John Delach

Baseball was once our national pastime. From the beginning of the Twentieth Century until the mid-1960s baseball ruled supreme. Boxing, horse racing and college football trailed badly. Professional football was relegated to a niche corner like hockey, pro basketball, pro wrestling or roller derby.

Television changed the landscape beginning in 1956 when the New York Football Giants crushed the Chicago Bears before a national audience. Two years later, the Baltimore Colts sudden death victory over the same Football Giants rocketed the National Football League onto center stage and captured our collective consciousness. The professional game was a natural for TV and, like a light switch being thrown, pro-football became our collective sports obsession starting in the late 1960’s with the creation of Super Bowl, America’s predominate entertainment event.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not a hater. I love baseball too. I grew up going to Brooklyn Dodgers games in Ebbits Fields. I watched the newly minted Mets in the Polo Grounds in 1962 and 1963 and attended their opening day at Shea Stadium in 1964. Since I retired in 2000, I’ve made many baseball trips; been to Wrigley, Fenway, Dodgers’ Stadium, Camden Yards, PNC Park, the Jake, Chase Field, Minute Maid Park, the Toronto Sky dome and Target Field among others. I have baseball credibility.

What annoys me most is baseball scribes and authors like Rich Lowry and George Wills and spokesmen like Jonathon Swartz who espouse a fake news script that baseball and baseball alone is the one sport that develops a special bond between fathers and sons.

Balderdash! I strongly object!

I have made many trips with my son, Michael, beginning in 1990 when we traveled to Chicago to watch our Super Bowl XXV winners play the Bears on opening day. Michael, still in college, flew in from Boston, I from New York and we met at O’Hare. Our hosts were Gary Gatewood, Jim Hagelow and Reuben Minor, three natural-born Bears fans all bigger than me but not as big as my son.

We had a great tailgate gate and a hell of a time at Soldiers Field that day even though Big Blue came up short in a closely fought contest. Win or lose, our bond had been born. We made two brilliant trips down to Florida to participate in what we refer to Miami I and Miami II. Both were insane and deserve their own telling but truly bonding experiences.

Contrary to common belief about the attitudes of folks living in the Golden State, Californian football fans are anything but laid back. We had an awful experience in San Diego, and, long story short, we were ejected from the stadium for the only time in most of our lives.

Needless to say, we were apprehensive going to Candlestick Park for a 49er’s game. Not to worry, just before kick-off, a posse of Hispanic five-by-five fans sporting spanking new Giants gear parked themselves directly in front of us.  After high fiving us, I turned to Michael and said, “Looks like we’re covered today.”

We’ve attended away games against the Bills, Bengals, Buccaneers, Cardinals, Chiefs, Cowboys, Mariners, Packers, Patriots, Saints and Texans. This coming weekend we are off to Detroit to see the Lions.    

Super Bowl XLII was and will always be the game of my life. What could surpass traveling to Tucson, Arizona with your son and a merry group of eight other Giant fans, trekking to Glendale in chartered SUVs, illegally tailgating then going into a stadium to watch your pride and joy come from behind on an impossible play to beat a team that was 18-0?

Following Eli Manning’s incredible Houdini like escape, his pass and David Tyree’s impossible catch, Manning regained the lead 17-14 with his lob pass to a wide-open Plaxico Burress with 34 seconds left on the clock. Here is how I described what happened next:

The Patriots had one last chance with 34-seconds and three time-outs left. When rookie tackle, Jay Alford nailed Brady on second down, I had the hope that the Patriots wouldn’t reach field goal range, but I held my breath when Brady tried to hit Moss on a pass he must have thrown 75-yards that Corey Webster knocked away at the last second. Ten seconds left on the clock and I was holding my breath. When Brady’s next pass went incomplete, I lost track of the downs and Michael had to remind me that the Giants now had the ball for the one second remaining on the clock.

When Michael lifted me in the air, I knew the Giants had won. The fellow with the cigar stood in stunned silence. Michael yelled to him, “You know where you can put that cigar now.”

 We didn’t stay long and began the crawl out of the parking lot. The mood was overwhelmingly joyful. We had just seen the greatest football game of our lives. Then Michael noticed a young woman wearing a Brady Jersey walk by. He leaned out the widow and said, “Don’t worry, Tom, 18-1 ain’t bad.”

“Fuck off.” came her reply.

Brilliant, Michael had nailed her.

And that’s what I call bonding!

The Myrtle Avenue Elevated line ceased operating this month 50-years ago. I first wrote this piece in 2002 and included it in:” The Big Orange Dog and Other Stories.”

Clang-clink, clank-clank, cling-clank, clang-clink, four bells, each rung twice, eight repetitions, the sound of the conductors’ song. No two sound the same; each bell expresses the identity of the conductor who rings it. Four different conductors play their song every day at each station on the Myrtle Avenue Elevated line.

