John Delach

The New York Football Giants played their 100^th Anniversary game on Sunday, September 8 starting at 1 pm in Met Life Stadium in East Rutherford, NJ their home since 2010. It had been quite a summer leading up to this game. In early August, Big Blue held a reception in Madison Square Garden to introduce their uniforms for opening day that replicated those worn by the 1925 team. Also, they wanted to showcase alumni like Lawence Taylor (LT), Harry Carson, Eli Manning, Phil Simms and Otis Anderson who spoke about their times playing for the team.

The late Wellington Mara had initiated and developed the understanding that all former players would always be welcomed back home with the statement, “Once a Giant, always a Giant!”

As the summer progressed, preparations continued. The top 100 players were selected and we fans were told that each group of ten would be identified each Tuesday. A long story, short, the top ten were: No. 10 Andy Robustelli – 9 Sam Huff- 8 Eli Manning-7 Harry Carson- 6 Emlen Tunnell- 5 Michael Strahan- 4 Frank Gifford- 3 Mel Heim- 2 Roosevelt Brown and -1 Lawrence, LT, Taylor.

The sports department of my local newspaper, Newsday, invited Giants fans to share their favorite moments of being a fan. I thought about it and decided to submit my choice. The editor picked mine and this is the version they ran in their paper:

“My son Michael and I attended Super Bowl XLII. I lost track of time at the end of the game, but when Mike lifted me into the air, I knew the Giants had won. ‘Mike, if we had to play these guys (the Patriots) 10 times, how many times would we win?

“Pop, we just saw it!”

In late August, I received a message from the team that I would soon be receiving a package commemorating this anniversary. It arrived on the Wednesday before opening day. The top of the box featured the One Hundred Year’s Logo. One side illustrated the various logos and helmet marking the team’s history while the other side listed the eight years the team was World Champions.

The box contained a two-sided ticket encased in Plexi-glass. On one side was a replica of the first home game ever between the Giants and the Frankfort Yellow Jackets, who eventually became the Philadelphia Eagles. The reverse side depicted what a ticket for the 100^th ticket would have looked like if the Giants still issued carboard tickets.

More importantly, the second box contained the team’s primary gift, replicas of the four Super Bowl rings from 1986, 1990, 2007 and 2011.   

I had to make a decision whether or not to attend this first game of the season. I have been a season ticket holder since 1962 and I decided that I could not miss this game. Hey, I’m a realist. At 80, the long walk to the stadium from where we park is an ordeal. Getting a golf cart  to take this journey is a big help, but the walk from the closest entrance to our seats is still difficult.

Add to that, that our current version of Big Blue is at best, a work in progress. So much is new and untried and our quarterback, Daniel Jones, is suspect at best coming off several injuries. I realized that it’s too important for me to miss this major anniversary. I decided to go into the stadium with my eyes wide open.

Joe M accompanied by his eldest daughter, Emma, picked me up at my house several minutes before 8 am. The temperature was still in the 60’s with the promise that it would climb into the 70’s. An early pre-fall day, and a good day for football. We reached the stadium’s parking lot before 9 am and were joyfully greeted by our Big Blue comrades.

We had a medium sized tailgate with 18 participants that included my son, Michael, his buddy Jeff and grandsons, Drew and Matt. Michael drove down in his newly acquired navy blue 2022 Chevy Silverado. Other participants included Bill W and his son, Mike; Ehab and his daughter, Page; Bruce, his daughter Alexis and a buddy, Goose and a friend and long absent Joe D. and his buddy also joined us.

Food was plentiful and included a prosciutto roll, home-made stromboli, shrimp flavored mac and cheese, sausage and pepper heroes, crab cakes and chicken kebobs.

Bill W. and I decided to call guest services and request a golf cart to take us to one of the entrances. Bill is also a member of the walking wounded. Unfortunately, it turned out we were far from alone in requesting transportation so Bill and I took turns pestering the dispatchers until one finally showed up.  

We had a great time with our happy- go- lucky mates glad to be back. As good as the tailgate was, that is how bad the game turned out to be. The final score was Minnesota 28, New York 6. The Giants fell flat on their faces on both sides of the ball while the Vikings second-hand quarterback, Sam Darnold, once the Jets first-round pick had a career outing throwing for 208 yards and 2 touchdowns. The Vikings capped off the scoring with a ten-yard interception of Jones by Viking linebacker,  Andrew Van Ginkel.

