John Delach

August 2026

Revision Surgery: When doctors replace an old artificial body part with a new artificial body part.

In my case, it was my right hip that had originally replaced my real hip in 2012. Early in 2025, I was informed that this replacement hip was leaking chromium and cobalt. While it was at the early stages, increasing pain led me to locate three different orthopedic surgeons who specialized in revision surgery. The first two were vague when discussing possible complications, but the third was direct and blunt. “John, you are over eighty and you have had this hip replacement in your body going on thirteen years. God only knows how it has affected your tissues and other bones. There is no fucking way that I would operate on you! I predict, if you have this surgery, you will spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.”

“Thank you doctor for your candor and there is no way in hell that I will have this surgery.”

Mary Ann and I left his office and went to a diner to celebrate. “MAD, I spoke to my wife, I want to do something big to celebrate.” We talked this over and came up with two trips with our families. The first in 2026 with the Brooklyn Briggs and the second in 2027 with the Black Rock, CT Delaches.

Once decided, I spoke to my son, Michael first, and he accepted that his sister’s family, Beth, her husband, Tom; daughter, Marlow and son, Cace would go in 2026. Mike’s family, his wife, Jodie; sons, Drew and Matt and daughter, Samantha would go in 2027.

When we had the chance to present our proposal to Beth’s family, the loud and unanimous reaction was Alaska. I asked when and Beth replied, early or mid-June. How long: A week.

Okay, I replied and I was off and running. We had made a trip to Alaska in 2005 so I had some experience with this part of the globe albeit, my recollections were a bit out of touch. I discovered that Holland American Line (HAL) had a round-trip, seven-day voyage out of Seattle, but I leaned instead to a Princess Cruises 14-day trip out of Vancouver with two seven-day segments, northbound to Anchorage and southbound back to Vancouver. The southbound segment appealed to me until I discovered this segment was already sold out.

The northbound segment was out of the question, flying home from Anchorage was a time change ordeal.

Fortunately, things went well with HAL and I was able to reserve three rooms on the MV Eurodam sailing on June 6 and disembarking on June 13. We reserved two Balcony Verandas , one for Beth and Tom and one for Marlowe and Cace and a suite for us.

Our original airline bookings turned out to be a hassle when our carrier, Alaska Airlines, changed the departure time of our outgoing flight from 11:30 AM to 7:00 AM. With the help of American Express Travel, we were re-booked on Delta Airlines leaving JFK at 11:25 AM and they used my points to pay for our flights.

Tom and Marlowe remained on the Alaska Airlines flight now at the earlier time. Conveniently,  Beth spent most of that week in Seattle on business and Cace flew in from Denver on Friday morning. I made reservations for three rooms at the Hilton Garden Inn located in downtown Seattle as we didn’t board the Eurodam until early the next afternoon.

Mary Ann convinced me to use a wheelchair during my considerable journey to our gate in Delta’s new Terminal 4 at JFK and from the arrival gate for our A-321 airliner in the Seattle Airport to our land transportation. I admit this was worth its weight in gold as all of the attendants were super nice and deserving of tips.

All of our flights were uneventful and on time. Beth decided to protect her parents and she purchased a gate pass from Delta so she could ensure that her “ancient” parents made it safely to the hotel.

We had dinner at Tutta Bella Neapolit, a nearby grand pizza, etc. restaurant where we had a good meal and kicked off our excitement for what was to come. Marlowe had already done her homework about what daily activities were available on board our new home and Beth started opting for various shore excursions.

After dinner, Tom and I retreated to the hotel bar to watch part of game two of the NBA finals that the Knicks won 105 to 104 giving them a 2and 0 lead in the series over the San Antonio Spurs.

We received boarding instructions for Saturday. Check-in began at 10:30 AM and continued until 1:30 PM and Eurodam would depart at 2:30. We decided to leave the hotel at 11:30 and we arrived at the pier around noon. Our ship and a larger Princess Cruises vessel shared the terminal, but, despite the influx of so many passengers, our check-in went smoothly and we easily reached our Suite 6078 and found it to be cleaned and ready for us. For what it is worth, our luggage didn’t arrive for a couple of hours.

We gathered on Deck 9, the Lido Deck, the most used deck on cruise ships to watch our ship put to sea. Half of this deck contained the ship’s casual eatery open for breakfast, lunch and dinner and most of the remainder, the ship’s main swimming pool. After we arrived, the sun disappeared as rain clouds overwhelmed it. The open roof above the pool was closed making a noise that stunned my mates. We had burgers for lunch before retreating to our cabin to unpack our luggage that finally arrived.

Our dinner reservations were for Five PM and when we arrived at out table, we discovered we were semi-surrounded by three tables belonging to a large Mormon family. One table was for the men, one for the women and babies and the third table was for toddlers, older kids and teenagers. They were sociable, polite and it was easy get along with them. Two baskets containing bread and rolls and butter were set down. Cace immediately attacked the baskets which could have caused a crisis with his father and grandfather who also sort out their contents. Fortunately, this crisis was averted by the waiters who quickly replaced the barren baskets.