The train’s crew, four conductors and the driver (or motorman) amble from their rest house at the Bridge Street Station and take their assigned positions on their five-car train. The conductors work outside forcing them to adjust their uniforms to meet their environment. Winter, cold and freezing rain are the worst elements and quilted vests, rubber gloves, ribbed shoes and plastic hat protectors’ help. But, at every station, they must leave the warmth of the coach and return to their position onto the open platforms between each coach.

With a lurch, the gate train leaves Bridge Street and downtown Brooklyn, its courthouses, law offices, the cavernous Dime Savings Bank, department stores like Abraham & Straus, Mays and Martins and its theaters, the Brooklyn Paramount, Fox and the RKO Albee. Nosily, the train crosses Flatbush Avenue and makes its way north through Fort Greene and Bedford – Stuyvesant past tenements and public housing projects, parks, storefronts and schools. Hovering two stories above Myrtle Avenue, trains travel on rails supported by wooden ties and steel beams past windows with open curtains, blinds, or shades revealing living rooms and kitchens, plants, bird cages, furniture, lamps, radios and televisions. Peering from coach windows, passengers glimpse people in their apartments. On hot days, women relaxing on pillows propped on windowsills stare back forcing the voyeurs to avert their eyes in embarrassment.

As the train pulls into a station, each conductor steps between the two platforms and faces the station. Straddling the space between two coaches, he observes the passengers waiting to detrain and board and pulls two iron levers toward him opening the gates. Passengers hurry by and, when all are on board, he takes a final look at the activity on the platform, reverses the levers and closes the gates. Then each conductor in turn performs the same ceremony, pulling the cord to his right ringing the bell on the next platform working toward the front of the train. “Clang-clang” it sings alerting the next conductor that the gates behind him are secured. He yanks the cord twice confirming that his gates are closed. The chorus continues until the final conductor rings a bell in the motorman’s cab signaling him “You have the railroad and it’s okay to go.”

Sparks fly from the third rail, motors strain emitting an electrical odor as coaches move over track joints. Trains cross busy streets active with trackless trolleys, diesel buses, cars, delivery trucks horse, wagons and push carts, relics of a bygone era, Pedestrians J-walk weaving and dodging to avoid colliding with this traffic.

Wooden platforms with ornate Victorian style station houses line the El. Each is named after the street below, many for famous Americans like Washington, Vanderbilt and Franklin.

Afternoon trains carry a melting pot mix of passengers, residents returning to their homes, Black and Hispanic women carrying groceries, their wash or packages from the central post office and German and Italian housewives, together or with children returning to Queens from shopping trips downtown. Post school time trains include high school students, boys from Brooklyn Tech with slide rules, science and engineering textbooks, girls from Dominican Commercial wearing pleated skirts and knee-high socks and boys sporting ties and jackets from St John’s Prep and Bishop Loughlin. Workers from the Brooklyn Navy Yard, tired and dirty, board the train at a station appropriately named Navy Street and brewery workers from Rheingold and Schaefer board at Broadway. The train continues north through Bushwick, crossing into Ridgewood, Queens until it reaches the end of the line at Metropolitan Avenue and the low-density communities and plentiful cemeteries that populate Maspeth and Middle Village.

For 75 years, the melody of the gate train is played until the tide of time and progress stills its sound in 1958. More efficient rebuilt wooden cars requiring only one conductor to operate doors replace the gates and the gatemen. For eleven more years trains continued to roll. Then in 1969, to the relief of all who live there, the Myrtle Avenue El met the same fate as the gate trains and was demolished south of Broadway.

Sunlight returned to a 35-block stretch Myrtle Avenue after years of perpetual darkness and the relative quiet of a Brooklyn street replaced the repetitive noise of passing trains. Still neighborhoods like Fort Greene, Clintonville and Bed-Sty struggled through economic downturns, the drug invasion capped by crack and other crises. Now these neighborhoods are changing once again as gentrification takes hold. Ready or not Brooklyn is back.

Dear reader, I believe you know about my love of retrievers. You also know that Mary Ann and I adopted Tessie last fall after her partner, Ria M reached the conclusion that Tessie could no longer perform all that is required of a blind person’s service dog. Tessie was Ria’s seventh Seeing Eye for the Blind guide dog all who had served Ria for as long as they could. If you wish to read in detail how Tessie came to live with us, go to my WordPress site and find “Welcome Tessy” published last December. (Using the spelling “Tessy” was my error.)

Goldens and labs are hard-wired to be retrievers. Historically, these working dogs have been bred to fetch waterfowl that their hunting masters bring down into ponds and lakes. On command, they follow hand signals to search out the fallen birds and return them to shore intact thanks to their soft mouths.

When Ria invited us to adopt Tessie, she hoped her loyal yellow lab companion would have experiences beyond those in the realm of a service dog’s life. Ria wanted Tessie to experience play with other dogs and the freedom to be just herself for herself.

Without question, we fulfilled Ria’s hopes and wishes thanks to our then eight-year old – still wacky Golden Retriever, Max, enhanced by our almost anything goes attitude toward our family dogs. When Tessie came to live with us, I told Mary Ann: “Give me a month and she will be a Delach dog.”

