather is best. 

Charlie’s greatest coup came during a dinner in one of their private dining rooms. He disappeared and, on his return announced: “ May I have your attention. I have arranged a special event for the ladies, a tour of the most magnificent men’s room in the world.” Charlie had convinced the staff to temporarily close the men’s room, and he proceeded to escort the ladies, including my wife, on a private tour to the delight of all.

Charlie encouraged me to become a member. We worked in midtown and the cost was discounted if you were north of Canal Street. During my 20 years as a member, I hosted many a lunch and dinner there. I utilized their private rooms to set agendas, deal with crises, congratulate success, say goodbye to retirees, good luck to transferees and accomplish other matters of commerce.

The view was paramount and at times dramatic. On crystal clear winter nights, the lights of the city and surrounding areas stretched like jewels. Manhattan buildings stood out, as did the brightest pockets of light, the airports. Rivers, bays and oceans glowed if the moon was full while we looked down upon helicopters as they flew by. Jets flying into and out of the three airports traced the sky against the backdrop of the stars. During one dinner, low clouds swept in and we could no longer see the street or other buildings, but we could still see the stars. Such was life in the fast lane 1970s and 1980s style.

However, as the 1990s arrived, The Club became an anachronism. The era of the private luncheon clubs was over. The Harbor View Club, Drug and Chemical Club, The Wall Street Club and the infamous Whitehall Club, with its deadly bartender, Spiro, had all closed. Business had changed in focus, diversity and geography with a reduced tolerance for lunchtime drinking. This and loss of tax deductibility, the cost of space and the desirability of their locations conspired to hasten their demise.

The terrorist bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993 had forced The Club to close, I thought permanently. So, it was with surprise that I opened an announcement in 1995 advising The Club would re-open in 1996. I re-joined at a discounted fee, but seldom used it as I too had changed. I hosted my last dinner in the fall of 1999 for a group of French underwriters from AXA Insurance Company. The summer before, they entertained us and our client at their chateau in Bordeaux, a once in a lifetime event. My colleagues and I decided to take them to The Club and the weather cooperated fully. The view was superb, the food good and the wine far too expensive, but they were as impressed as the French will ever admit. 

I resigned from The Club in 2000 when I retired and never went back. On September 11^th the Club died when the North Tower fell taking with it 72 of its staff and 91visitors who were trapped inside. It was no longer relevant, but with its collapse, how it collapsed, the world changed for me, for us, forever.

To relieve my post-destruction gloom, I searched for and found my old photographs taken as a young man illustrating the promise of their construction together with my last membership card. I thought this evidence and my memories would be the epitaph. Curiously, they were not. A letter arrived with the return address being Mr. Jules Roinnel in Baldwin, Long Island. Jules was the Club’s Manager. Dated October 12^th, it began: ”Dear Member:” This was a surprise, not because I am no longer a member, as I knew I remained on their mailing list, but rather that a letter was sent. The letter spoke of the 72 staff members who died and advised that two surviving luncheon clubs would offer guest privileges until the end of the year. Even though it read in part: “…the future of The World Trade Center Club is unclear.” it had an upbeat tone about it.

It turned out Jules was simply going through the motions. The Club never  gained a third life. The Club, like its era and the towers belongs to history.

May all who died there Rest in Peace.

Part One: The Origin of the WTC

John Delach

Revised September 2026 and originally published: October 2001

I found it hard to accept the destruction of the World Trade Center. The towers, plaza and the surrounding buildings had been so much a part of my life.

During the 1950s and 1960s, Robert Moses and Austin Tobin competed to control the destiny of New York City. Moses, behind his plethora of commissionerships and in the guise of the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority, shaped the way we lived and travelled. He chased the Brooklyn Dodgers to the West Coast, ravaged the Bronx and Brooklyn constructing his holy expressways, and built his most magnificent jewel; The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

Tobin, Chairman of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, refused to be outdone. Not content with controlling interstate bridges and tunnels, the docks and piers and three airports, he sought a monument to himself and his agency. He had two powerful allies, David and Nelson Rockefeller, to help him achieve his goal. David was Chairman of Chase Manhattan Bank and Nelson was Governor of New York. They both advocated a trade center and Tobin chomped at the bit to have his Port Authority build, own and manage it.