This inarguable dinner set the standard for dress and the information we would exchange with each other about what we had done and what we had seen that day. Both Mary Ann and I had made it clear to our mates that, the more they did, the happier we would be.

We spent all day Sunday at sea as the ship headed north along the Canada / Alaska Inside Passage cruising toward Juneau. I had noticed that our room came with a pair of used binoculars. When I mentioned this, Marlowe didn’t waste any time claiming them. I was not surprised as our granddaughter had already checked out what happenings were listed in the Eurodam’s newsletter, “The Daily.” Sunday’s edition led with this story:

“Alaska Wildlife: Alaska’s unspoiled habitats include mountains, rich water, glaciers and the world’s largest temperate rainforest – the Tongass. This unique and diverse ecosystem supports wildlife from humpback whales to soaring eagles, so keep your binoculars close because you never know when one of the locals will pop by to say hello.”

I was pleased that our family members took advantage of the activities the ship offered. This included line dancing lessons, tours of the ship, water color painting, calligraphy organ mi and limited use of the Eurodam work out room. I say limited as they suffered from a bit of sea sickness because of conditions that first day. 

Passengers were invited to participate in “wildlife spotting” for two hours from the open area aft on the Lido Deck the next day starting at 7:00 AM. They had a great time and those glasses came in handy in spotting whales, seals, eagles and several sea birds. The favorite were the sea otters who look a lot like water dogs and show off by swimming on their backs.

While they observed these local creatures, we enjoyed room service in our “palatial” cabin. Well, maybe not palatial, but large enough for us to enjoy our breakfast. We noticed something curious that would be repeated every time we utilized room service; they would forget to include an item like milk or toast or substitute something else for what we wanted like tea instead of coffee. However, the food was good so we didn’t complain. 

The ship docked at 12:30 and the six of us boarded a bus a half-hour later for a trip out to nearby Mendenhall Glacier National Park. Mary Ann and I spent our time at the visitor’s center while the Briggs’ family sauntered off to see the Nugget Falls about a mile away. Despite the cold, cloudy weather, they found some local boys swimming in the fall’s pool. They invited Cace to join them. He took off his shoes and socks, tested the water and replied, “No thank you.” to their invitation.

Our driver, Travis, ordinarily, a truck driver from Alabama in the off season, pointed out a brown bear on our way to the glacier. As he drove us back to the Eurodam, we decided to find a sports bar in downtown Juneau to watch Game Three of the Knicks / Spurs match.

Jim Dolan, the Knick’s owner had invited President Trump to watch the game from Dolan’s private Garden box. Turned out our choice was a dive bar with a cannabis store right next door that attracted motor cycle punks riding supped-up noise machines. Beth, Marlowe and Cace chose to return to the ship while Mary Ann stayed with Tom and me to watch the Knicks lose cutting their lead to two games to one.

(To be continued) 

My first encounter with “Say It Aint So” stunned me in 1957 when the Brooklyn Dodgers announced that the team would be moving to Los Angeles forever after this season ended. Even worse, they also convinced the baseball New York Giants to join them on the West Coast by moving to San Francisco. Since I lived in Ridgewood Queens, two blocks from the Brooklyn border, few of my friends and neighbors cared that the Giants were leaving, but they adored the Dodgers.

Walter O’Malley, who owned the Dodgers and who engineered their abandoning Brooklyn, became public enemy number one overnight and his actions became the basis for the following joke:

You find yourself in a room with Hitler, Stalin and O’Malley and you have a gun, but with only two bullets. Who do you shoot?

You shoot O’Malley twice to make sure you kill him.

My next encounter with “Say It Aint So” was in August of 1964 when the Giants head coach, Allie Sherman, traded our hero, Sam Huff, to the team that used to be called the Washington Redskins. Giants’ fans were so out raged that they began to serenade Sherman at the many losing games with:

Good bye Allie,

Good bye Allie

Good bye Allie

We hate to see you go.

Repeat, repeat, repeat, etc.           

In March of 1971, Mayor John Lindsay announced that the City of New York would buy Yankees Stadium so that needed improvements could be made to retain the Yankees and the Football Giants. Almost three weeks later, New Jersey Gov. William T. Cahill told the press that he had a verbal commitment from Giants to move to a new sports complex in the Hackensack River meadowlands.

This set off all kinds of frustration, noise and disbelief across the Metropolitan area. Wellington Mara reacted by side-stepping whether or not he intended to move his team. “We have a commitment to stay in New York until 1974. By then we’ll have the luxury to sit back and see whether New York or New Jersey has the best offer. We’ll go wherever it is best for our fans.

“Bullshit!” This became my biggest “Say It Aint So” in August when Mara committed to the move. Red Smith commented on the move in his classical fashion:

 “There is rich poetic justice in the decision to haul the New York Giants across the Hudson to a New Jersey garbage dump. It is a move made in heaven.