Tessie soon found pleasure in her new environment just as Ria had hoped. She checked off a variety of experiences previously off-limits in her mind. The most important to Ria was play. Not a problem as Tessie took to Max and, he to her. They became pals and play mates from the get-go; tug of war, a morning tussle, a post dinner tussle initiated by whoever decided to start a play session.

As the calendar flipped from 2018 into 2019 and winter morphed into spring, we re-opened our New Hampshire house and looked forward to summer.

Tessie had never experienced being in water. Our summer project was to convince a ten-year old Lab that she could swim. The key was to help her break the code that she was buoyant, that it was in her nature to retrieve and that she was engineered with a coat made to protect her from cold water.

We had a few advantages, Tessie loved playing with tennis balls and retrieving them. Another was Max. He is truly a water dog. When he was younger, he was somewhat ambivalent to fetching tennis balls but as he matured his enjoyment steadily increased.

In the beginning Tessie chose to concentrate on the tennis ball offered to her. Fortunately, she didn’t have a problem getting her legs and belly wet. It was only when she felt the beginning stage of becoming buoyant that she rushed back to shore. Our first goal was to make her comfortable. Throw the ball where she could grab it, praise her for retrieving it, repeat, repeat and repeat. A few times we tossed it beyond her comfort zone to extend her reach, but she wasn’t having any of that. This wasn’t a problem as we had Plan B; Max would retrieve the balls that exceeded her range.

Next time out, we tossed more balls into the forbidden zone. Each time we waited as Tessie checked out the distance and measured her options. Soon enough she chose to leap toward those tennis balls floating just outside her reach. She pounced, grabbed the ball into her mouth, made a quick 180 degree turn and quickly returned to safety where her paws found the muddy bottom.

She didn’t know it yet, but we recognized that Tessie had broken the code and was already swimming. Finally, after one otherwise uneventful toss, Tessie, leapt, grabbed and began to circle but then continued to circle realizing being buoyant was a good feeling that she could manage.

Breakthrough achieved, the rest was just a matter of increasing the distance, graduating from tossing the ball to using a tennis racquet to hit her target further and further out into the pond that eventually matched the distance that we were hitting them for Max.

We try to separate the balls, so our two dogs don’t aim for the same one. Even if we miscalculate and both aim for the same ball, neither can mouth more than one so both retrieve the prize they desire.

It is a joy to watch them race out to retrieve their tennis balls then leisurely paddle back to shore side-by-side tennis balls held proudly in their mouths. They are our water dogs who make us so happy.          

Welcome to my 300rd blog. What a ride, what a thrill.

I readily admit that on most Wednesday mornings, I am excited yet wary of the task at hand, launching my weekly piece. I kid you not, that piece has been edited by Mary Ann, also, in many cases, my writing group and by me one last time after all the input. Like a rocket paused on a launch pad down at Cape Kennedy, my hope each time is, it’s the payload: my blog ready to go?

First thing Wednesday morning, a trip to the Keurig brewer and a medium cup of Nantucket breakfast blend with a dab of milk. Coffee in hand, access my computer, open my piece, highlight and copy. Then open AOL, access my publisher, enter my site, write my title, paste my piece and select publish. Hit publish twice and in 98.5% of my attempts, the bird launches and in minutes, it arrives on “you have mail.”

I print out every blog just in case. You may ask, “Just in case of what?”

“Who the hell knows.” But in my mind, have a written record. No disc, no thumb-drive, no cloud.

Sounds logical and easy; right? But believe me, being 75, all my reference points are pre-analog technology and our entire cyber world remains to me, at best, a mystery and when it goes off the rails, the work of Satan. This electronic revolution is the way of the world, but it’s the revolution part that I don’t want to accept much less embrace it. Even if I were able to shake off the rust of history, all it takes to reduce me to incompetence is a major change in my operating system like the jump from 4G to 5G. Such a great leap forward breaks my mind and spirit while returning me to the electronic stone age.

I live and die on the whims of technology. Having access to electronic communication is a wonderful vehicle for a writer like me. I have a loyal and treasured following to whom I am grateful. WordPress allows me to share the widest range of topics possible and I hope that I reach my goal every week to present to you, dear reader, a quality presentation about a meaningful subject that you will find interesting but never insulting or offensive.

There is far too much “in your face” material being published. I refuse to be a part of that scene. There are plenty of other places to find a fight to the finish. Perhaps that is why I report about sports as often as I do. To me the most wonderful aspect of being a fan of a team is that once the contest ends; win, lose or draw, you walk away and return to your real life.

I ask your indulgence and promise not to overwhelm you with sports talk.

Having said that, let the record show that My Giants have now won two games in a row behind our rookie quarterback, Dan Jones. I can only hope that Eli Manning accepts this end of his era of king of New York and comes to terms with his excellent body of work especially being named the Most Valuable Player in his two Super Bowl victories over the New England Patriots.

I avoid controversy as much as possible. That is why I do not openly reply to comments made to my pieces. If I believe I have an additional point to make, I will answer the reader personally via e-mail. My second reason for not publicly responding is I don’t want to turn my site into a debate forum.

