John Delach

The Noro Stomach Virus is that horribly infectious sickness that usually makes headlines went it strikes a cruise ship’s complement of confined passengers turning the “love boat” into “voyage of the dammed.”

Since mid-November, it has struck and continues to strike people in the Metropolitan area with a vengeance. Appropriately, it has selected the period of time surrounding the 75 Anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor to suddenly and deliberately attack individuals and families with devastating results.

Our ordeal began with a sneak attack on grandson, Matty, during the week of December 11 in the early hours of the day. Poor Matty never saw the virus coming and suffered both torpedo and bomb hits. Laid low by its severity, he was knocked out of action for five days.

Brother, Drew, was next attacked repeatedly by a lesser dose that never took him out but slowed him down to a crawl for over a week.

All of this happened several days before Christmas. As is our custom, Mary Ann, Max and I made our way to Fairfield on Christmas Eve to celebrate and open gifts in the morning. We took the chance and all was well as we enjoyed Chinese food for dinner, another Dec. 24 tradition. We left for New Hampshire and our daughter’s family early Christmas morning to repeat the process sans Chinese food.

The game plan called for the Connecticut Delachs to join us in Marlow on December 29^th but Noro whip sawed Michael on Tuesday while at work in Manhattan. Needless to say, his early commute home to Fairfield, Connecticut was a seemingly endless ordeal. He barely held it together while on the train trading violence for uncontrolled sweats but then paid the awful price for being able to do so once off the train.

And so ended those plans. What was left of the holidays ended the night of the 29^th when our son-in-law, Tom, had his turn arrive without warning. We quickly shelved the idea to stay through New Year’s Day as we decided to “get out of Dodge while the getting out was good.”

Tom heroically extended himself to assist in helping to leave and Beth rewarded him by driving home to Brooklyn as he slept.

New Years was quiet which is not unusual for us allowing me to watch my Giants beat the Redskins and get ready for the Packers in a wild card game the following weekend.

The week got off on a good note, a local R.O.M.E.O. (Retired Old Men Eating Out) lunch on Tuesday and lunch and a show in the city on Wednesday to celebrate Mary Ann’s upcoming birthday. We ate at Gallagher’s Steak House and saw a stirring revival of Irving Berlin’s, “Holiday Inn.”

Thursday, my plan was to meet friends at Penn Station and ride the newly opened Second Avenue Subway. NOT: at 2:30 AM, Noro struck. I was amazed how low I fell so quickly. I was able to overcome the nausea but I felt like I had been knocked so hard that I felt dopey. Just completing thoughts was difficult and I took to my bed except for emergency action. By the middle of the day Max decided to join me so I accepted this new bedmate feeling too weak to tackle this 80 pound horse of a dog. My recovery began Friday morning when I decided to shave.

Blindsided indeed! It didn’t end with me as Beth succumbed on Sunday, Jan. 8. I truly hope that none of you suffer this fate but should you, all I can say is this too shall pass.

I commuted between Port Washington, Long Island and New York’s Pennsylvania Station from 1977 until 2000 and, since my retirement, I continue to make this run mostly on non-rush hour trains two to three times a month.

Port Washington is a terminal and my title is taken from the banter between crew members that I could hear over the open intercom on those coaches as the crew prepared for the morning run:

Engineer to conductor: “Mickey says it’s time to go.”

Conductor: “No orders, no messages.”

Engineer: “I have the railroad.”

…and off we’d go each morning.

Other happenings were not so regimented or contrived. One morning a conductor named, Barney, entered my coach just after the train left the Plandome Station. A well-dressed and coiffed dowager looked up at him as he prepared to punch her ticket and asked, “Conductor, please tell me what time this train will arrive at Grand Central Terminal?”

Barney punched her ticket, looked at her and replied, “Lady, you’re on the wrong f***ing railroad.”

One evening on a return journey, the train was just emerging from one of the East River Tunnels as a different conductor entered the car. He commanded: “All tickets, please, all tickets, please. This is the 6:11 Flyer to Port Washington stopping only at Great Neck, Manhasset, Plandome and Port Washington. We expect to arrive in Port Washington at 6:48, all tickets, please.”

When he reached my row, a chap sitting across from me asked, “Why did you say ‘expect?”

“Because nothing in life is guaranteed.”