Enough was enough and I decided to leave during the third quarter when golf carts were usually available. Michael joined me and, fortunately, he found an empty cart just outside the gate where we exited. 

The ride home was a typical slog especially getting on to the George Washington Bridge, but thankfully, traffic remained free of other ordeals. The following Sunday the Giants lost their second game to the Commanders in DC, (formerly known as the Redskins) by a more reasonable score of 21-18. In Week 3 late breaks came their way as they beat the Browns 21-15. Buckle up, 2024 may turn into roller coaster of a season.              

On Sunday, September 8, the same Sunday that the New York Football Giants opened their 100^th football season, Ed Kranepool, an original member of the New York Metropolitans (Mets) passed away from cardiac arrest in Boca Ratan, Florida.

The Mets had drafted “Young Ed’ directly out of James Monroe High School in the Bronx when he was 17-years old. He joined the team on September 22, toward the end of their 1962 season He played at their temporary home in Manhattan, the Polo Grounds, in 1962 and 1963 before moving to brand new Shea Stadium in Flushing Meadows, Queens in April of 1964.

“Kranepool grew up a Yankee fan in the Bronx, but he took a detour to upper Manhattan and Queens where Mets fans got to embrace him as a hometown boy of their own – one whose modest personality and baseball resume fit the underdog franchise.”   

Assigned No. 21, he began his career playing first base as a defensive replacement for the aging Gil Hodgers who would go on to become his manager. Kranepool’s early participation in the Mets line-up gave him the dubious distinction of being part of this team that lost 120 games in 1962, a record that still stands.

“He was still a Met when he retired after the 1979 season – leaving as their all-time leader in games played, by far, with 1,853.” Columnist Neil Best wrote this f/or Newsday’s September 10 edition. His obituary included a photograph of Kranepool with fellow 1969 World Champion Mets, Cleon Jones and Art Shamsky,  taken during a 2019  spring training outing.

Best quoted Jones: “I just spoke to Ed last week and we talked about how we were the last originals, still alive,  who signed with the Mets. The other 1962 guys came from other organization. Eddie was a big bonus baby and I wasn’t. He never had an ego and was just one of the guys. He was a wonderful person.”

“Kranpool’s statistics were modest. He finished with 1,418 hits, 118 home runs and a .261 batting average. In the championship season of 1969, he had 11 home runs, 49 RBIs and a .238 average.”

“Kranepool failed to live up to the potential star status predicted for him, but he was always valued as a bridge from the teams dreadful early years to the breakthrough in 1969. For example, when 44-year-old Hall of Fame pitcher Warren Spahn joined the Mets in 1965, Kranepool gave him his No. 21 and switched to No. 7, the number the big lefthand hitter wore for the rest of his career. “

My connection to Ed Kranepool was simple but disconcerting; he was born on November 8, 1944 and I was born on February 22, 1944. That made him the first major league baseball player who I realized was younger than me, a fact I found depressing especially at my tender age of 18 in 1962.

R.I.P. Ed Kranepool.

When Vincent Sombrotto’s died in January of 2013, his death was promptly reported in an obituary in The New York Times. Mr. Sombrotto was 89 and died in St. Francis Hospital on Long Island. His obit explained his claim to fame. It read in part, “Vincent Sombrotto, who was a rank-and-file letter carrier, led a wildcat strike that shut down post offices across the country in 1970, prompting President Richard M. Nixon to call out the National Guard…”

Those were crazy times, starting with Michael Quill’s face off against newly installed Mayor John V. Lindsay on New Year’s Day, 1966. The results he achieved for his members of the Transport Workers Union, (TWU) with the strike that lasted 12 days that saw him thrown into jail and killed him less than a month later, influenced other union leaders of municipal workers, quasi-city workers and others. They took to the streets as strikes seemed to spread like wildfire through the 60’s and 70’s until at one point forty different unions went out on strike in one calendar year.