“When he (Mara) finally defected, the only surprising thing was Lindsay’s indignatio. Evidently, Fun City’s burgomeister has been so busy wondering whether he’s a Republican or a Democrat that he hasn’t read the football scores for six or seven years.

“Selfish, callous and ungrateful’ were his words for Well Mara. That’s pretty strong language to use about a guy who came into this world naked and had to inherit everything he’s got.

“With no football team as a tenant of Yankee Stadium, opposition is growing to Lindsay’s plan to sink $24 million into that playground. The Yankees may have to move perhaps only to Shea Stadium, possibly as far away as Dallas.

“The Jets, Mets and possibly the Yankees would operate in Flushing Meadow and the Giants wouldn’t be far away. Maybe not far enough.”

I was totally against the move and I even wrote to the mayor because I strongly believed the team belonged here in the five boroughs. Long story short, Lindsay kicked the Giants out of Yankee Stadium in the fall of 1973 as soon as the baseball season ended forcing them to relocate to Yale Bowl for the remainder of that season and for all of the 1974 season. They lost every game played there. With Lindsay gone in 1975, Mayor Abe Beam didn’t have a grudge allowing the Giants to play all of their home games at Shea Stadium.

The Giants moved into Giants Stadium in 1976 and its replacement, Met Life Stadium in 1991.

Looking back at my opposition in 1971, I now know I was right, but for all the wrong reasons.

The Giants should have stayed in New York City. They could have remained in the Bronx, moved to Long Island City, or even the West Side Railroad Yards in Manhattan. And if they had, do you know the one thing that I would have missed and been so happy that I missed?

“Traffic,” TRAFFIC,” that “f****ing TRAFFIC” both in New Jersey and on the bridges  going back to Long Island that turns what should have been a forty-five-minute drive into a two-hour slog!

I could have taken the Long Island Railroad and, even if I drove, I would have avoided any and all bridges.

(This is my last piece for two weeks. I will resume in August with a to a two-part piece on our June trip to Alaska.)        

I wrote this in October of 2001. I recently made minor changes to my story, but the actual tale remains intact. As we approach the 25^th Anniversary of this terrible day, I am reissuing it in honor of all the folks I knew who died at the World Trade Center that day.

September 11, 2001, should have been one of the 10 best days of the year weather wise in New York City. Seasonably warm, but clear without haze and free of humidity, Manhattan shined in all its glory living up to one of its nicknames, Babylon on the Hudson.

Overcoming my disappointment of having suffered through an opening night loss by my beloved Giants to the Chiefs  in Kansas City the previous night, I planned to travel to my company’s midtown headquarters at 1166 Avenue of the Americas to have lunch with my old boss, Steve Pires.  But first, I began a 45-minute workout on my treadmill to get my heart started.

Marsh & McLennan, the firm I had worked for from 1971until I retired on April 1, 2000, also had operations in World Trade Center. They occupied eight floors in the North Tower from 93 to 100. As I power walked, I watched as NBC cut away from their regular programming to reveal that an airplane had crashed into the upper floors of the north side of the North Tower. Little did we know at that moment that the high jackers managed to strike every one of the floors that Marsh & McLennan occupied except 100. 

A longtime colleague, Jim H. had an office on 99 facing north. I still wonder if he saw the American Airlines plane as it hurtled in his direction. Flight Number 11 struck his office at 8:46 AM. Coincidently, Jim’s brother-in-law, Bill W, worked for AON on one of the nine floors occupied by that insurance brokerage firm in the South Tower. The folks who worked in that tower above the 85^th Floor had 17 minutes to evacuate before United Flight No. 175 plunged into the south side of that tower. Although many workers did evacuate, Bill chose not to. Neither did Tony D, another former Marsh man who had joined AON. Tony had married late in life and his wife had recently given birth to twin girls. They would never see their father again.   

Two hundred and ninety-five Marsh employees died that day along with 63 contract employees. That total, 358, was the third highest behind the FDNY and Cantor Fitzgerald. Jeff L. was one of those Cantor Fitzgerald casualties. Before joining Canter, Jeff had worked in midtown, and I would often share an early morning cab ride from Penn Station with him.

My niece, Rita, was lucky. Employed by Deutsche Bank at their 39-story building on 130 Liberty Street close to the South Tower, she evacuated when the South Tower was hit. Rita set out for Brooklyn and was about to cross the Brooklyn Bridge when that tower fell wrecking her place of work. She spent the night in a convent. It would take years to demolish that building since it contained numerous human remains from the South Tower.

Michelle G. had worked for me when I was the Manager of Marsh’s New York Marine and Energy operation. She was scheduled to attend an all-day conference at the Windows on the World restaurant on the 107^th Floor of the North Tower. Michelle chose to forgo the pre-conference breakfast choosing instead to meander through the Barnes and Noble bookshop in the lobby.