As early as 1958, the Rockefeller/Tobin alliance started to push the project through the layers of red tape and special interest. Opposed were the private master builders, developers and the real estate lobby. Moses was joined by the Tishmans, Trumps, and Helmsleys, to name a few, who used their considerable influence to stop the Port Authority and keep major construction projects in the private sector. However, the 1960s brought an unprecedented building boom to New York City. It seemed new buildings were rising daily both in downtown and mid-town Manhattan. The creation of the New York World’s Fair and Lincoln Center added to this magnitude of activity. Builders were glutted with work with no end in sight.

The time was right for Tobin and the Rockefellers to proceed with their grand plan. However, one voice still objected, New Jersey. The Port Authority, a bi-state agency, also answered to the Governor of New Jersey, at that time, Richard Hughes. If he voted against this project, that would kill it. What was in it for New Jersey? Not much, and the financing would deter other projects in that state. A deal was needed and Rockefeller’s staff found it. The ailing Pennsylvania Railroad operated the Hudson and Manhattan Tubes between Newark and 33^rd Street in Midtown and the Hudson Terminal in Downtown.

Interestingly enough, The Hudson Terminal buildings were almost in the center of the proposed site for The World Trade Center and were scheduled for demolition.

Governor Rockefeller proposed The Port Authority purchase, upgrade and operate the “Tubes”. The Governor of New Jersey thought this was a swell idea and agreed to sign off on the WTC.

“Just one minute!” Austin Tobin objected. Historically, the Port Authority had resisted being dragged into operating rail lines their greatest fear being forced to take over the New York City Subway System. Rockefeller explained to him; “no Tubes, no World Trade Center” and, as if by magic, the Port Authority Trans Hudson, or PATH was born. However, in the enabling legislation, Tobin insisted a clause be included stating that the Port Authority, in perpetuity, could never again be ordered to operate a mass transit system. Sic transit sic gloria.

A Chicago based architectural firm; Yamaski was awarded the World Trade Center design work. Tobin would have his monument and he wanted it to be special. “Have two towers built, build them to be the tallest in the world, not one, but two.” The original plan for two 80-to 90-story buildings was scrapped. The Empire State Building, finished in 1931, stood 108 floors high and, including its television mast, reached 1,250 feet. Tobin’s towers would rise 110 floors and be 100 feet higher.

I was a young cargo surveyor during the towers’ construction. My job was to go out to piers in Manhattan, Brooklyn and New Jersey to inspect goods that arrived damaged carrying a camera to record my findings. My home office was 15 Park Row and, when I exited the building, my view south was of Saint Paul’s Church and the North Tower rising behind it. I used my camera often to photograph its ascension. Yamaski needed to innovate to make construction possible. The cranes had to be self-elevating and able to lift large sections of steel because the outer walls, together with the core were the only supports. Called, “the Shecketon System,” it relied on high tensile strength steel walls for support without internal columns. On reaching the 30th floor, ironworkers wrote the floor number on corner members of this bare steel. They repeated this each time they completed another ten floors. After the 70^th floor, every fifth floor and, at ninety, they marked each one individually.

When the towers were completed, they were not well received and a joke began to make its rounds that the buildings looked like the two boxes that were used to ship the Empire State Building and the Crysler Building.  

(To be continued)

I readily admit that I was totally out of touch when it came to the escalation in the values of professional sports teams. Granted, I have been a Football Giants fan since 1962 and I learned how the team originated when Tim Mara obtained the rights to the National Football League’s New York franchise in 1925 for $150. Mr. Mara said at the time, “Heck, a storefront with a chair inside is worth more than that in New York City.”

My awakening came in mid-August when the media reported that Bob Inger and Joshua Kushner led a consortium that purchased the Los Angeles Lakers basketball team for $12.5 billion! If that isn’t enough of a wakeup call, add that the purchase price eclipsed the $10 billion paid for the Lakers a year ago.

Right away, I asked myself, “If the Lakers are worth $12.5 billion, then what are the Giants and the other New York teams worth? And so, I Googled, “What is the current values of New York’s sports teams,” and here are the results in descending order:

Giants equal $10.1 to $12 billion

Knicks equal $9.75 to $ 11.75 billion

Yankees equal $9.4 to $ 10.15 billion

Jets equal $6.0 to $10.35 billion

Nets equal $5.6 to $5.7 billion

Mets equal $3.0 billion

Rangers equal $2.4 to $2.6 billion

Why so much, you ask? Tania Ganguli of The New York Times reported on August 17 that, “people in the sports industry said at least a few things had contributed to the rising prices.