It seemed that everyone who was a “union man or woman” joined the cause in those days of rage. Sanitation, police, fire, ambulance services, hospitals and even ballerinas from the American Ballet Theater took to the streets one even wore her slippers on the picket line. Umpires picketed Yankee Stadium; cemetery workers engaged in a hunger strike. OTB clerks, prison guards, tug boat operators, milk truck drivers, school bus drivers, and Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority (TBTA) toll collectors all walked. Albert Shanker led the teachers out in a series of nasty strikes that pitted minority-controlled community boards against his United Federation of Teachers (UFT) culminating in a 36-day strike commencing at the start of the school year in September of 1968. Beyond material gains, the strike brought Shanker dubious fame thanks to a line in the Woody Allen movie, Sleeper: “(That) the world as we knew it had been destroyed by a mad man named, Albert Shanker who got a hold of a nuclear device.”

Another outrage to the citizens in a seemingly endless chain came in 1971 when bridge tenders belonging to Victor Gotbaum’s District 37 of the Municipal Employees Union opened all 27 draw bridges in the city before locking the doors, removing fuses and walking off the job after throwing their keys into the waters they guarded before leaving their posts. The chaos they left in their wake was insane. Only 7,000 of Gotbaum’s 400,000 members, actually went out but his 2 ½ day-rant included other vital workers at sewage treatment plants, garbage disposal terminals and school cafeterias. 

But Vinnie and his gang were different. They were federal employees. As the strike spread from Manhattan and the Bronx across the land, it tested President Richard M. Nixon’s patience and on March 23, 1970, five days into the strike, he announced on television: “(I) just now directed the activation of the men of various military organizations to begin in New York City, the restoration of essential mail services.”

As members of various units in the 42^nd Division of the New York National Guard, we reported to the armories where our outfits were housed. Bill Wilson went to the Armory on 18^th St. where his unit, the famous “Fighting” 69^th was housed. Geoff Jones reported to his outfit, Company B, 42^nd Maintenance Battalion at the Kingsbridge Armory in the Bronx and Bill Christman and I journeyed to an armory in Hempstead, Long Island, the home of Company C of the 242^nd Signal Battalion. For the next eight days, these were our places of work until the strike was settled. Of the four of us, only Bill Wilson actually delivered mail on an assigned route in lower Manhattan. So little mail was sorted at the GPO that delivering it would take him less than an hour each day allowing Bill to go off to his regular job as an insurance broker while still in his army fatigues before returning to the armory.

Bill Christman remembered our greatest accomplishment: “Putting up a volley ball net between two deuce-an-a-halves (Two and a half-ton trucks) and that our First Sergeant, Sgt. Peter Stegle commented, ‘Once the postal workers envisioned us invading their work places, they figured they better settle.”

We never left the armory and when the strike ended, Sgt. Stegle ordered us into formation on the drill floor to address us before dismissal. He reminded us that although we never left the armory, “Those who stand and wait also serve.” As he finished these remarks one soldier let loose in a stage whisper, “Ah, the motto of Burger King.”

Vinnie’s passing reminded us, the veterans of the great mail crusade, of the joy he inadvertently brought to us by calling that wildcat strike. Unbeknownst to any of us, embedded in our National Guard contract for service with Uncle was a provision that, if we were ever Federalized by order of the Commander-in-Chief, we would have a reduction up to one year of our six-year commitment regardless of the duration of being Federalized.

Thank you, Vinnie, thank you and Milhouse!

Only one obstacle remained, the governor of the state of New York. It seemed we also had a separate contract to be part of a State Militia, But Nelson Rockefeller turned out to be a player and he dispensed us from this commitment. Thank you too, Rocky, your wealthiness.

 I don’t recall recruiters trying to get many of us to re-up; that would have been too funny and a waste of time.

But I do know that like other aging vets of the great mail crusade, the next time I put a stamp on an envelope, I’ll think kindly of ole Vinnie.

September 2024

Lt. Gung-Ho

“Oh, we’re the boys from 242, we’d like to say hello to you, hello, hello, hello.” That was our little song that we used as an introduction during summer camp as we arrived at another unit’s  head-quarters to hook them up with telephone cables allowing them to talk to the rest of the 42^nd Rainbow infantry Division.

Allow me to step back at this point. The use of the word ‘rainbow’ has been coopted by the gay community in the same manner that the word, ‘gay’ itself was coopted to identify that community. The 42^nd  Division was formed when America entered World War I by recruits taken from almost every state in the union, sort of a rainbow across America. Hence the name.