When American Flight 11 struck the tower, Michelle made a run to the PATH Station to catch one of the last trains to leave the WTC Station for New Jersey. Her train was in one of the 100-year-old cast iron tubes under the Hudson River when the second airplane hit. Michelle told me: “The tunnel moved violently from side to side. The train ground to a halt and the lights went out. I have never been so scared. Finally, the lights came back on and very slowly, the train crept to the Exchange Place Station in Jersey City. I cringed when I emerged into the morning light to see both buildings were burning.”       

Our son, Mike and our daughter Beth both worked for Marsh & McLennan companies at 1166. Beth’s husband, Tom, also worked in Manhattan. The three of them met near Tom’s office on Broadway then made their way to Beth and Tom’s apartment in NoHo on Mott Street safely north of the poisonous smoke pouring from the debris. Mike spent the night with them.  

America shut down to protect the homeland. The FAA grounded every aircraft in USA airspace ordering those airplanes in the air to land immediately. Incoming international flights were instructed to return to their points of origin or find airports of refuge. If you ever see the play, Come From Away, you will discover the story of the jumble of transatlantic flights that landed in Gander, Newfoundland that day.

Emergency rooms geared up to treat the anticipated multitude of casualties that never materialized. There was only the living and the dead and most of the dead disintegrated under the massive pile of debris.

Relatives and friends of the dead created massive bulletin boards throughout the city featuring photographs of the missing with notes pleading for information about their status. Beth, a licensed social worker, volunteered at an armory to council those seeking help to cope with their loved ones who were now MIA.

A sense of loss, anger and absolute sadness blanketed the city. It enveloped me and may have consumed me except that Mary Ann and I and two other couples, the Cruises and the Markeys managed to escape to Ireland in early October on a pre-arranged holiday.

Good craic, the hospitality of Erin, rain, wind, laughter, Guinness and Irish whiskey soothed our souls and raised our morale. It feathered our anger and permitted me to be a human again.

In honor of the 25^th anniversary of that dark day, come this September I will republish my piece about the Club at the World Trade Center that died on what should have been one of the 10 best days of the year for 2001.  

John Sterling was an absolute Yankees homer and he didn’t care who knew it. When the Yankees won, he would finish his broadcast with: Ballgame over! Yankees win! Thuuuuuuuuuh Yankees win!

John Sterling’s basic home run call was lively enough that it could stand on its  own:

That ball is high, it’s far, it is gone!

But John also wanted to identify the hitter, not by his given name but by the nickname Sterling picked out for him. Let us travel down memory road and re-create a number of John’s name selection of these calls:

“The Giambino!” For Jason Giambi.

“The Sanchino!” For Gary Sanchez.

“The Melk Man delivers.” For Melky Caberera.

“Robbie Cano don’t cha know.” For Robinson Cano.

“Swishhalicous.” For Nic Swisher or “Jolly old Dr. Nick.”

“Positively demonic.” For Johnny Damon or “It’s a Johnny rocket.”

“He sends a Tex message.” For Mark Teixera or “You’re on the mark, Teixeria.”

“Gardiner plants one.” For Brett Gardiner or “Cardy goes yardy.”

“The Grandy Man can.,” For Curtis Granderson.

“An A-bomb from A-Rod.” For Alex Rodriguez.

“Jorgie juiced one!” For Jorge Posada.

“A thrilla, by Godzilla.” For Hideki Matsui or “The Sayonara kid does it again.”

Andrew Jones, makes his bones.” For Andrew Jones.

“Bernie goes boom.” For Bernie Williams or “Burn baby, burn.”

“El capitan.” For Derek Jeter.

“The Bam-Tino.” For Tino Martinez.

“It’s a Judgian blast, all rise, here comes the Judge,” for Aaron Judge.

“Yes, in-Didi – Didi Gregorius makes the Yankee fans euphorious.”

“And like a good Gleyber, Torres is there.”

“Giancarlo! Non si puo Stoparlo,” for Giancarlo Staton.

There will never be another John Sterling, thank you, John for the memories.

This is my last piece until mid-July. Enjoy your summer activities.

The Untold Story of Axis POW’s held in camps in the USA

Can you imagine being a captured German or Italian soldier being sent across the Atlantic on an American ship with good food and a pillow for your cot? After arrival at the port of New York or Norfolk, Virginia, you were sent to a Prisoner of War camp by train most likely in the south, the Midwest or the southwest?

Take the case of Fritz Ensslin, a German tank gunner captured in Italy who arrived at a POW camp in Missouri in 1943, “We arrived at Fort Leonard Wood after a two-day trip in well-secured rail cars.” He was pleasantly surprised to find barracks that contained a bed, mattress, blankets and a pillow for each prisoner. “We had the feeling of being in a Hilton Hotel. For years, we had been sleeping either inside or on top of our tanks.”