I will take on a controversial subject but only if I can deal with it objectively and dispassionately and hopefully with humor. This is close to being impossible in our disruptive world where payback and revenge are paramount. I will not add to the noise that continuously bombards us. 

Three hundred blogs! God willing, I’ll publish Number 301 next Wednesday which is about helping a ten-year old Labrador Retriever swim for the very first time.

Dear reader, I thank you all for your loyalty, support and encouragement.   

My first moment of truth with the new reality that bar codes would determine my fate took place in Chicago outside U.S. Cellular Field, a.k.a. new Comiskey Park, home of the White Sox in July of 2004. Bill Christman, Mike Cruise, Don Markey and I found ourselves on the southside of the city on our way to the first game of that year’s annual baseball trip.

The White Sox were playing the Philadelphia Phillies in inter-league play that night. Usually, when planning our trip, I purchased our tickets in advance, but neither the Sox nor the Phillies fielded good teams that season, so I decide to buy our tickets at the gate.

As we left the CTA subway station we were engulfed by “Brothers” who ringed the subway exit scalping tickets. One fellow grabbed my attention by holding out four traditional tickets with the White Sox logo (as opposed to non-descript computer generated tickets). As I stopped, he said, “They’re on the club level behind the first base dugout.”

“What’s the face value?” I asked. I looked down to see $31.00 each.

“I’ll sell you them for $100.”

My initial reaction was that he wanted a premium on top of the $31face value only to realize that he only wanted $100 for all four. Quickly, I extracted two $50-dollar bills from my wallet and handed it to him in exchange for the tickets. Of course, I now worried that we had counterfeit tickets. As we approached the gate, I saw that each ticket had a bar code and the ticket-takers were scanning the code on each ticket. I had a sinking feeling, “This is a hell of a way to begin our trip.” I turned to my friends and said, “I got us into this, so I’ll go first.”

I looked down as the ticket agent scanner displayed, a green light as in: “GO!”

“Hot dog, we’re in.” giddy with laughter we headed for our seats happy to have secured discounted tickets. When we reached our seats, we realized how small the crowd was, less than 15,000 making the seller only too glad to cut his losses. Regardless, as it turned out, he sold us great seats at a discounted price. It was a hot humid night and the tickets gave us access to an air-conditioned dining area where we could eat in comfort while watching the game.

Today, bar codes and bar codes readers are everywhere. I can easily think of three encounters where they demonstrate their worth to us. Shopping for everyday items is our most prolific encounter. Every time we shop in a supermarket, pharmacy or any other store where we buy multiple items, either a clerk scans each item or we self-scan it at automatic check-out kiosks.

At the post office. When you mail a package, or buy something online, you receive a code that identifies your package from a tracking code. Earlier this spring, I bought a golf shirt featuring Miami of Ohio online from the college store. The store sent me a tracking number. After three weeks when my shirt didn’t show up, I took the code to my local Post Office. A clerk checked it out and said, it went to the wrong location but it’s on its way to you.” Sure enough, it arrived less than a week later.

Lastly, airlines. The bar code is a god-send for tracking checked luggage. Many a bag that was lost forever is quickly located and delivered. A far cry from the pre-bar code days.

I suspect at this point in my piece I’m on the verge of losing many of you. I understand so a warning; what follows is a short history of the origin of the bar code. To my departing readers I offer a hearty fair-well and no hard feelings.

Until the advent of containerization, the most important shipping container in the USA was the boxcar. In 1960, there were about 50 Class IA railroads in operation each having their own fleet of boxcars. Keeping track of them was a nightmare. A Northern Pacific boxcar could be loaded in Portland, Oregon make its way via four or five railroads to Mobile, Alabama where it could lose its identity.

The Southern Railway could requisition it to carry cargo to Rutland, Vermont. From there Canadian Pacific might send it to Quebec City where it could be loaded with goods destined for Erie, Pennsylvania.

The Association of American Railroads helped to develop the precursor of the bar code, called, KarTrak, a system of thirteen color labels that would be affixed to several metal plates mounted on several locations on every boxcar. Track-side readers would identify the car and send the information to the car’s parent railroad. Automatic Car Identification (ACI) was introduced in 1967.

Unfortunately, railroads were still in a struggle for survival in that era and many did not buy in. ACI was also crippled by bad weather and vandalism that prevented readers from picking up the code. Bottom line it was a failure and ACI was abandoned in 1977. By then, radio signals identified rolling stock and, today, electronically.

KarTrak was a failure but, like the ancient walkie-talkie sized cell phones day it was the granddaddy of today’s bar code just like those walkie-talkie phones were the granddaddy of today’s Android and iPhone    

One Monday morning late this August, I awakened earlier than usual and decided to take our Golden Retriever, Max, on a long walk in the cool of the morning. We headed toward the Mill Pond a local tidal body of water filled and drained by streams, springs and the tidal rush from Manhasset Bay. It was just after seven am when I began to hear light aircraft approaching behind my back coming from the east.