On this particular afternoon, our leader, Sargent, Mike M led us into an outfit assigned to us. Besides Sgt M, we had our driver, Jorge , and six cablemen. I was joined by my cousin, Bill, the other Bill, with whom I went through basic training, Freddy B, Rico R. and Steve B. Our job was to install the cable. But, Sgt M, Bill and Freddie all worked for NY Telephone so they did the important work while we did the heavy lifting.

We followed Sgt M into this unit’s camp to locate where our cable was to be hooked up to their telephone equipment. Admittedly, none of us were dressed in full working uniforms. Most of us wore hats, but most of us wore only tee shirts, this being a hot day at Camp Drum.

Suddenly, a 90-day wonder, a newly minted ROTC college trained Second Lieutenant full of piss and vinegar began berating Sgt. M on our lack of dress discipline.

We boys stopped doing anything so we could watch this show. We were all familiar with Sgt. M. He was a quiet man who never raised his voice in anger or used obscenities or lost his cool.

Sgt. M listened to Lt. Gung-Ho and took in his bluster and abuse. He said nothing in response until L:t. Gung-Ho finished his admonition. Quietly Sgt M came to his point and simply replied,  “Lieutenant, it appears to me that you do not wish to be able to talk to the rest of the army. Fair enough, that’s your choice. Boys, back on the truck, we’re out of here.”

Sgt M turned and walked away and we followed him. The Lieutenant, (now renamed) Lt. Dumb ass remained where he was as Sgt. M jumped back in the cab and we climbed into the cargo bay. Suddenly, Lt. Dum ass came to the realization of what was happening and how badly he had screwed-up. He sprinted  after SGT Martin practically begging him to come back. Martin, accepted his apology, ordered us off the truck so we could hook them up to the rest of the army. We didn’t sing our little ditty as we finally pulled out of there, but we now had a juicy story to tell everyone else in Charlie Company.  

Riot Control

Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated on April 4, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee causing race riots to breakout across the country. Our armory was located in Hempstead, NY, a prominently Black community. Hempstead was not immune to the riots that followed but we were not activated to protect lives or property as we had not received any training in riot control.

But the authorities did note the proximity of our armory to the troubled zone and it was decided to have us participate in anti-riot maneuvers. Of course, even the Big Brains in the National Guard realized that it wouldn’t be wise to let the community know that we were undertaking this training.

They selected an old Navy training base located in Sands Point a trendy upscale community on Long Island’s Gold Coast. And so, on a warm Sunday in June we made our way to this dormant field  that would eventually become the site of Helen Keller Center for deaf and blind students.

One side of the field faced out onto Middle Road, the main drag though Sands Point. We came off our two and a half ton trucks commonly called “Deuce and a half.” We were dressed like we were going to war. We carried unmounted bayonets, gas masks, web belts, entrenching tools, helmet liners canteens and our M-1 rifles. Both companies, B and C that were assigned to the Hempstead armory formed up into our respective formations.

Our officers decided that one company would play the soldiers and the other company would play the rioters. After two hours, the roles would be reversed. C Company would begin as the rioters and we were instructed to stack our rifles and all other equipment, remove our hats shirts and all other gear that we placed neatly on the grass.

The trucks drove off to a parking area close to the shore and tape was used to construct make-believe blocks. We were told to act like rioters and the action quickly deteriorated to a joke. We sat down blocking the make-believe street and nobody knew what to do.

When we reversed the roles, we quickly discovered that being a soldier was far lee comfortable. We were ordered to fix our bayonets and put on our gas masks. We were hot and sweaty and again, the rioters blocked the street forcing us to stand there and wait.

One irony, as the afternoon went by pretty girls and pretty boys drove up Middle Neck Road and parked their Vets, T-Birds, BMW and Mercede convertibles along the side of the road to watch the soldier men do their thing. They seemed to be having a good time until they got bored and drove off only to be replaced by a new set of rich kids.

We finished about 4 PM, picked up our make-believe blocks, reboarded our trucks and headed back to the armory. We never heard another word about that Sunday and, fortunately, we never were called out to play law and order.                

Since we were members of the 242^nd Signal Battalion, upon graduation from basic training, we faced two alternatives where we would receive our advanced training on communications. One was located here in the Fort Dix training area. The other, more intense, was located at Fort Gordan in Georgia. Fortunately, we were ordered to remain in Fort Dix.