Beginning in 1989, I started a morning routine of having a daily workout before beginning my workday. I used Cardio Fitness, an upscale facility located in Rockefeller Center as my company was willing to pay for the annual membership. This required me to make the 5:36 train as insane as that sounds. Needless to report, my regular coach was only sparsely populated with other riders when it left Port Washington and often I was its only occupant.

One morning, I sat next to the window on a two seater on an otherwise empty coach. I was already engrossed in the morning’s New York Times when a young woman entered and sat down next to me. I slowly folded my paper, put it down, turned toward my unwanted companion and looked directly at her.

I obtained the desired effect. Clearly flustered, she spoke rapidly trying to explain: “I didn’t know what else to do, my mother always tells me to never sit anyplace but on the aisle and to look for a well-dressed gentleman to sit next to in order to be safe.”

“Look around, the coach is empty. I assure you that it will not get crowded and you can pick any other aisle seat except this one and nobody will try to sit next to you.”

She did as I asked and I returned to my paper but I did keep a protective eye on her for the rest of the journey just in case.

When my friend, Joe, asked me for the name of a good resort to take his family on a spring vacation in the Ft. Myers area I quickly thought of South Seas Resort on Captiva Island. After he found a decent deal on Jet Blue airlines’ website and booked it, I gave Joe, and his wife, Barbara, a list of restaurants, etc. on Captiva and neighboring Sanibel. This got me to thinking about our visits to those islands and I decided to see what was available at South Seas in early December.

I had seen TV ads for Trivago proclaiming to be a super site to find the best deals available from an international stable of travel agents. I took a chance and gave them my preferred dates to stay at that resort. One of these travel agents, Hoteling, quickly offered an excellent price of $1,227.35 for a week’s stay which I accepted and Hoteling confirmed to me on April 21.

I then waited for my next statement from Amex that showed this charge had been made against my account by this UK based travel agency. That statement was dated May 6 and upon receiving it I called South Seas directly who confirmed the booking had been made. Satisfied that all was kosher, I booked our own air and rental car independently.

On November 29^th, I decided to cross the “t”s and dot the “I”s so I called South Seas to reconfirm. Susan, the agent who answered said: “Sorry, Mr. Delach, but I cannot locate a reservation.”

I didn’t panic as I knew the resort had already confirmed it to me and I asked her to look further. She did then reported: “Found it, but it was cancelled on July 26.”

“By whom?” I responded. She couldn’t tell so I assumed Hoteling. First things first, I asked: “Okay, what do you have available for the period of December 7 to 15”?

She quoted me a rate of about $400 more than I paid which I accepted as my alternative was to tell Mary Ann that we weren’t going which I was not about to do.

I could find little for a way to contact Hoteling but I did find the following US helpline phone number for Trivago: 212-208-1439. When I called it a mechanical voice advised: “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.” (If you have little to do, call it. You will hear the same message.)

I did locate Trivago’s web address and sent them an urgent request for action. Since this firm is domiciled in Germany, I realized that my plea could not be addressed until at least the next day at the earliest.

James Morrison from Trivago’s user support replied on December 1: “Unfortunately it is with great regret that I inform you that Hoteling.com along with their parent company, lowcosttravelgroup(LCTC) ceased trading on 15^th July 2016. This is awful news and very unfortunate that it has happened. We are as surprised as anyone.”

Morison did provide the name of the bankruptcy administrators in London  and denied any responsibility whatsoever.

I will not bore you with all that has transpired and continues to transpire since then. Suffice to say, I am not a happy camper.

We made the trip and had a swell time. I did make several attempts to make a case to Morrison to no avail. I did give Morison a parting shot telling him that I can’t wait to see the day when Trivago goes out of business and letting him know I would publish this piece. I did tell him the  working title was: “Trivago: Go to Hell!”

One last note, in the middle of these disappointing exchanges I received a survey from Trivago asking me to rate my experience. Needless to say I gave them a Zero . Zero rating.

Beware of using Trivago.