“Sports is one of the last big draws to live television, and therefore the teams – are being paid far more for their rights to air games.

“The legalization of sports betting has also opened up new revenue streams for franchises.”

The last NFL team to change ownership was the Seattle Seahawks that sold for $9.6 billion last month. Curiously, another reason given to explain this explosion in valuation was the feeling that sports may be insulated from the effects of artificial intelligence.

Mark Cuban the former owner of the Houston Rockets of the NBA noted that, “ I do think that going forward, one individual writing a check for a team will be rare.”

For example, on Friday, August 14^th, “Jeff Bezos, the founder of Amazon and one of the richest men in the world, was part of a crowded investment group that joined forces to buy a third of the Liverpool Football Club.”

“Sport is the goose that laid the golden egg.’ said David Andrews, a professor at the University of Maryland who studies the sociology of sport. He has wondered if fans will become disillusioned as sports leagues and teams become too commercialized or financially driven.”

I wonder what the future holds for my Football Giants. Granted, my time with the team is slip, sliding away and my son, Michael and his two sons, Drew and Matt, represent me at most home games. Right now, Tim Mara’s grandson, John controls the Mara’s 50% share of the team and John’s younger brother, Chris is waiting in the wings for his turn.

Steve Tisch represents his family’s 50% share but management of the team belongs to John Mara by mutual consent.

I still write to John as I did to his father, Wellington. I just hope they retain their ownership for my foreseeable future  so I can continue to sign off with:

Go Giants!     

Original Edition published April, 2015: Edited and Updated August 2026

Boondoggle: To waste money or time on unnecessary or questionable projects.

Early in the Twentieth Century one of the first additions of New York City’s original subway was to extend the tunnels and tracks to South Ferry at the southern tip of Manhattan providing commuters’ access to Staten Island and Brooklyn ferries. Two loops were constructed allowing trains to turn around and return uptown without switches. The inner loop directed trains to the East Side and the outer loop to the West Side.

Old joke. Question: “Why is Lower Manhattan so bright?”

Answer:   “Because it’s closer to the Battery.”

New York, New York, it’s a hell of a town.

Harlem is up and the Battery down.

The people ride around in a hole in the ground.

Over time, these 1905 unique tunnels proved inadequate for modern service because of their tight turning radius. The inner loop could only accommodate four cars and was removed from revenue service in 1977. The outer loop was improved as well as could be expected including retractable platform extensions that eliminated gaps once trains were positioned. Yet the configuration of these platforms led to delays and, as the length of trains increased, South Ferry Station became a bottleneck as it could only accommodate the first five cars of a ten-car train.

“No good deed goes unpunished.” When a national catastrophe strikes, Uncle will respond with a massive influx of money. Entrenched state bureaucracies are well-prepared to divert as many of these dollars as possible to their own ends. Witness the so-called “Shovel-Ready Initiatives” funded by the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009. A whole bunch of that money was used by state governments to offset the loss of revenue from their normal tax flow due to the recession. Admittedly, funding schools, police, and fire protection for a year or two is a good thing; but maintaining essential services was not the intended use of re-build America funds.

After the tragedy of September 11, 2001 Bush 43 and Congress eagerly stepped up to the plate to fund the massive recovery effort to re-build the World Trade Center and replace lost infrastructure. When the towers came down, their wreckage penetrated into the subway line that ran under Greenwich Street severing the West Side connection from Chambers Street to South Ferry. It was essential the line be restored but included in the MTA’s plan for re-construction was a proposal to build a new South Street Station. The plan envisioned a two-track, single-island platform stub that could accommodate all ten cars. It would be equipped with state-of-the-art electronics, seven escalators, two ADA  compliant elevators and all of the bells and whistles that money could buy.

Uncle contributed $420 of the $530 million it took to build the new tunnel and station  and when it opened in 2009, the Governor, New York’s two US Senators, two congressmen, two borough presidents, state and city representatives, US secretary of transportation and MTA big shots all gathered together to praise this vital addition to Lower Manhattan.

Unfortunately, only three years later Superstorm Sandy flooded a large swath of Lower Manhattan.  The storm overwhelmed the make-shift sandbag and plywood barriers erected to protect the station…“flooding the station – floor to ceiling – with 15 million gallons of seawater, sewage and debris…effectively destroying the station and its critical equipment.”