This decision was a God-send! If we had been ordered to Georgia, going home on weekends would have been an illusion. Fort Dix made it a reality. Bill had rented an off-base parking spot and a driver would bring his car onto the base every Friday afternoon. He’d give me a lift to an exit on the Long Island Expressway where Mary Ann would meet me. On Sunday, she would drive me to the Port Authority Bus Terminal where I’d catch my ride back to Dix.    

Our stay in that training company was almost the reverse of my basic training.

First off, an incredible yet tragic event happened as we were moving into our new quarters. On our second day there, our new First Sergeant in charge died of unknown causes. The army couldn’t replace him so the company clerks took over our training schedules and all of us cooperated with their schedule to the fullest.

Good grief, only an idiot wouldn’t cooperate. We were guaranteed weekend passes without any exceptions so long as we kept the peace and reported to our weekly communication classes. As Sargent Campbell had told us, “You guys (reservists) are a summer breeze. None of you ever go AWOL or have run-ins with MPs or the police.”

The army calls specialty training achieving proficiency in our MOS or our job description. MOS, stands for Military Occupational Specialty. We were linemen. But, when researching this piece, I called on my cousin, Bill, to recall ours. We both agreed that it was between 312 and 318, and most likely 316.

When I looked up army MOS during the Viet Nam War, I was shocked to find that the army categorized a lineman as MOS 36. Whatever, 316 or 36, that was my army job.

Curiously, 90% of my training in communications school had nothing to do with what we were expected to do back in C Company of the 242^nd Signal Battalion! Nobody cared, including us. Our goal was to graduate and go home.

We learned how to operate an army telephone switchboard, lay down and hook up field wire, not our job back in Co. C in the 242. The army actually tried to teach us how to communicate using signal flags.

One training task tested my ability, and not in a nice way, pole climbing. The pole I had to climb was 30-feet tall. (Another reason to thank why I didn’t have to train in Fort Gordon. (The word was out that they had 90-foot poles there.)

To climb the poll, I had to fasten climbing gaffs to the bottom of my two boots, fasten leather chaps over the legs of my pants and fasten a working belt around my waist that included a safety belt that I deployed when I reached my working area.

A gaff is a triangular piece of steel that protrudes from a steel plate that we attached to the bottom of our boots with leather straps. When climbing a pole, we’d raise our free leg and kick the gaff into the pole giving us traction to lift our other now free leg. Repetition let us climb the pole one leg at a time.

We had to be careful to anchor each thrust at a 45 degree angle to guarantee it was secure. We were warned to always lean back and never to get to close to the pole. Otherwise, we faced the risk of gaffing out which world send us shooting down the pole. If that happened, our only protection to the multitude of splinters would be our chaps and heavy-duty gloves.

Once we reached the top, we’d attach our safety belt, remove our gloves and go to work.

Our final exam only had us climb the pole, set up as if we were ready to go to work, Circle the poll instead, remove our safety belt, put on our gloves and descend back to the ground. When my turn came, I successfully climbed the pole, circled it and began my descend. About half way down, I made a mistake and gaffed out! I dropped about ten-feet in a shower of splinters before I came to a stop. disgusted and defeated, I quickly finished my descent, stopped at the bottom of the pole, removed my gloves and gaffs, grabbed my climbing equipment, returned it to storage and walked away. Fortunately, I received a passing grade and I never climbed a poll again.

We graduated in May making our active commitment less than four months instead of the six months we signed up for.

In the following editions I will report on the unusual experiences of being in the reserves.                                  

When we arrived at Fort Dix in early February of 1967, we began basic training  by living in transient barracks under the supervision of sergeants who would become our drill instructors (DIs) once we transferred to the permanent home of our new basic training outfit, Sierra Company.

Their job for now was to make sure we accomplished every task needed to begin this journey. First up, haircuts with electric razers set at zero. Fortunately, my cousin, Bill, had alerted me so I arrived with a short crew cut.

We were issued duffle bags. It didn’t take long to understand why as we began to fill them with:

Uniforms, underwear and socks of different types. Two or three fatigue pants and shirts, a Class A uniform, hats, boots and even glasses. Field jackets, Class A overcoats, gloves and anything else deemed appropriate.

Visits to doctors and dentists filled in a good deal of our time as transients. Finally, we boarded buses loaded down with all our stuff and were driven to the home of Sierra’s barracks. After we piled out from the buses, stacked our stuff where told, we lined up in formation so we could meet the newest prick who would control our lives for the next eight weeks, our First Sergeant, Gutman. Sergeant Gutman announced his presence like a major tornado wrecking a town in Kansas. Gutman guaranteed that he now had ultimate control over our very beings.