Monday, March 1, 1962 was one of those superb winter days, moderately cold but crisp and clear, the perfect day for a parade. The Daily Mirror’s morning headline commanded:

Go! Go! To See

Glen Today

Their accompanying story began: “The heavens will turn off that chronic drizzle of the past few days for the man who conquered the sky.”
The parade actually honored all seven Mercury astronauts and was conceived following America’s first space flight by Alan Shepheard. But that flight and Gus Grissom’s subsequent success were so brief that the parade was postponed until Glenn made our nation’s first orbital flight. Glenn became an instant hero and his flight was so well-received and applauded by the American public that the parade became known to all as “The Glenn Parade.”

I was as excited as everyone else and decided to see the parade in person. March 1 was also important to me for another reason; I had turned eighteen in February. So, before I made the trip to Manhattan, I first travelled to Jamaica, Queens the location of my local draft board where I registered for the draft and received my Selective Service card. While this card demonstrated that I had fulfilled my civic duty, it also provided proof that I was eighteen and could legally drink in New York.

Armed with my new status I boarded a Manhattan bound Jamaica elevated subway train at the 168 Street Station for the long ride to Lower Broadway.  For the most part this was a monotonous ride as the train meandered through lackluster neighborhoods like Richmond Hill and Woodhaven. It did have a moment though. at one point the el lifted up above the surrounding apartment buildings to clear the Long Island RR’s mainline that crosses beneath it. This rise provided a stunning view of Jamaica Bay, Idlewild (Now JFK) Airport and the Rockaways. I stood up on that clear, cold day to take in the view only to notice a plume of smoke rising high above the bay making me wonder what had caused that to happen?

On reaching Broadway I joined the masses that lined sidewalks five and six deep becoming absorbed by a crowd estimated to be as many as four million strong who stood along the route. I didn’t see very much even with my height advantage so I can’t say that I saw John Glenn but I think I did. I didn’t stay very long but I didn’t feel disappointed either. Everyone was so happy and proud to be there that it felt good to be part of it.

None of us standing there knew that the plume I had seen earlier came from the remains of an American Airlines 707 that had crashed earlier in the morning after taking off from Idlewild. American Flight No. 1, non-stop service from New York to Los Angeles, began its takeoff roll at 10:07 AM, about the same time I arrived at the Selective Service Office.  The airplane carrying a crew of 8 and 87 passengers climbed to 1,600 feet over Jamaica Bay where the flight crew commenced a left turn. At this point something went terribly wrong with the rudder, the moveable part of the tail. The 707 banked beyond 90 degrees, flipped over onto its back and began a terminal dive toward the bay. One minute and 49 seconds after beginning takeoff, the 707 smashed into the bay upside down at an angle of 73 degrees exploding in the shallow waters killing all on board.

The crash of American Flight No. 1 was the largest single-plane domestic air tragedy up to that time and forced next morning’s newspapers to come to terms with all that had happened on March 1…

The headline on the Daily News read:

IN ONE DAY:

95 Die in Jet; Busman Strike;

Millions Share Glenn Triumph

The Daily Mirror stayed the course with:

‘WONDERFUL’

The only notation, a box at the bottom right-hand corner of the first page noted:

95 Die Here In

Worst Air Crash

The New York Times went with twin banner headlines separated by a single column story about the Fifth Avenue Coach Company strike.  The left side banner headline covered three columns and read:

CITY TURNS OUT FOR GLENN

PARADE IN PAPER BLIZZARD

‘OVERWHELMS’ ASTRONAUT

The right side headline covered four columns and read:

ALL 95 ON JETLINER KILLED IN CRASH

INTO BAY ON TAKE-OFF AT IDLEWILD

PRESIDENT SPURS FEDERAL INQUIRY

Finally, the New York Herald Tribune separated the stories top to bottom of the front page with:

Triumph – The New York Way 

and 

TRAGEDY – End of Flight 1

The top of Page 1 began with this overview:

“Man reaches for the stars but he stands upon the earth. And his fallibilities and failings go hand in hand with his capability and achievements. Yesterday this city honored a space hero – even while stunned by a great air disaster. Today it still feels the pride in John Glenn – and it mourns the ninety-five who died at Idlewild.

We may be sure that there will also be other tragedies from the mines below the earth to the skies above it. But we know, too, that man will persevere and prevail and progress, for he knows no other way.”

(A day late as I was in transit on Wednesday.)

I asked my friend, Peter King, his permission to share his thoughts about, Ralph Branca, an iconic pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers, our team when we were growing up. Pete wrote this piece last month following Branca’s death on November 23 at the age of 90.   

