John Delach

The estimated first prize payout for Mega-Millions on October 23^rd was $1.6 billion (cash payout, $913 million before taxes.) A single winning ticket for Mega-Millions was sold in South Carolina.

Power Ball payout for October 27th was $750 million (cash payout, $454.3 million before taxes.) Two winners, one down south and one in New York.

The payouts for these two lotteries are deliberately obscene. The actuaries who control the odds of hitting the grand prizes have intentionally rigged the system so that winning the prize has become harder and harder. The fewer $ 40 million winners, $60 million winners or $80 million winners allows the jackpot to climb into an atmosphere where main-stream media begins to pay attention. Tightening the odds, offering jackpot that reach nine figures produces a shout out to the population at large: “Big money, suckers.”

At $500 million, we reach a magical payout threshold it awakens the greed in our very souls, the opportunity for a potential life changing fortune, the quick fix, the ultimate gold ring or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. At this level almost every red-blooded American will begin to sign on to the dream apart from some fundamental Calvinistic sect hidden in the backwoods of Indiana, Kentucky or West Virginia.

The siren’s call commands: “You have to be in it to win it.”

Five hundred million is the tipping point. Beyond that threshold, all players, already in, stay in. “Why should I get out now? Sure, I didn’t win but neither did anyone else. Roll it over; no, hold on, instead double-down giving you two chances for each lottery instead of one.”

Each time another $100 million is added to the prize, additional holdouts sign on. Even those accolades in West Virginia surreptitiously dispatch fellow travelers to rural smoke shops so they too can join the frenzy.

Greed at this level produces strange suggestions. Experts come out of the woodwork to appear on talk-radio, and TV stations. They provide a forum to explain to us the hopeful masses what to do to prepare for this sudden wealth and how to manage it: Establish a family trust, form an LLC, form a family foundation, hire great lawyers and financial advisers.

Trusts, overseas holdings, financial consultants, CPA’s, actuaries, psychologists, body guards, intelligence and security forces, surveillance operatives, Swiss Banks and on and on…

Did I fail to mention Bitcoins?

Take away taxes and the single winner of Mega-Millions would receive a cash payout of about: $550 million, Power Ball: $210 million.

Believe it or not, there are things that even this kind of money won’t buy like a major league sports franchise, but most other things can be on your radar. If you are of sound mind and judgement, winning such obscene amounts of money should scare the shit out of you so rejoice in your so-called bad luck.

Once upon a time quick buck fever did not always prevail. There was a family owned and run restaurant in Manhattan on 54^th Street between Fifth and Madison called Reidy’s. They served Irish cuisine but in the proper atmosphere of a restaurant. Tishman Speyer’s assembled all the property on Madison Avenue between 53^rd and 54^th and along these two streets to build a 42-floor office building that became known as 520 Madison Avenue.

The Reidy family owned the bottom two floors of the building that housed their restaurant. However, the people who owned the upper floors sold these air rights to Tishman who demolished everything above these two floors.

Maurice Reidy family patriarch and owner refused to sell forcing Tishman to build the skyscraper around his restaurant. To ensure that customers and the public knew his position he draped a sign on his building that read: “Reidy’s Restaurant will stay at this location and will remain OPEN while the men play with their erector set. Thank you.”

Tishman finally conceded and reached a compromise with Mr. Reidy. In return for vacating the old second floor room, Tishman would incorporate a larger second floor dining room into the new structure while preserving the ambiance of the main room and bar.

One night a group of us found ourselves upstairs at Reidy’s enjoying a lengthy and happy dinner filled with much laughter and cheer. Most other customers had left when Mr. Reidy decided to join us. He sat next to me and I decided to ask him: “Mr. Reidy, I’m curious about one thing. Before the Tishman people realized that there was no way that you would close this restaurant and vacate this space, they must have become desperate. How did you resist accepting the large amount of the money they must have offered you?”

He looked me in the eye, smiled and said: “Because for my family to have that much money would be sinful.”

And that was that except nothing is forever. The restaurant business is a tough business. When Maurice Reidy passed on, the family closed the restaurant not long after. An Irish curio shop replaced it but not for long. Today it is a modern restaurant, but the bare brick walls testify to its previous life. I hope the Reidy family retained ownership and now collect a handsome rent.

He died on December 12, 2002 six-days after celebrating his eighty-third birthday. Cancer of multiple organs was the cause a diagnosis rendered less than a month before his death. He died at home, in his sleep, under hospice care free of pain. Shortly before dying, he decided that his ashes should be interred at Arlington National Cemetery. Marilyn, his second wife, followed his instructions after cremating his remains without the presence of family or friends.