Single-engine floatplanes and amphibians began to pass over Max and me at about 3,000 feet heading toward Manhattan taking so-called “One-percenters” to work allowing them to avoid the hassle of traffic and /or a long bus or train ride. I may have mouthed, “Flaunt it” as the flock continued to fly west over Manhasset Bay and disappear behind Great Neck.

As this flock disappeared, it was soon replaced by the shriller sound of helicopters making the same journey. To quote Mel Brooks: “It’s good to be the king.”          

I do admit to my jealousy as I have a slogan that some of you know: “I don’t know what I would do if I won a mega-lottery but I know what I will never do; if I won a mega-lottery I’d never fly commercial again.”

I would like to add a second never: “I’d never go to another Giants game by auto again.”

The Giants 2019 home football season began last Sunday, my 57^th year as a season ticket holder. At my age wins and losses are less important than home game scheduling. This year promises to be favorable with only one scheduled night game and no late afternoon starts so far.

Still, the horror show that post-game traffic has become to reach Long Island from New Jersey gives me pause to continue attending games in person. If I were a rich man, I’d helicopter to the games.        

That dream would be a bit difficult to fulfill. During my working career in the golden age of air travel, both Pan Am and TWA, our fallen flag trans-Atlantic US carriers, offered helicopter service from Manhattan to their JFK Terminals. I flew both; Pan Am out of the 63^rd Street Heliport on the East River and TWA’s at the river on 34^TH Street. They were fast and convenient but confirmed my belief that helicopters suck and are fundamentally unsafe.

To pursue my concept of using choppers to commute to and from Giants home games after winning a mega lottery, I first must eradicate my fear of traveling in them, a feat easier said than done. Rather than face reality and terminate this blog, let’s pretend this problem disappears and I move on to the remaining obstacles.

Takeoffs and landings present the biggest obstacles. I do remember that for several years in the 1980s and 1990s, a corporate helicopter used to take-off and land on a designated space in a parking lot at an industrial section of Port Washington. Located off Channel Drive less than a mile from my home, it would solve half my problem if the use of that space was still feasible.

As for Met Life Stadium, a helipad already exists beyond the complex’s eastern most parking lot. Alas, to the best of my knowledge, the only civilian chopper authorized to land there belongs to Jonathon Tisch, co-owner of the New York Football Giants. (I do not know how John Mara, Tisch’s co-owner gets to the stadium from his home in Westchester County, NY But his father, Wellington, drove himself in his Ford Crown Victoria.)

My chance of becoming the second exception are slim and none. But I do believe my chopper could drop me off at nearby Teterboro Airport where a waiting, well-stocked and chauffeured limousine would whisk me to our tailgate in the parking lot five-minutes away. Going home would be just as painless allowing me and my guests to quickly fly over the horrible congestion at the George Washington Bridge, on the roads in the Bronx particularly the Cross Bronx Expressway and the Long Island Expressway in Queens.

“Why not take the train,” you ask? “Afterall, there is a station right outside Met Life Stadium.” The train has its own failings. Except for those departing early before the game ends an excessive number of fans seeking to commute by rail will overwhelm the waiting post-game trains ready-to-depart forcing the majority to wait on the ramps and the platform for following trains. Secondly, I’d have to exit at the first stop and catch a regular New Jersey Transit train with its own passengers bound for New York’s Pennsylvania Station. Lastly, I would have to change there for a local Long Island Railroad train to Port Washington, 13 stations and 40 minutes away.

Joining the One Percenters is the only way to go. I wish I could end this with a simple: “Sign me up.”

Damn, now that I think it through that dream is beyond possibility.

You see a few years ago, I happened to be in New Hampshire when Mega Millions hit for $475 million. It turned out I purchased my ticket two towns from the winner, close enough to think about how winning such an insane amount of money would truly f**k up my life. So I swore off the mega lotteries.

You must be in it to win it and I’m not. Those helicopter rides would have been nice and so it goes.     

October 2001, Revised September 2019

Today marks the 18^th anniversary of the dreadful day that terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center and changed our lives forever. I wrote this a month after the towers fell.

Austin Tobin was the driving force behind the construction of the World Trade Center. As Chairman of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, he envisioned these twin towers to be the centerpiece of international trade. He wanted these towers to be the tallest buildings in the world, but he also wanted a crown jewel to enhance their glory. To fulfill this desire, he commissioned architects to design the World Trade Center Club, his personal gift to power. Located on the 106^th and 107^th floors of the North Tower, The Club became a magnificent drinking and dining facility with private rooms, fine wine and cigars, with a staff that exuded the proper snobbery of an elite country club. It was home for the three-martini lunch and its men’s room, adorned in pink and white Italian Marble, was so magnificent it could be an appropriate setting for a rock star, if not a national leader, to lie in state. The Club kept its own accounts and neither cash nor credit cards were accepted.