Seventy-five years ago tomorrow, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt went before a joint session of Congress requesting that a declaration of war be issued against the Empire of Japan following the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor.  Set out below in its entirety is his so called “Day of Infamy” speech.

Mr. Vice President, and Mr. Speaker, and Members of the Senate and House of Representatives:

Yesterday, December 7, 1941 – a date which will live in infamy – the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.

The United States was at peace with that Nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its Government and the Emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American Island of Oahu, the Japanese Ambassador to the United States and his colleagues delivered to our Secretary of State a formal reply to a recent American message. And while this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or of armed attack.

It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time the Japanese Government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for a continued peace.

The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.

Yesterday the Japanese Government also launched an attack against Malaya.

Last night Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong.

Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam.

Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Island.

Last night Japanese forces attacked Wake Island. And this morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island.

Japan has therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of the Nation.

As Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense.

But always will our whole Nation remember the character of the onslaught against us.

No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory. I believe that I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again.

Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our own interests are in grave danger.

With confidence in our armed forces – with the unbounding determination of our people – we will gain the inevitable triumph – so help us God.

I ask that Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.

On this, the 75^th of the anniversary of that awful day, we should give pause to remember all of our citizens who were caught up in the Second World War, those who perished, our friends and family members who answered the call and especially our surviving veterans. They are our link to history; they are our national treasure.

 God bless them one and all and God bless the United States of America.   

Little House, the rural vacation home in Marlow, NH has been in our family since 1984. It sits off a dirt road three quarters of a mile from NH State Highway 10 (once known as the Dartmouth Highway.) Approximately one acre of the property is cleared but the deed shows the size of the parcel as being: “Ten acres more or less.” This vagueness is understandable as the overwhelmingly wooded part of the plot borders on a NH State Forest.

Over the years we have hiked through the woods many times especially in the fall when the weather is cool, dry and free of bugs. We have never encountered other critters except for the occasional deer or wild turkey and figured that the scents and noise of our Golden Retrievers kept other critters at bay. We never gave much thought as to what might be living in these woods.

Nope, we never gave it a thought until this past Labor Day when, John R, a college roommate of our son, Michael together with his friend, Dave, paid us a visit. John and Dave are hunters who hail from Billerica, Mass. John had researched this area and our land in particular as a possible hunting spot free from other hunters.

They asked our permission to hunt here once the season opened on November 7. We readily agreed; so John explained what they wanted to do was to fix a heat and motion – sensitive camera to a tree about 100 yards from the clearing. John explained, “That way we will learn what animals are back there and how often they come around.”

They returned several times in the following weeks to download the camera and John duly texted the photos to me. Surprisingly, over time the camera caught considerable activity including a black bear and her two cubs, a buck deer with an impressive rack, a female moose, a feral pig and a bobcat.

No doubt about it, we had been inadvertently operating an animal sanctuary practically in our back yard. Remarkably, over all those years and all the dogs (10) that had lived with us and our children’s families, only once did a dog encounter a critter. That was Maggie who suffered a serious stomach wound from what I took for granted was a raccoon. (The wound became infected and only the kind care by Dr. Ann at the Port Washington Animal Hospital saved Maggie.) But now, who knows for sure what she encountered?

John and Dave decided to try their luck on the opening weekend November 10 to 13. We offered them the use of our house as their hunting camp that they readily and gratefully accepted.

As the old saying goes though, once hunting season begins the animals disappear. They did manage to spot a large buck, but he must have spotted them too because he vamoosed not to be seen again…and so it goes. Oh well, there’s always next year.

Last Saturday afternoon, the Nassau County Poet Laureate Society honored my teacher by presenting members of his family with personal tributes by poets and writers. This is my interpretation of the man who taught me how to write. 

Maxwell C. Wheat Jr., poet, parent, preacher and man of peace.

Activist, protester, man of passion, letters, understanding and always; a poet.

Teacher, facilitator, critic, editor, advisor, arbiter, encourager, friend.