Hyperbole, of course, but nobody was stupid enough to challenge him. Actually, I found my own escape from his control by silently mimicking his Hitleresque pronouncements. We went to breakfast as a unit and as we entered the mess hall, each of us had to sound off with their Service Number. If a soldier mumbled his number, a sergeant would demand that he repeat it louder. One morning, soon thereafter, when my turn came, I inwardly grabbed a breath deep in my gut. I used the same voice that I used to torment officials at Giants games and let fly, “Sergeant, Private 3-3-1-9-0-7-0 reporting.”

Back in the day, I had trained my voice so that my taunts filled Section 12 at Yankee Stadium. Now my voice filled a mess hall.

Gutman loved it and I became his celebrity that made my life that much easier under his reign of terror.

Our basic training schedule was a winter cycle. The Army restricted what we could do outdoors. Despite this restriction, Gutman announced that we should prepare for a three-day bivouac where we would live outside, eat outside and maneuver outside. I will never know who dropped the dime on him, but the Army’s Inspector General came down on our First Sargent with fire and brimstone forcing him to back off.

His revenge came swiftly. We were too early in our training cycle to be eligible for weekend passes, but being close to Long Island, many of us had visitors on Sunday, our day off. Mary Ann, my fiancé and my mom would visit on Sundays.

About 9 am, Gutman announced that we would be in lock down that Sunday.

Before we knew about his edict, several trainees had left with their buddies or girlfriends. My buddy, Bill, from the 242 was one of them. Gutman arrived after Bill had left, but he was there when Mary Ann and my mom, arrived. I explained my dilemma  to our First Sargent knowing full well that he had exceeded his authority.

He relented so long as we stayed in a parking lot close to the barracks.

When Bill returned, I told him the shit-kickers were coming down on him and so they did. They made the next week the longest of his life with KP in the morning, all kinds of shit during the day and KP at night. I did everything I could to lessen his load, but it was Bill’s strong spirit that got him through it. F***k Gutman, Bill beat you.

The rifle assigned to us was the M-14, the successor to the M-1 Garand rifle that had been in service since World War II. The M-14 entered service in 1958, but by the time we received it, the M-16 assault rifle was already being used by our troops in Viet Nam.

I liked the feel of the M-14 and got high marks demonstrating how to maneuver with it. Unfortunately, my score at the qualifying line fell a few points short of expert that cost me my first weekend pass.

My worst experience came on the grenade range. The supervisors quickly moved us along from station to station. This caused me to lose focus, a weakness I live with. All of a sudden, I was called into the pit to throw a live grenade. The instructor placed a grenade into my right hand, pointed me in the direction where he wanted me to throw it and ordered me to pull the pin. I put my hand back into a throwing position and looked at the target area. In my state of confusion, I saw nothing to zero in on. I threw it, nut not very far.

Next thing I heard was a loud speaker announce, “Short round.”

The instructor ordered me to hit the dirt and mumbled, “Son of a bitch”

He stood looking at it for a few seconds, then hit the dirt too.

It went off with a loud bang, but without doing any harm.

I looked at the instructor. I thought of apologizing, but I realized he was in no mood to hear anything from me.

The rest of basic training melted away, but before we graduated Bill and I and a couple of other guys had dinner with Sergeant Campell. He said, “I love you reservists. Admittedly, you can be pains in the ass, ask too many questions and don’t like the Army way of doing things.”

“But, you guys are a summer breeze when compared to raw draftees. None of you ever go AWOL have run-ins with MPs or the New Jersey Police, or turn on each other including with knives. I’d pick you reservists any time.”

On the Outside Looking In will not publish on August 21, but will return on August 28.

When I arrived at Fort Dix to begin basic training, I found that most of my fellow mates who I shared our barracks with were also National Guard or Army Reserve enlistees who had been members of their home units for one or two years. Most of us had joined these units to avoid the draft in 1965 and 1966.

I joined the 242^nd Signal Battalion based in Hempstead, Long Island in the spring of 1965 shortly before I graduated from college. My cousin, Bill, was already a seasoned veteran and had already served his six months in active duty at Fort Dix in Bordentown, NJ close to Philadelphia, PA. At the time I joined my unit, the reserves were operating in a relaxed peace-time mode.