When the press became aware of the privacy and opulence of The Club, all hell broke loose. How could a public agency promote a subsidized private club? Tobin had to pacify the press and politicos and so, at night it became “Windows on the World” the unique public restaurant 107 floors in the air. The NY Times first review read in part: “…as to the quality of the food, you cannot beat the view.”

At lunchtime, The Club remained members only. Senior officers in my industry, marine insurance, frequented several private luncheon clubs belonging to one or more. They were swell places to entertain clients, prospects and underwriters while their cost was buried in generous expense accounts. A mentor, Charlie Robbins, introduced me to The WTC Club. Charlie drank Bombay Gin Martinis and loved to entertain there. He especially liked to show it off to visiting British brokers and their wives. This was during an era when British firms sent their senior and most promising junior brokers to the United States for two or three weeks at a time in the company of their wives. The Labour Governments tax rate was 90% and these trips provided an alternate method of compensation. They came to New York mainly in May and October when the weather is best. 

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

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

The view was paramount and at times dramatic. On crystal clear winter nights, the brightness of the city overwhelmed us while the surrounding areas stretched to the horizon in strands of light. Manhattan buildings, seen from above, stood out silhouetted by spotlights and ground lights. If the moon was strong, or full, its reflected light made rivers, bays and the ocean glow. Helicopters flew by at altitudes lower than The Club. The only view above us were the lights from airplanes, satellites and the stars. One night during dinner low clouds swept in from the west obscuring streets and buildings as they grew fainter and fainter until they disappeared. Remarkably, we could still see the stars.

Such was life in the fast lane, 1970s and 1980s style. However, as the 1990s arrived, the Club became an anachronism. The era of the private luncheon clubs was over. The Harbor View Club, Drug and Chemical Club, The Wall Street Club and the infamous Whitehall Club, with its deadly bartender, Spiro, had all closed. The business of doing business had changed in focus, diversity and geography with a reduced tolerance for lunchtime drinking. This cultural shift, loss of tax deductibility, the cost of space and the desirability of their locations conspired to hasten their demise.

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

I resigned from The Club in 2000 when I retired and never returned. On September 11, 2001, the Club died when the North Tower fell.

To relieve my post-destruction gloom, I searched for and found my old photographs taken as a young man that illustrated the promise of the the twin towers during their construction. I also found my last membership card. I embraced this as evidence of my memories of the club.

Curiously, a final chapter, an epitaph of sorts had to play out. A letter arrived with the return address for Mr. Jules Roinnel in Baldwin, Long Island. Jules was the Club’s Manager. Dated October 12^th, Mr. Roinnel spoke about the 72 staff members who died that day. He also advised that two surviving luncheon clubs would offer guest privileges until the end of the year. Even though it read in part: “…the future of The World Trade Center Club is unclear.” it had an upbeat tone about it.

Perhaps Jules was going through the motions? We all express our grief differently. What once reigned supreme was gone. The Club, like its era and the towers belonged to history.

Last Wednesday, August 27, the same day I last published, I also had an appointment with my gastro specialist, Dr. B, to evaluate my need for either or both an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. Dr. B, formerly a blazing redhead has turned gray protecting my insides for almost twenty years. This appointment was needed because a previous blood tests had indicated a hemoglobin level of 10 where 12 was considered normal. Dr. B, my wife and I all took this in our stride; Dr. B had tests taken and scheduled an endoscopy for September 11.

All hell broke lose that evening when her associate, Dr. P called me at home announcing my score that day was a six and it behooved me to get my ass into an ER for a transfusion ASAP!

On a gurney, less than an hour later at St. Francis Hospital, I was probed, evaluated, subjected to an X-Ray and EKG. Quickly admitted and benefitting from the first of two units of a blood, I arrived in Room 2537 about 12:45 am. Tests of all kinds continued during the early morning hours by competent and beautiful nightingales each lovelier than each other.

Memo to file: “Is this in heaven?” ….”No Iowa.”

About 3:30 am I began receiving the second unit of blood forcing me to remain on my back with the receiving arm straight out. At 6:15 an alarm signaled my transfusion was complete. The result, hemo count went from 6 to 8.6. A sweet nurse cooed, “By the way you are fasting for an endoscope, today so nothing by the mouth.”

Thursday was a longest day as nobody had scheduled me for procedures as they believed their challenge was to keep me alive through the night. Neither my family nor I could argue with that call so, thank God, I broke even.  

E, my roomie, ten years older than me was in bad shape. Suffering from cancer and diabetes, he’d become a victim too many different medications that had screwed him up. I overheard various docs who each explained why they were giving him “X” or “Y” Each diagnosis taken alone made sense, but together left him at mercy of the next big brain’s best bight idea.

 Memo to the good Lord: Take me before I ever become like E.   

All this time Mary Ann and Beth kept vigil taking turns to run home and tender to Max and Tessie. I was now on a semi-liquid clear diet of apple juice, broth, tea and Jell-O. When Beth called to see if I needed anything she was appalled when I explained to her that vodka was a clear liquid and a double was just what I knew the docs wanted me to add to my diet. With Mary Ann’s help, I prevailed but not before Beth dropped a dime on me within our family. They too were appalled, but Papa John got his drink.