The administrators at Arlington processes twenty to thirty services each day, Monday to Friday. With so many World War II veterans dying, our family was told in March that Dad’s service would take place on Thursday, June 19, 2003.

We are a small family, but we all attended the service. Mary Ann and I drove down from New York as did our son, Michael, and his wife, Jodie. Our daughter, Beth, and her husband, Tom, used Amtrak. My two half-brothers and sister were there. Steven, flew to Florida from Oregon with his wife, Cathy, son and daughter, Jeffrey and Kelsey. They stayed with Marilyn then flew to Norfolk and drove to brother Mark and his wife, Nancy’s house outside of Richmond. They convoyed north to Arlington that morning as did Nancy’s mom and dad. Two of Marilyn’s cousins also attended. Our sister, Diana rounded out the group at sixteen when she arrived that morning from Maine.

The Catholic chaplain, a “full-bird” colonel, insisted that my Dad have a service in the Fort Myers chapel adjacent to the cemetery rather than in the administration building. I found this a curious ceremony for a man who freely and publicly proclaimed being an atheist. But it was not my call.

Fortunately, the chaplain kept the service simple and almost non-denominational. My daughter and son read from the old and new testament, Kelsey, read the petitions and the priest led us in the Lord’s Prayer. Unfortunately, he did not keep his homily simple but waxed poetically. He showered Dad and our family with qualities and attributes that never existed. As I listened to him, I wondered how he’d react if I limited my eulogy to:

“The sons of bitches of this world have lost their leader!”

But I didn’t. (Mary Ann wouldn’t allow it.) Instead, I said:

Dad led a remarkable life. He demonstrated fortitude, courage, honor, loquaciousness and grit for as long as I can remember. He had an unending thirst for knowledge that took him both figuratively and literally to all parts of the world.

His zest for life never diminished. He needed to know things, to understand them.

He was combative, and the Lord knows the confrontations we each had with him. But he did love and care for his family.

When his body deserted him, when he knew he had terminal cancer, he accepted this with dignity, honor and humor.

It is time to take joy in his life, in his memory. It is time to celebrate his life. That is why we are here.

This was true enough and made for a proper eulogy. Good thing too, in view of the size of the interment detachment that waited outside the chapel.

Dad’s rank, years of service, war record, citations and medals qualified him to receive a high military ceremony. A horseman with drawn sword led the formation. Behind him six horses stood hitched to the burial caisson. Three horses carried mounted riders. A band and an honor guard stood at attention as six pallbearers followed two others who inserted the urn into a compartment at the end of the coffin mounted on the caisson.

A four-man color guard led the procession away from the chapel. A twenty-piece band and an honor guard followed, proceeding the flag draped caisson and its eight pallbearers. We followed in our cars as part of the procession. Slowly, we proceeded through Arlington to the Columbarium where his remains were to be interred following the military service. I was humbled as the workers along our path ceased their activity and stood at attention as we passed.

Because it had rained earlier that morning and the forecast predicted afternoon showers, the airmen all wore blue raincoats. The humidity was not kind to them though they did not display their discomfort.

The pallbearers carried the urn to the central square where they set it down on a catafalque. They unfurled the American flag that had draped the coffin with great ceremony and held it taut as if covering a coffin. The band played. The chaplain spoke. We stood while the honor guard now positioned on a grass field two hundred yards away fired a twenty-one-gun salute. Taps followed.

The flag was re-folded, handed to the chaplain who handed it to Marilyn. Mark carried the urn to its assigned vault. The chaplain made a few more remarks and the service ended.

We walked back to our cars crossing the central square one last time. I calculated that about sixty Air Force personnel had participated in the ceremony. “Well, Dad,” I thought, “You got your due. Too bad you weren’t here for it. You would have loved it and I would bought you today’s first Scotch whiskey.”

November 1^st marks the 100th anniversary of the most devastating rapid transit disaster in our nation’s history. Ninety-seven New Yorkers lost their lives when Edward Luciano, a novice motorman crashed his train. Luciano had never piloted a train before that fateful day. He had been drafted into this service because of a wildcat strike by the motormen’s union.

Last September, I joined a walking tour of the crash site sponsored by the NYC Transit Museum with by my son-in-law, Tom and his eleven-year-old son, Cace. Kathryn, our young guide filled in many gaps in the narrative as I knew it. “The more I learned about Luciano, the more I came to sympathize with him. For example, Luciano was recovering from the Spanish Flu and he had buried his middle daughter, a victim of the flu, two days earlier. He was heart-heavy believing he infected her. “

Normally a train dispatcher, Luciano started his first run at 5 am that morning after receiving minimal instructions. He was due to be relieved at 4:30 pm but was ordered to drive one more train back to Brighton Beach from Manhattan. Stress, fatigue and the coming darkness took their toll and complicated braking system so befuddled the rookie motorman that he made several serious mistakes. Almost 400 of the 1,000 riders abandoned this train due to his obvious incompetence before he wrecked it.