The men were served food described as a “dream meal” and joked with one another that had they known they would have been treated this way, “we would have sneaked across earlier instead of fighting until we ran out of ammunition.”

A total of 425,000 Prisoners of War (POWs) were housed in more than 500 POW camps in 46 states. At least 80% were Germans that included a group of dedicated Nazis. The idea of escape was limited to this group. Their goal was to reach Argentina. Argentina, good luck with that, especially with calling an Uber was out of the question. A total of 2,222 escaped from their camps. Most were recaptured within a day.

Most of the POWs were content to work in canneries, mills, farms and other places deemed minimal security risk and in need of workers to replace the Americans who had gone off to war. These POWs were paid in script that they could use at the camp canteens to buy extra food, but more importantly, cigarettes and beer.

The top captured Nazi brass lived the life. The three admirals and forty generals in custody were sent to Camp Clinton and Camp Shelby in Mississippi, where each had his own bungalow with a garden, an aid, a cook, an upscale menu and a daily ration of wine and booze. “Rank has it’s privileges, even if you are a POW.”

After our American and British forces defeated the German “desert rats” army in North Africa, the Brits cried uncle to housing these prisoners of war. As you can imagine, we were totally unprepared for managing these POWs. We were still mobilizing our recruits so the army had to keep guards to a minimum and depend on the hierarchy of the German POWs to maintain order. Their sergeants acted like sergeants and broadcast Revelli to wake their men, marched them to and from meals, and prepared them for work.

Any POWs who refused to work were restricted to their barracks and were forced to accept a diet of bread and water.

When the war ended in Western Europe, life was a mess. France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxemburg and the fallen members of the Third Reich’s empire, Germany, Austria, etc. were awash in refugees, lack of food, coal and everything else we can imagine.

Our army decided to retain the majority of our POWs to continue working until 1946 when most of our citizen soldiers had been discharged from their service.

Despite the delay in repatriation, most Germans left the USA with positive feelings about our country. Many returned home with several hundred dollars in earnings. The dollar was the king of currency in post-war Europe and their dollars not only benefitted these former POWs, they helped the German economy once they returned home.

After the POW’s had returned home and all the accounting had been completed, the army could not account for seven prisoners. One of these men was George Gaertner, who escaped from a POW camp in Denning, New Mexico on September 21, 1945. Gaertner didn’t want to return to his home in Silesia as it had been occupied by the Soviet army.

He assumed a new identity, Dennis Whiles, and lived quietly in California and Colorado. After his escape, the army launched a manhunt which lasted until 1963. He married a woman who he first met at a YMCA dance, named Jean Clarke in 1964 and adopted her two children. Over the years, Jean became increasingly disturbed by his many excuses and refusal to discuss his past . Finally, in 1984, she was about to leave him when he confessed his past to her.

Our government accepted him as a naturized citizen and so he co-wrote a biography, “Hitler’s Last Solider in America”, in 1985. He died in 2013 at 92 after the time of his life had lasted almost 70 years: RIP Dennis Whiles, aka George Gaetner.

On the Outside Looking in will not be published again until later in June                        

“For crying out loud, Dave,” I yelled, “What is in your head? Are you nuts? You’re 50 years old and you don’t have another job.”

Dave never made things easy. Not for him and not for me. Unhappy with his raise and the lack of a promotion, he waited until I was vacationing in California to offer his resignation to the one person who despised him, my boss, Bob Nevers. When Dave offered Nevers his formal resignation, Nevers accepted it without hesitation. By the time I returned from vacation, it was too late to reverse this insanity.

When I asked him why? He said nothing, but looked at me with “a thousand-yard stare.” The enormity of what he had done was sinking in. Moving quickly to perform damage control, I convinced Nevers to keep Dave on the payroll for at least three months and provide him with an office on another floor with secretarial services.

“Dave, your job now is to find another job.”

Relieved, he set about his task and, within two months, found a good position at another firm. When he told me, I was both pleased and relieved and I proposed having lunch to celebrate his good fortune. We set a date and I added: “Why don’t you bring in your company car and I will drive it home so it can be reassigned?”

He agreed and we had a delightful lunch discussing past times and future hopes. Toward the end, he handed me the keys and the garage receipt and said: “You do know how to drive stick shift?”

“Yeah right,” I replied thinking he was putting me on. He heard, “Of course I can.”

It was shortly after 6 PM when I arrived at the Kinney Garage on 48^th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, paid the charges and waited for the Honda to be delivered. Tipping the attendant as he opened the door, I sat down and stared at the clutch and shift.

“Holy shit”,  I exclaimed out loud as I sat there cursing myself for getting into this dilemma.

The last time I attempted to conquer stick shift was courtesy of Uncle Sam in a U.S. Army jeep 25 years ago. And here I am in the middle of Manhattan during rush hour wondering what to do. Prudence dictated getting out and having an attendant park it again. Unfortunately, prudence is not my M.O. as I repeated the words of Admiral Farragut at the battle of Mobil Bay to myself, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.”