In 2013, the MTA noted: “The rebuilding effort will take an estimated $600 million and as long as three years.” Fortunately, the old loop, taken out of service when the new South Ferry station opened, didn’t suffer the same fate and within six months of this disaster, it reopened after $2 million in needed restoration work.

Work on rebuilding the new station didn’t make substantial progress until flood-proofing was finally completed in December of 2014. This meant that serious re-building could proceed as the station was protected from damage by a new storm, as bad as Sandy.  The MTA awarded a 31-month, $194 million contract to replace track, mechanical and electrical equipment and rebuild the station making the total spent or awarded to date equal $326 Million.

The station finally opened in the summer of 2017 at a total cost of $347 million meaning

the total cost for the original construction and the reconstruction equaled $767 million.

“A billion here and a billion there, pretty soon you’re talking real money.”

(Everett Dirksen)

Oh, it’s completion was celebrated by the new gaggle of VIPs who attended the re-opening. But may I just offer one cautionary thought to project into the future. As the high and mighty pontificate about all the benefits of this magnificent reincarnation, please don’t seal off the old loop; just in case.

(“On the Outside Looking In” will not publish on Wednesday, September 2^nd, but will return on September 9^th.)    

The fact that the Giants spent their first week of summer camp at the Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs jogged my memory about another incident that took place at the Greenbrier. My company began holding our annual Managing Directors conference at the Greenbrier in 1987.

We realized this meeting would be special. It seemed the firm had money to burn. The first night, before dinner, we followed a high-stepping college band from the hotel to the train station. What followed was a cocktail hour on a train trip to nowhere that consisted of vintage coaches and dome cars. Even the name tags we wore were totally upscale.

From 1987 until 2000, I attended eleven conferences at this swell facility. Most years, the event began on Monday morning and ended on Friday. Our firm was enlightened enough to make Thursday afternoons free time allowing the great majority of we Managing Directors to golf on one of The Greenbrier’s three exquisite 18-hole courses.

Being a miserable duffer, I didn’t need to suffer the embarrassment that would surely accompany any attempt I made to challenge these links. Tennis, too was out of the question. Instead, I made an appointment for the spa. Without question my favorite part of the treatment was the massage that concluded the spa experience. The Sulphur baths were the low point as they were just plain smelly and did nothing to enhance my mood or physical well-being.

Naturally, different masseuses brought their own talents and approaches to their craft and over the years I received superb treatment from both men and women that left me loose, relaxed and at as much at peace as was humanly possible.

Then there was 1993. Fortune directed me to a short fellow with powerful arms and hands who introduced himself as Chet. We made small talk as Chet went to work. I learned he was a Mountaineer, that is a native-born West Virginian, and true to his size and rough appearance, he had once been a coal miner. I mentioned that I was from New York; the conversation went on – then from out of nowhere – he noted, “I worked on the Giants’ coach last year. That’s right, he was at the hotel and I worked on him.”

“Really,” I replied. “Do you remember his name? Was it Ray Hanley?” – The Giants previous the head coach.

“No, I don’t think so.” He paused, thought about it then floored me as he continued. “No, he just said he was the coach but that’s not his name. I remember him though because he stiffed me. I paid him back though. I’m part Cherokee and I put a curse on him and the team. They will not have success as long as the curse is on them.”

My head spun because of what I just heard. Chet couldn’t know how long I had been a season ticket holder, that the Giants had finished with a 6-10 record in 1992 and that Hanley and his staff had all been fired.

Instinctively, I wanted to ask him what he wanted to lift the curse but I sensed that this would only make the situation worse. I had to be more nimble in my approach.

The massage ended and after I dressed, Chet returned with his personal log hand-written in a copy book. He pointed to a name he printed in pencil revealing the culprit to be Rod Rust. Rod Rust, I thought to myself, not only did his “read and react” defense suck, he screwed all of us by being a cheapskate.

I put a good tip on the spa bill, standard practice at The Greenbrier, hustled to an ATM and withdrew a like amount in cash. I sealed it in an envelope and returned to the spa; asked for Chet and waited for him.

When he reached reception, I walked over, gave him the envelope while I looked him directly in the eyes and said, “Chet, this is to make up for the shabby treatment you received.” I handed him the envelope, shook his hand and walked away.

It took awhile but the Giants went on to play in three more Super Bowls winning two.

The curse had been lifted.