Just before the right-of-way descended into the Prospect Park Station it reached a complex passage, a tight “S” curve that had only opened 13 days earlier. A small sign just outside the tunnel entrance posted the speed limit as 6 miles-per-hour. Accounts of Luciano’s true speed vary but it was estimated between 40 and 50 MPH.

The front trucks of the first car remained on the rails leaving Luciano uninjured. The rear third of that car was damaged. Cars two and three were destroyed as their wooden exteriors and glass windows splintered and shattered as they smashed into the tunnel’s steel columns and concrete sides and ceiling. The fourth car escaped serious damage and the fifth uncoupled coming to rest outside the tunnel, partly derailed but upright and intact.

Most of victims were killed in the second and third cars that rocketed into oblivion. Ordinary fixtures turned into missiles, Rattan seats, the bars that supported the leather straps for standees, window panes and glass ripped into the occupants. The wooden framing, sides and even the roof split open and shattered killing many trapped in wreck. Others were thrown from the train against the steel and concrete tunnel. The coroner’s office listed the cause of death for 88 of the 93 souls who died that day as being due to massive blunt force. (Four passengers subsequently passed in hospitals.)

First responders faced difficult challenges when they arrived at Malbone Street. The wreck was partially in an open-cut trench about than 100 feet below the surface and partially in the tunnel. Ladders had to be procured. A block and tackle system had to be rigged to remove the seriously injured victims needing stretchers. The Spanish Flu outbreak complicated rescues. Ambulances were in short-supply and hospitals were already overcrowded. The dead were set aside and ultimately removed to an armory for identification.

The public was furious, and the Brooklyn District Attorney indicted Luciano and five BRT executives for manslaughter. The defense forced a change in venue from Brooklyn to Mineola, Long Island for obvious reasons. After lengthy trials, none were found guilty.

For this and other long festering reasons, the Brooklyn Rapid Transit was forced into receivership. Ultimately, re-christened, the Brooklyn Manhattan Transit, Management of the BMT eventually compensated the victims with a fund of $1.4 million, ($18 million today.)

Malbone Street ceased to exist. Forever tainted by the horrific loss of life, city fathers re-christened it, Empire Boulevard

All that remains of the line is a short, three-station shuttle that moves passengers between Prospect Park and Fulton Street. The wall of death also remains but is in limited revenue service.

No plaques or recognition. Perhaps the one hundredth anniversary will correct that?

Kathryn pointed out that when Luciano emerged from his motorman’s booth, his obvious path of escape was to open the front door. He stepped off the front platform and walked 142 feet away from the wreck to the Prospect Park Station without having to look back at the carnage.

When Luciano opened the operator’s compartment, he ran into a dazed passenger, Charles Darling who asked what had happened? Darling subsequently reported to the police that Luciano, in an incredible moment of candor replied, “I don’t know. I lost control of the damn thing.”

The young man who worked at the bike shop in the port town of Avalon on Catalina Island began his five to seven-minute tutorial as soon as we signed the waivers holding them harmless for all liabilities including injuries we could sustain by riding electric powered bicycles (E-Bikes) during the next two hours.

He walked us through how to increase and decrease the gear ratios to help us pedal the E-Bikes over the numerous up-hills and down-hills we would encounter, how to work the electric motor throttle and the front and rear brakes. “Remember, these are disc-brakes, not traditional hand brakes. To use them, don’t press and hold them. If you do, the bike will suddenly stop, and you may go flying over the handlebars. Squeeze them gently, on and off.”

I knew he didn’t see the weird look on my face as he explained braking. As if by magic, his words transported me back to the summer of 1957 in Cutler Ridge, Florida. My father had put me on his Vesper motor scooter and was explaining how to brake it. The old man was bit more elegant but less P.C. than the young man, “John, touch the brake like you are squeezing a girl’s breast.”

Mary Ann returned me to the moment with her worried question and plea, “Do we really want to ride these things?”

“Yes, yes, of course we do. C’mon, lets do it, we’ve been looking forward to this.”

I hoped my adamant reply concealed my own doubts and any panic in my voice.

But our guide only raised more red flags as he took out a map and set out his recommended route. “Head out on the coastal road that gives you about a half mile to get used to the bikes. Remember, they weigh over twenty pounds so don’t make sharp turns or brake hard. Use your electric motor judiciously and brake easy and often on the downhills.”

When he warned us about watching out for other tourists driving rented four and six-passenger golf carts, I really became nervous.