Conjuring up my rudimentary skills, I managed to leave the garage and head east to Park Avenue successfully shifting between first and second gears at various red lights and actually getting the Honda into third gear on one occasion. I decided not to risk breaking down in the Queens Midtown Tunnel so I headed north on Park Avenue towards the 59^th Street Bridge. At 53^rd Street trouble finally struck as I popped the clutch and stalled again and again, missing two green light cycles. Taxi drivers were unmerciful-their honking bringing me to a near panic sweat, but with several deep breaths, I got the car moving again.

East on 58^th Street, up onto the bridge’s upper deck, I hit stop and go traffic. Touch and go, stalling, coaxing, praying, cursing, taking deep breathes, “stay calm” became my mantra. Finally, I left the bridge as I tried to ignore the dirty looks from those cars I held up.

I headed south on Queens Boulevard to the Long Island Expressway (LIE) where I turned east struggling past Flushing Meadows Park. The expressway traffic was too much for me so I decided the service road was my best bet. If I lose it, I can leave it by parking it there. So far so good, but as I passed Springfield Boulevard, I anticipated the steep hill that leads to the light at the Douglaston Parkway intersection.

“Oh God, if it is red, I will never get this car going again. To hell with it, I am not stopping if I can avoid it,” As I approached the intersection, the light was green and I exclaimed,  “Thank you Lord”!

 From there it became easier and as I headed north towards Port Washington and home, I actually manage to put the Honda into fourth gear for the first and only time.

Safely home, I poured myself a large Jameson’s as I recounted my adventure to, Mary Ann, my wife. Mary Ann grew up with stick-shift cars and she occasionally drove the Honda to her school, PS 121, in South Ozone Park, Queens.

Eventually the Honda was re-assigned to Alan Gardiner who was rewarded by several years of good service once he replaced the transmission that I had ruined. I made sure our firm paid for the damage I had incurred.

On the Outside Looking In will not be published next Wednesday, May 27th

The front page of the May 7 edition of The New York Times included a story with this title that was set out entirely below the fold. Written by Julie Bosman, I present it to you:

CHICAGO-Even the Vicar of Christ can be thwarted by a customer service representative.

About two months after Robert Francis Prevost, a Chicago-born cardinal became Pope Leo XIV in Vatican City, he put in his call to his bank back home, a close friend, the Rev. Tom McCarthy, told a gathering of Catholics in Naperville, Ill., last week.

The new pope identified himself as Robert Prevorst, saying that he wished to change the phone number and the address that the bank had on file, Father McCarthy said.

 The pope dutifully answered the security questions correctly.

Then, the woman on the line for the bank told him that it wasn’t enough – he would have to come to the bank in person.

“He said, ‘Well, I’m not going to be able to do that,’ “ Father McCarthy said in a video clip shared on social media, recounting the new pope’s growing frustrations as the audience laughed.

“I gave you all the security questions.”

The bank employee apologized. The pope tried a different tack.

“Would it matter to you if I told you I’m Pope Leo?” he asked , according to Father McCarthy.

She hung up.

Even while more than one billion Catholics around the world and living in gilded spender amid priceless works of art, popes can sometimes be entangled in the mundane, both, accidentally and with purpose. In the first 24 hours of Pope Francis’ papacy in 2013, he insisted on paying his own hotel bill and collecting his own luggage, a gesture of humility to Catholic clergy.

Pope Leo rose from modest roots in Dolton, Ill., a small suburb just outside Chicago, before serving as a bishop in Peru and in an influential post at the Vatican where he was elected pope nearly one year ago.

The matter was sorted out thanks to the intervention of another priest who had a connection to the bank president, Father McCarthy said.

There was no word on the customer service representative who had cut off her call with the bank’s most famous customer.

“Could you imagine being as the woman who hung up on the pope?” Father McCarthy said.   

I loved this joke, a joke I could tell whenever I wished that was totally suitable for mixed company.

The Joke:

After the pope died, the College of Cardinals assembled in Rome and voting began to elect his successor. It soon became evident that three cardinals were all viable candidates, but none of them could gain the needed majority of votes. After two months of black smoke following unsuccessful balloting, morale became desperate. The senior cardinals decided that a select committee would interview the three candidates, two of whom were American and one who was Polish.

First up was Cardinal Jones. He was asked, “What is the holiest day in the Church’s calendar?”

Jones replied, “Oh, the Fourth of July when we go to the beach and watch the fireworks.”

So much for Jones who was escorted out.

Cardinal Smith was next and he replied, “That would be Thanksgiving when we all get together and consume a mountain of food while watching football on TV.” Good bye Smith.

Last, was Cardinal Komorowiski: “Tell us cardinal, what is the holiest day in the Church’s calendar?

The cardinal replied, “Easter Sunday, of course.”

The relief among the committee was audible. “Yes, yes,” replied the chairman who then asked, “Why is it the holiest day?”