The previous lousy night and my libation gave me my most sleep-full night for the rest of my stay.

Even so, I first had to endure the first of two cleansing procedures for my colonoscopy scheduled together with my endoscopy for Friday afternoon. A hospital room is a good place to become addicted to television and what could be better than watching the slow progress of a hurricane churning toward the Bahamas and Florida’s east Coast?

Mary Ann, Beth and I had to endure interruptions, like the hospital chaplain who anointed me in Sacred oils and Stanley and 80 plus volunteer who came in to say hello to Mary Ann who also volunteers in the hospital. Stanley, a retired doctor, dresses in outrageous clothing; different colored sneakers, one polka dot sock and one stripped sock, a large bow tie and that day, an angry bird shirt.

Stanley presented a small elephant with a raised trunk for luck to both Mary Ann and Beth. (Later, looking back from the other end of a successful endoscopy, I wondered which helped more, the Sacred Oil or Stanley’s elephants?)

My good doctor found the problem, bleeding nodules in my stomach and cauterized the damaged ones. Now my future depended on my hemoglobin levels. Lucky number seven was the minimum acceptable score and my evening count was 7.3, close to failing. My roomie had a bad night and consequently so did I. Close to 1 am, I decided to sit up watch Hurricane Dorian’s progress but soon grew bored. Instead I tuned in WFAN, our local sports talk station on my radio. An old friend, Steve Summers was filling a one-hour slot from 1 until 2 am. How do you fall so low that you accept an early morning one-hour time slot on the Saturday of a holiday weekend? But the old schmoozer was up to it. When one caller demanded that Steve predict how the Mets would finish and noted: “Steve, everybody is listening.” Steve replied: “Everybody? Joe, it’s just you and me.”

My numbers were a roller coater on Saturday but stabilized sufficiently on Sunday that I was discharged just after 4 pm. I had ceased being a happy camper until the good news came down releasing me. When they wheeled me out to the parking garage to meet Mary Ann I proclaimed:

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I’m free at last.            

Don’t you sometimes wonder where new expressions originate? Most often they seem to arrive on “winds of change” which I’d wager is exactly one of those expressions. The title of Sebastian Jager’s book, The Perfect Storm, first published in 1997 was co-opted by the media to include political, economic, military, etc. crises. I suspect Mr. Jager found this to be a curious expansion of a phrase he intended to explain what happened to a Grand Banks fishing boat that ventured out at precisely the same time as three separate vicious weather systems joined together to form a monster of a storm.

The expression wasn’t even recognized in 1998 the year after Mr. Jager first published his book and I suspect he lifted it from the maritime / fishing industry where it was used as a term of art. Today it is also defined as: “A particular or critical state of affairs arising from a number of negatives and unpredictable factors.”

Likewise, writers, reporters, columnists and talking heads ran away with the phrase Jager used in his book to describe when a fishing boat became unseaworthy: “tipping point.” Again, these scribes and broadcasters ran wild with tipping point using it to identify the exact moment when the sh*t hit the fan for a political, economic, racial problem, etc. or incident.

The origin of walk-off home run eluded me for a long time. I believe that I first heard this expression on ESPN which may or may not be true. In any event, once it was first adopted, it spread like wildfire. By the time I caught on to it, walk-off had become part of our everyday sports-talk.

Finally, a piece by Victor Mather appeared in The New York Times Sports Section this summer explaining its origin. Curiously, Mr. Mather first wrote this piece October of 2017?

 “Walk-off home run” was originally coined by Dennis Eckersley to describe the pitcher’s reaction to a game-ending home run that the batter hit so hard that the man on the mound knew instantaneously the baseball was going to land deep into the outfield seats. No sense turning around to see where the ball was going, none what-so-ever – just walk off the mound, cross the infield, pass through the dugout and head for the tunnel leading to the locker room.

Eckersley first used the phrase as a broadcaster on NESN, the Red Sox network. Ironically, Eckersley, a Major League Baseball hall of famer was the pitcher who served up the famous pitch to the LA Dodgers Kirk Gibson in the bottom of the ninth inning of the 1988 World Series.

Gibson, who was injured came off the bench to pinch hit, clocked the ball into the stands. Gibson, a semi cripple chugged around the bases on his two damaged legs like an old steam locomotive heading for the barn: “I think I can, I think I can…”

Mr. Mather noted: “More than a decade ago, some were already sick of the term. In 2000 Sports Illustrated wrote, ‘Like crab grass invading someone’s lawn, walk-off has taken root in sports lingo and gotten out-of-control.”

After being universally applied to any game-ending home runs walk-off soon became applied to game-ending base hits as well such as walk-off singles, doubles and triples. Now it has spread to include walk-off double plays, walk-off walks, walk-off errors, walk-off hit by pitches and walk-off balks.

In Japan, the term is the more expressive “Sayonara home run” as sayonara has far more finality than goodbye.