Bill drove me to the armory where I met the First Sargent of Company C, Harry Coogan. Harry was a nice guy with an excellent sense of humor. He operated in that same relaxed atmosphere. He had several openings available and he signed me up. Harry welcomed me to the unit and said that I would go to basic training that fall.  

Little did we realize that coming summer of 1965, President Lyndon B. Johnson would turn our country’s advisory actions in Viet Nam into a full-scale war against the North and open the draft so he could send hundreds of thousands of young American men into that dirty little war.

Johnson and Co’s actions filled the Army’s training centers with as many draftees as they could handle and then some. All of a sudden, young men eligible for the draft flocked to join reserve units. The 242^nd Signal Battalion was no exception. Every unit filled their quotas and started turning away new enlistees.

We reservists were relegated to training units within our companies. It sucked and nobody liked the concept. We were a waste of time and resources. Over time, it became obvious that we didn’t have a place in the line to go away for training, so at least in Company C, the brass integrated us into the organization.

I joined Bill’s unit that was led by two sergeants, Freddie B and Mike M. With the call-up to war, the army tightened up on our operations and overnight, the relaxed atmosphere disappeared. More weekend drills replaced Monday night meetings and the enforcement of stupid Army disciplines became prevalent. One weekend up at Camp Smith in upstate New York, I got nailed for sideburns, the length that exceeded Army regulations. Stupidly, a sergeant actually measured the length! Mine failed and I was issued an Article-15 for punishment which meant absolutely nothing as far as I was concerned.

The Commanding Officer in charge when I joined the 242, called it quits and said goodbye to us all. His replacement, who shall remain nameless, was a total shit head. If we had ever had to do something serious like go into combat, one of us had to frag him before he killed us all. I knew it was bad when Harry Coogan called it quits and retired.

I finally got the call to active duty early in February of 1967. I reported to the corner of Park Avenue and Thirty-Third Street in front of the old armory to board a bus going Fort Dix. I was part of a small crowd of 25 to 30 reservists on our way to basic training. It was an unseasonable day.

We found our way to a barracks for transient troops for our introduction to the Army.

That night it snowed and it didn’t stop snowing for the rest of February.

Recently, I wrote about the lyrics near the beginning of Billy Joel’s Piano Man, “Son, won’t you play me a memory…”  as being my favorite from his prolific mind. Another is from the less popular Ballad of Billy the Kid,  near the end of the song:

Well, one cold day a posse captured Billy,

And a judge said, “String him up for what he did.”

And the cowboys and their kin

Like a sea came pouring in,

To watch the hanging of Billy the Kid.

Kelly Willis really grabbed me with the first verse of her title song , Talk Like That:

Talk like that

Well, I don’t know where you’re from

But, oh how it takes me back

When you talk some

Well, I can hear my father

And his Oklahoma drawl

I hear my grandmother

I can hear them all

Paul Simon, another genius wordsmith has given us so many. I begin with Verses 5 and 6 from The Boxer 

And I’m laying out my winter clothes and

Wishing I was gone

Where the New York winters aren’t bleeding me

Leading me

Going home

In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out in anger and his shame

“I am leaving, I am leaving”, but the fighter still remains

Whenever I play a collection of Paul Simon’s songs, I end up with America:

Cathy, I’m lost, I said though I knew she was sleeping

I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why

Countin’ the cars on the New Jersey turnpike

They’ve all come to look for America, all come to look for America.

Depression has its place in music and Dorey Previn addresses that in Lady with the Braid:

Would you like to stay till sunrise

It’s completely your decision

It’s just that the night cut through me like a knife

Would you care to stay awhile

And save my life?

I don’t what made me say that

I’ve got this funny sense of humor

You know I could not be downhearted if I tried

It’s just that going home is such a ride

Going home is such a ride

Going home is such a ride

Isn’t going home a low and lonely ride?