“Because that is the day that Christ rises from the dead, his guardian angel rolls back the stone. Jesus leaves his tomb, but, if he sees his own shadow, we have six more weeks of lent.”  

When My Joke Turned on Me

I was out one night at a business dinner with a group of twelve people that included wives. It was a joyous occasion where the wine and champaign flowed freely and people began telling their favorite stories. I carefully waited for a lull when I began telling my favorite joke confident that it would bring the house down.

When I reached the parts about Jones and Smith, the realization hit me square in the head that I was doomed. My joke was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it. I was so sure of myself and my story when I began that I had ignored a simple fact that doomed me: I was telling it at a dinner in London where nobody had ever heard about Ground Hog’s Day.      

When I was researching my piece about Liberty Ships, I discovered that one of these ships was named the S.S. George Handley after a man who served in the 1^st Georgia Battalion of the Continental Army where he rose to the rank of captain. He was taken prisoner at Augusta, Georgia in 1780. After the war, Handley served as Governor of Georgia from 1788 to 1789 and was instrumental in the drafting of Georgia’s state-constitution. He died in 1793 at the age of forty-one.

The SS George Handley was the second Liberty ship of over three dozen of her sisters constructed at the Southeastern Shipbuilding Corporation’s pop-up yard in Savannah, Georgia. Designated. Hull No. 342, construction began on May 28, 1942 and the Handley was launched on December 7, 1942, the first anniversary of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor.

George Handley never entered commercial service. The government agency, War Shipping Administration Transport, (WSAT), requisitioned the ship and turned it into a troop carrier to be operated by the U.S. Army Transport Service, (USAT). Handley transported European Axis prisoners to POW camps that sprang up in various rural parts of America including Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont. Imagine how lucky these POW’s felt escaping the war to perform manual labor in the lap of luxury far from the fighting.  

Handley had a carrying capacity of 550 men per voyage. There is no record, I could find of what Handley carried on its outbound voyages. Neither is there any record about its post-war career, if any. I did find that George Handley was scrapped in 1964 and it is reasonable to believe that the ship spent those 19 years mothballed in one of those reserve fleets like those on the Hudson River south of the Bear Mountain Bridge or the James River in Virginia.     

Ordinarily, the saga about this ship would peter out right here. However, by a curious coincidence, when I first joined Marsh & McLennan in 1971, the manager of the firm’s world-wide marine operations was George W. Handley.

George was bigger than life and a natural leader. You knew Handley was present every time he entered the room. As one of my colleagues put it, “Working for Handley is like working for a combination of George C. Scott as Patton mixed with Coach Vince Lombardi!”

Our George was a force that influenced and motivated all who fell under his spell. I was beginning to come of age at the firm when I became his go-to-guy for international business. George would travel to Europe and the far East to acquire shares of insurances for me to place in our domestic hull market. Soon, I came to realize that I was his assault trooper who was certain to fail in making the deal to convince marine underwriters to take a share of the latest international fleet that George sent me out to peddle.

Sometimes, more aggressive underwriters gave me a lewd and blasphemous message to take

back to Handley. I never told him about these messages and, when I’d report back to him that John Blackman, Terry Deeks, or Bill Petersen essentially threw me out of his office, he would thank me for my efforts and say, “I’ll get back to you later today.”

Later those afternoons, George would tell me over the phone to come up to his office. I was on nine, he was on eleven, at our head-quarters at 1221 Avenue of the Americas. I took the closest stairway two steps at a time.

One time, I vented my frustration to him. I said, “You know, George, it can be tough being your sapper who throws himself on the enemy’s barb wire with an explosive charge to create the path to glory.”

George got my message, In, 1974, I was promoted to Assistant Vice President before anybody else. George, as was his style, sent me his leather folder that the Marsh & McLennan directors received at their meeting in Dallas. It contained a personal note to me that read:

TO: JJD

From: GWH

Congratulations. It was a close vote, but I voted for you.

George Handley passed away in 1975 from a heart attack

The ironic part of this story is that in the 1960s and 1970s Liberty Ships reached the end of any usefulness and were being scrapped in droves. One maritime entrepreneur thought up the idea to make scale model Liberty Ships cast from the steel from the actual ships being scrapped.

George loved the idea and started collecting these steel models to give away to visiting customers and overseas brokers when they visited his office. I asked him one day: “George, I wonder what the Japanese and Germans really think about you giving them models built from the steel of the ships that helped to defeat them?”

My comment received a super scowl!

George never learned that one Liberty bore his name. There would have been no living with hm had he made this discovery.

Grant me this aside. George had a wicked sense of humor and loved to brag when good things were said about him. Sometime in about 1973, a short interview with Marsh’s CEO, Jack Regan,  appeared in Time Magazine when Time was an important news source. The piece quoted Regan as saying:

“Even Exxon, with all their expertise counts on Marsh & McLennan for their needs. For example, they depend on the advice of George Handley for their extensive marine operations.”