Witness excerpt from his eulogy to Pete Seeger’s genius saving the Hudson:

Now Pete Seeger belongs to his Hudson

His outreach of rousing songs

Are the frisky breezes, tall winds coming off the hills,

Touching, stroking the waved back of this 315-mile

Pleistocene invertebrate of a stream

He concludes his poem:

Pete Seeger’s song now parcel of the river’s song:

listen for his voice in the rustling of its autumn leaves,

listen for his voice in the rock slashing of the white capped waves.

Max often referred to his beginnings: reporter, New York Geneva Times Daily.

Assigned obits, his editor explained: “Human interest.” Max never forgot.

This from his poem about 9/11 he called, “Everybody Has a Story,”

Eamon McEneaney 46 in the first attack, 1992,

Led sixty three people down one hundred flights of stairs.

Senior vice president, brokerage firm, Cantor Fitzgerald.

Calling his wife at her office, shouting “Is Bonnie there?

I love her and I love the kids…”

He was – in the Newsday obit,

The ending of a poem to his wife:

“…The end

is a bend in the road

That we’ll never find

A death I will always

Defend

You from.”

Maxwell Wheat a man of peace who served his nation in the USMC,

Did his duty and yet espoused Whitman and Melville; do no harm.

First Poet Laureate of Nassau County, a national treasure:

Adios my teacher, my friend: Via con Dios!

On October 27, 2016, a Boeing 737-700 had a close call while landing at LaGuardia Airport. The jet had been chartered to Donald Trump’s presidential campaign and Mike Pence, now Mr. Trump’s vice president-elect was on board at the time of this event.

A preliminary report that appeared in Newsday several days later stated that the engine spoilers had failed to automatically deploy as soon as the airplane hit the ground and the flight crew took four seconds to manually deploy them. In that short space of time, they also hit the brakes so hard that the 737 skidded off the runway and into the soft concrete slurry arrester bed. The report also noted that this aircraft had been chartered from Eastern Air Lines.

On reading this, I looked up the airplane to check its markings. It had two big names stenciled on both sides, TRUMP and PENCE, but it was a blue band that ran along both sides of the fuselage and up the tail that attracted my attention. Sure enough these markings were a double band of blue, light on top dark blue below; the same markings that the old Eastern Air Lines used in their many years of flying jets. That era lasted until January 19, 1991 when Eastern closed it doors and ceased all operations. Eastern was my domestic carrier of record for most of my business career and I previously wrote in 2014  about my many experiences flying on board that defunct carrier as part of a piece with the title: “Why I Hate Airlines:”

Once upon a time it seemed that I lived on Eastern Air Lines because they flew to all of the places where I peddled insurance; Richmond, Boston, DC, Miami, Atlanta, Mobile, Houston, San Juan and Bermuda. I was one of their Executive Travelers and a member of the Ionosphere Club when it mattered. That combination was so powerful that I knew the receptionist at the club in their JFK terminal on a first name basis. Her name was Helen and she always upgraded me to First Class. In fact, one morning back in the 1980s I arrived for Flight 807, the morning airplane to Bermuda, without my passport or even my driver’s license. Helen, asked, “What are you going to do Mr. Delach?”

“Well, Helen, I do have my company ID that has my photo and we have an office in Bermuda so I think that will work.”

“Okay, good luck but I’ll put you in first class as that could help.”

Imagine that encounter today. Long story short: It did work with a minimum of fuss both ways; getting past Bermuda Immigration onto the island and U.S. Customs and Immigration getting off.

But I watched Eastern go down under Frank Borman’s stewardship. In fact we had a running joke to describe how bad things became before Eastern went out of business: “Eastern is run by Frank Borman, but the way it is run you’d think it was being run by Martin Bormann.”

This new Eastern Air Lines began flying in 2015 as a charter operation based at the Miami International Airport. That Boeing 737-700 with the close call had been chartered to the Florida Panthers for use as their team plane before being chartered by the Trump organization. Eastern replaced it with a 737-800 for the rest of the campaign. That aircraft was the San Francisco Giants team plane.

But here’s the thing. The report in Newsday noted that the failure of the spoilers to automatically engage was a known problem and had not been working during the last three flights before the LaGuardia landing. The story noted that it was unknown at that time whether the flight crew was aware of this problem prior to the bad landing.

Sad to say, but it should be noted if maintenance is that slip-shod, the new Eastern Air Lines isn’t any better than the old Eastern Air Lines, perhaps worse…flyer beware!