If it were possible to re-wind the clock and limit the expression to Mr. Eckersley definition, walk-off home run would be palatable. Still, let’s rewind the clock back further to 1951 and Bobby Thomson’s dramatic home run that beat the Dodgers in the ninth inning of their final playoff game. I ask, “Would you prefer ‘Walk-off Home Run’ or ‘The Shot Heard Round the World?”            

Major League Baseball has announced that the Chicago White Sox will host the NY Yankees at a twilight game at the “Field of Dreams” site on August 13, 2020. MLB will build a new field nearby to the movie set, it being far too small to host a professional game. The so

called temporary ballpark will have 8,000 seats and the necessary facilities that today’s players, officials and fans expect. I suspect the temporary status will slip – slide away as other teams seek to enjoy the same experience; Cubs vs Cardinals, Reds vs Royals, etc. etc.

This was my experience there in 2011:

In May of 2011, Bill Christman, Mike Cruise, Don Markey and I made our second heartland baseball trip that took us from Minneapolis to St. Louis. Since we spent most of our drive passing through Iowa, I suggested that a stop in Dyersville was a must.

Spring was late arriving, not exactly baseball weather. We drove south out of Minneapolis in a steady rain. After traveling 112 miles we entered Iowa where soon we began heading east and southeast on state highways aiming for Waterloo, the home of the “Fighting Sullivan Brothers,” the John Deere factory and the Route 63 Diner.

I discovered the diner in the AAA guide and good reviews for it online. Bill and I tried brazened chicken, a specialty. The waitress tells us it’s lightly breaded roasted then fried. “That way it is crispy on the outside and moist inside.” She’s right, it is moist and good. Mike enjoys a chicken pot pie and chocolate cream pie and Don, a Reuben.

Then on to Dyersville, 56 miles further east on US-20, home of the set from the movie, Field of Dreams. We used Bill’s GPS to find it which was a good thing as there aren’t too many signs leading to its location. “Why Dyersville” can equally be countered with, “why not Dyersville?”

Dyersville is a typical Iowa farming community of modest family farms with homes, barns and other outbuildings prominently located on the property. After blinking through the actual town, we drove along a rural, well-maintained two-lane road that meanders through these family farms following the contour of the land. The GPS directed us to make a right turn and follow a smaller road for about a quarter of a mile then announced, “Destination on your right.”

The address was not our destination, but rather for the farm across the road. But never mind, there on the left, a short distance down a slope was another typical farm, but this one had a baseball diamond and a freshly mowed outfield cut into its corn field. A wire backstop protected the area behind home plate, small bleachers lined each baseline and steel poles supported the field lights on the borders of the infield and the outfield.  A small blue sign explained why this farm was selected for filming the movie and how the owner decided to preserve it.   

We were lucky, there was a break in the weather and the rain stopped for our visit. The set was so simple. No glitz or glamour, just the field, the poles and that ubiquitous white farmhouse and red barn surrounded by the fallow corn fields. The grass field was well tended, and, in a condition, I’d expect to find for a major league field. Even with all of today’s rain, both the infield dirt and the grass were without mud or puddles. Behind the outfield a line drawn along the ground clearly and neatly marked where the grass baseball field ball ended, and the corn field began. Looking out from home plate we had a panoramic view of several other family farms that rose behind the outfield. It was a wonderful sight allowing us to imagine how different it must look in August when the corn is as high “as an elephant’s eye.”

I couldn’t help but smile. The set was exactly what I pictured it to be when I first read W.P. Kinsella’s 1982 novel, Shoeless Joe reinforced, of course, by images from the 1989 film, Field of Dreams I understood why the producer chose this farm, so plain, so ordinary, so Iowa: Perfect!

Only a few visitors joined us on this dreary day allowing us to prevail upon a fellow tourist, a chap visiting from Dubuque, Iowa with his family to take our photo. We stood together in one of the two bleachers with a white fence and the farmhouse visible behind us. On a fence it simply said: “Field of Dreams.”

One last look and a stop in the souvenir store. I bought two hat pins containing lines from the book and the movie: “Go the distance.” and “Is this heaven? No, it’s Iowa.” Too bad but “If you build it, he will come.” is not in stock.

Satisfied with our experience we continued to Davenport in a rainstorm that returned with such intensity to make tonight’s game between the Quad Cities Lumber Kings and the Wisconsin Timber rattlers a certain rain out. (Did you know, Bob and Ray that the quad cities are Bettendorf and Davenport, Iowa and Moline and Rock Island, Illinois.)

Instead, we enjoyed a superb meal at the City Bistro in Davenport. Bill ordered onion rings followed by apple grilled chicken. Mike, mussels and duck, Don, crab cakes and veal Oscar. I too ordered the crab cakes and the Captain’s rib eye steak. Portions were large and delicious and our drinks and wine, generous pours. We set the over / under at $500 but the check came in at an unbelievable $243. We didn’t scrimp on our tip and saluted our good fortune to have a rain out that evening.

On the Outside Looking in Will not appear next week and will return on August 28.