When George became aware of the piece, he let us all know, “Isn’t it nice. Time mentioned all four of us, Jack, Henry (Marsh), Don (McLennan) and me”

I informed those of us still around who knew George back in the day about my discovery. I voiced my opinion that had he known about that ship; he would have commissioned a heroic portrait of the SS George Handley fighting its way through rough seas on the North Atlantic in pursuit of victory.

Perhaps he would have had lithographs made, framed for VIP customers, rolled up copies for the rest of us. Maybe, even Christmas cards!

The best reply to the idea of a framed original oil of the SS George Handley hanging in GWH’s office behind his desk came from his former secretary, Diane Robertson, “John, you are absolutely right, and guess who would have had to feather dust that stupid painting every single day!”

Before I tell you this story, I must explain that my memory of it was on the verge of disappearing into oblivion. It is not uncommon for me to forget names, especially when I am telling a story. I know the name when I begin telling my story, but this all-important item slips away before I get to it leaving me lost and speechless. This is not uncommon for us Octogenarians.

Today’s story takes the failure of not remembering names a step further. In this instance, my entire story revolves around a man who was almost completely forgotten.

I was having a telephone conversation with my good friend, Geoff about his old job in marine insurance. “You know, John, I worked for a guy who was quite a character. I don’t mean, Bill Smith, this guy was Smith’s boss.”

“Sorry, Geoff, Damned if I can remember him.”

We kept on talking and as we did, snippets of information and memory of Mister X began slipping back into my consciousness. “Hold on, Geoff, things about that guy are coming back to me. Wasn’t he a big man and wasn’t he independently wealthy?”

“Yes,” Geoff exclaimed, “He also lived in Central Florida where he had a cattle ranch.”

We failed to take this further, let it go and finished our conversation. After we hung up, more and more snippets popped into my head including his last name that first made it self-known to me in bits and pieces. At last, I remembered his complete last name, Klineoder!

“Son of a bitch”, I said out loud as I picked up the phone to call Geoff. He answered on the second ring and, before I could say anything, he shouted out, “Klineoder!”

We laughed like school boys as we proved that not-so-great minds can also think alike.

Re-discovering Klineoder’s last name was the key to my almost forgotten story, The Craziest Bet I Ever Made.

The Giants were doing well during the 1990 season and, with about two-thirds of the regular season games already played, a radical idea popped into my head. For some unexplainable reason, I became convinced that my team would not only make the playoffs; they would also defeat the two playoff opponents and be victorious in Super Bowl XXV.

I decided to call an executive I knew in the marine insurance industry who had a reputation for being a betting man. That man was Klineoder. I picked him to see if my proposition would fly. My fear was my proposal to bet $100 wasn’t enough to catch his interest.

I gave him an outline over the phone leading him to invite me to a lunch that was most likely to turn into an all-afternoon affair. To limit the damage, I prearranged our destination to be the Club at the World Trade Center using my membership. Hey, I knew what I was doing. I knew that he would restrain himself if I was paying the bill.

“I am proposing an interesting bet. You know how big a Giants fan I am and I have supreme confidence in this year’s team. I am willing to make a bet here and now that they will win the Super Bowl. In other words, I will take the Giants and you will have the rest of the NFL to beat them.”

“Interesting, John. How much are you willing to put up?”

“One hundred dollars.”

“Okay, and what odds do you want?”

Ah, the most important question. In my heart, I wanted 6 to 1, but I didn’t want to turn him off so I blurted out, “Four to one.”

“I’ll take it.”

Okay, the bet was made. So how did it go?

Two weeks later, the Giants lost their premier quarterback, Phil Simms to a season ending leg injury. Their fate fell into the hands of Jeff Hoestler, their back-up QB. He managed to win the last two regular season games and then beat the Chicago Bears in the Giants first playoff game at home in Giants Stadium.

Next up, the two-time Champion San Francisco Forty-Niners at their home field in Candlestick Park. A brutal struggle and a near defeat until LT, (Lawrence Taylor) stripped the ball from the 49ers running back, Roger Craig. This possession allowed the Giants kicker, Matt Barr, to kick the winning field goal as time expired.

A week later, Big Blue took on the Buffalo Bills in the Big Sombrero in Tampa, Florida. Defensive Coach Bill Belicheck engineered a remarkable defense that greatly limited the Bills pass-happy offense while O.J. Anderson, the Giants ancient running back ran both like the wind and as a battle tank that earned him MVP honors.

Between OJ, Geoff Hosteler and the Giants defense, they gave Big Blue the lead as the game clock ticked down. Still, it came down to the Bill’s kicker, Scott Norwood, to win the game. He faced a field goal kick of 47 yards, a bit beyond his range. I held my breath. His kick was like a bad golf shot sliced out to the right and it wasn’t coming back.

Lucky, lucky me. I collected my winnings while learning my lesson well. There is no such thing as a sure thing.