Now that the sun is up and the sky hasn’t fallen, I present to you my intended blog for today.

The weather was as perfect as predicted, clear, mostly sunny, morning temperature: 52 degrees, 60 to 62 at game time. A perfect day for the New York City Marathon but, more importantly, a perfect day for football. A One PM start: Eagles vs. Giants at Met Life Stadium in East Rutherford, NJ- football doesn’t get better than this!

Joe arrived at my house at 7:43 AM. Dave was next and by eight we three were out of Port Washington cruising west on Long Island highways and over the Throgs Neck Bridge. Thank God for early Sunday mornings. We crossed The Bronx in ten-minutes, galloped over the George Washington Bridge onto I-80, the New Jersey Turnpike and made it into our tailgate parking lot by 8:40!

Festivities were already in progress, our mates who arrived before the parking lot opened at 8 AM had secured select spaces to park and tailgate. Let the cooking begin: Prosciutto Roll, Lox and cream cheese bagels and empanadas accompanied by Bill’s bloody Marys to kickoff our fourth tailgate of the 2016 season. Today, the New York Football Giants face our most sinister rival, the Philadelphia Eagles, a never ending vendetta. These two division rivals must play each other twice a year, every year until hell freezes over.

Grills are fired up, coolers mostly stocked with beer from exotic imports to Bud and Miller Lite abound. Shrimp cocktail, steak, brisket, burgers, clams, dogs, Italian sausages and peppers, Philly cheese steak sandwiches, boar sausages, knockwurst, etc, etc. We take joy in sharing this bounty and revel in our common love and our common cause; Heavenly Father, let us defeat, nay destroy the ugly bird from the City of Brotherly Love and let our beloved Big Blue advance. Amen.

The disputed presidential election two days removed is without meaning or consequence for the next six hours. No Clinton, no Trump; Giants against Eagles; we win –  we’re a contender – they win, 2016 is kaput for us. Got it? It’s that simple, we win, we go on – lose, the season’s over. As Doctor Mike once put it: “Just exactly, how is this election going to affect the outcome of today’s game?”

Shortly after noon, we broke down the tailgate and made our way though three different parking lots to reach Met Life Stadium, aka, the new joint. Not surprisingly, numerous Eagle fans were in attendance dressed in green and silver paraphernalia. We endure the triple lines of security, the price we pay to enjoy life in these dangerous times. I travelled with Joe, his brother Justin, Dave, my son, Michael and his son, Matt. Dave, Mike, Matt and I used our regular seats, in Section 108, Row 10, Seats 1-4. Joe sat with his brother, Justin in their seats at the other end of 108.

The league celebrated our armed forces in honor of next Friday’s Veterans Day. A massive American Flag was unfurled that covered almost the entire playing field for the playing of our national anthem that ended with an impressive flyover by three F-18 Hornets.

The Eagles won the coin toss and deferred, now the thing to do in the NFL.  The Giants offense did nothing going three and out and forced to punt. Then the fun began.  The Giants defense intercepted two of Carson Wentz’s passes on the first two Eagles possessions and Eli Manning turned both into touchdowns: Giants 14, Eagles 0.

So much for the easy part. From then on it turned into a slug fest. Both defenses played well and the Giants, particularly well. They stopped the Eagles on three out of four Fourth Down attempts and blocked a field goal.

At the end of the third quarter, the Giants were up, 28 to 17. I took that stoppage to make a pit stop. Excitement was at a fever pitch and I said to the guy at the next urinal, “That Wentz has a rifle for an arm when he throws short passes. We have to disrupt him, knock him on his ass as often as we can.”

At that point I turned toward him only to realize he was a guy about 50 wearing a white Eagles jersey. “Oh,” I remarked, “disregard that transmission.”

“Roger and out.” He replied.

With the score 28 to 23 the Eagles last scoring attempt ended with an incomplete pass thrown to the corner of the end zone right in front of us. A nail biter to the end but put it in the win column. High fives, hugs and joy.

We waited our turn to exit our section and made the long but happy walk back to the car for the traffic choked trip back to Long Island. I’ll miss next week’s game as it’s on Monday night and I don’t do night games. But Sunday, November 20 is another One PM start against the Bears so I get to do it all over again.

Go Giants.