This brings me to my last song, one written and sung by a Canadian by the name of Lyn Miles accompanied only by a single guitarist. Its name is self-evident: Loneliness:

Loneliness is an envelope that you can seal yourself into

And send out to a stranger in a place across the sea

Loneliness is a tired old friend

Who carries your baggage to airports and train station for free

Loneliness wears a suit and tie to big city streets

And makes you cry at parties filled with people that you know

Loneliness will take you to the shoreline

On a fogey day to find an undertow

It is the hurt that hurt’s the deepest

It is the ache that you can’t cure

It is the desperation of a late-night call

It is the lover in the shadow

It is the one who got away

It is the cry of the southbound bird in the fall

(On the Outside Looking In will not publish next week and will return on August 7. )

The two puppies were eight weeks old when they arrived at our house on a Wednesday, November 11, 2010. That day also happened to be Veteran’s Day and Mary Ann’s and my forty-third wedding anniversary. Mary Ann had engineered the purchase through a breeders’ network based in Florida who acted as our agent with the breeder. They were sent to us by truck via a pet-oriented shipping company with the unlikely name, PetEx Express. The driver and his helper found us through a complicated series of events, and here they were, two lively and healthy puppies being handed over to Mary Ann and Jodie.

Both gals lifted the pups into the air to determine their sexes. We were taking delivery of the male while the female was Jodie’s birthday gift. Once the right sexes was determined, the grand kids moved in as part of this exciting morning. Both families had already named them, Max and Ruby after the story-book and cartoon rabbit brother and sister. Ruby went off to Fairfield, CT with three kids, ages 11, 9 and 5 and their sister Golden Retriever, Barely, seven-years old. Max stayed in Port Washington with two sexagenarians.

Separating the puppies reminded me of an old Budweiser commercial where two Dalmatian pups arrive and the pick goes to a fire house. The lucky pup sticks out his tongue at his sibling as they depart not knowing that it is heading for Bud’s Clydesdale’s wagon. At the end of the commercial they pass on a road, the shunned pup sitting on the wagon seat with the teamster driving the Clydesdales. The chosen pup sits in the open cab of a fire engine. The shunned pup retunes the gesture and sticks out its tongue at its sibling.

Max became our sixth Golden Retriever. The first was Harry, then came Fred, Bubba, Jumbo and Maggie. Harry was a grand dog. Knowing what I now know about Max, his disposition, attitude, temperament, etc. Harry would have been a great name for this Missouri bred dog. Failing that, I would have pushed for Truman because he is a “show me dog.”

Max was our first pup in a long time. We acquired Maggie when she was ten-months old and a certifiable Looney Tune. Anyone who knows us and knew Maggie will certify that she was f—ing nuts.

Folks we know looked at Mary Ann and me in a way that clearly showed their thoughts: “The two of you are either dumb or crazy.” I too had real doubts about what we had done. The biting, destruction, housebreaking, sleepless nights and other unpleasant happenings and events: WHAT HAD WE DONE!

Admittedly, we had some bad moments, but this new pup was special. He gave us a pass on several fundamental problems. He never cried through the night and he was house broken when he arrived. Max remained happy in his crate and would return to is for naps during the day. In the morning, once we opened it, he usually reacted by looking at us, stretched, got up, stretched again and then began his day.

Max was clean even for Goldens who by nature house break themselves quickly. His only early accidents happened when he was excited and these stopped after a few months. Max also proved to be very trainable. He cooperated for love and he would do almost anything for food.

Biting, however lasted more than a year. Never vicious, he just had the need to use those teeth. Unfortunately, this meant that play sessions deteriorated into bloody sessions, especially for Mary Ann whose thin-skinned arms and hands soon made her look like the victim of a series of knife fights. Mary Ann’s ultimate defense was to cut the toes off of athletic socks and fashion them into shields to minimize the damage to her skin.

Max grew rapidly, almost before our eyes and quickly became known in our development as the dog who proudly carried sticks around in his mouth the size of small trees. A fine-looking dog, one gal remarked to me one day, “Wow, that is a good-looking dog. Why he’s the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers.

Max retained a terrible flaw as a young dog, he considered children to be play toys, especially those dressed in hoodie sweat shirts. As all of my five grandchildren, each one suffered the same dubious experience of Max grabbing the hood on their sweat shirt, knocking them down and being dragged on their backs along the ground. This finally stopped, but stealing never did. Max stole anything he could get his mouth on, clothes, shoes, towels, throw rugs mats and pillows. He would even unmake beds so he could get to the pillows. He considered  stealing to be retrieving and he would proudly parade his trophy with his plume tail high in the air.

We lost Max when he was twelve, but he was not our last dog. We were done with raising puppies and our last two were adults that we rescued.