Again, came the warning, “Do we really want to ride these things?”

Thanks to male ego or call it what you will, I stayed the course with, “C’mon, let’s do this.”

And so, we started off. Leading the way, I had only gone about fifty feet when I was forced to stop for a woman inching a golf cart out of a parking area. Seeing me she stopped. I clearly had the right-of-way and began to move forward when she looked beyond me to see if the road was clear and pulled out. “Son of a bitch,” I murmured to myself as I jammed on the brakes to let her pass.

From the back seat, one of her companions who witnessed this near miss said as he passed by, “Sorry, rookie driver.”

I learned what I could during that first half mile but any confidence I acquired evaporated as we climbed a series of switchbacks that led us up the side of a mountain, especially those stretches where we had to navigate on the outside half of the road. I was able to climb even the steepest hills by peddling while keeping the motor at full throttle.

But I had to force all my attention on keeping a line away from the edge while not straying out of my narrow lane. By the time we reached a scenic overlook, my state of mind was such that I really didn’t observe the spectacular scenery. The many houses that clung to the hillsides should have been impressive as the beautiful harbor filled with boats big and small, but my preoccupation trumped enjoyment.

Realizing how high we had climbed only intensified my state. A group of twenty-something young adults took a photo of the two of us and asked us how we were doing. “Okay, so far, but we hate having to stay close to the edge.”

One young man responded, “You don’t have to, this road is one way.”

How do you say “relief?” “One way!”

We made it the rest of the way and back into town. Still in the lead, I decided to halt at a stop sign to check our location and discuss where we could go next. After I brought my bike to a stop, I turned off the battery to prevent inadvertently using the throttle and stepped off to use the kick-stand. I moved my left foot onto the ground. Holding the bike steady, I lifted my right foot to clear the relatively low bar,

My right leg failed me, the combination of a seventy-four-year old knee and a replacement hip. The weight of the bike won out and over I went. First response: check all body parts. All good, but my left leg was pinned under the bike held fast by my right leg that remained on top.

Slowly I lifted the bike to free my left leg. It was then that Mary Ann arrived. “Oh my God, are you all right?”

“Yeah. A few bruises, nothing of concern.”

I was able to stand and right the bike. We biked for a while longer before returning them. My left knee had the kind of blood wound that seven-year-olds regularly suffer.

God bless Mary Ann for remaining silent about the folly of our adventure. Instead she accompanied me to a local pharmacy to purchase Neosporin and over-size band-aids to cover my wound.

We had a pleasant dinner before boarding the ferry for the return trip to Dana Point and our car ride home to Carlsbad.

Jim Taylor died on October 13^th in a hospital near his home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana at the age of 83. If you were interested enough to read any of the obituaries or commentaries dedicated to his life as a Hall of Fame NFL running back, you’d have noticed that Taylor’s greatest attribute was being one tough S.O.B.

I witnessed his determination on a bitterly cold afternoon in Yankee Stadium on December 30, 1962. The Green Bay Packers beat the New York Football Giants that day: 16-7 in the NFL Championship Game. Lacking today’s winter wear, I endured 17 degrees coupled with a 40 MPH wind only to suffer through my Giants inability to best Coach Vince Lombardi’s superior team.

Taylor was the key to the Packers success. This I can testify to as I watched, hid every carry up close and personal looking through my powerful 7×50 binoculars.

Robert Riger reported from the game:

“The Giants defense was mean and fiercely aggressive. They gave Jim Taylor the same treatment they had given Jimmy Brown over the years – the maximum physical effort on every play. ‘It was terrible,’ Bart Starr, the Packer quarterback confided, ‘The huddle would form, and I would watch him come back after Huff, Grier, Robustelli and the rest of the Giants defense had hit him, and he was bent over holding his insides together. I didn’t want to give it to him so much, but I had to. He’s our best man and I needed him and the 31 times he carried the ball was more than he has all season. But I’ll tell you something, if there were six downs instead of four I would have given it to him all six times and he never would have complained. He has never given anything less than his best.”

1962 was a vintage year for the both the Packers as a team and for Taylor as a player. The Packers won the Western Conference with a 13-1 record, Taylor led the league with 1.474 rushing yards and was the named the NFL’s MVP.

Richard Goldstein reported in The New York Times obituary: “Taylor engaged in a private war that day with Sam Huff the Giants middle linebacker and the leader of their vaunted defense. Taylor confessed:

‘I don’t ever remember being hit so hard. I bled the whole game. My arms bled from hitting the frozen dirt and my tongue bled after I bit it in the first half. “

Taylor’s 31 carries in the championship game netted him an additional 85 yards but Genaro C. Armas pointed out how difficult these yards were to gain: “Taylor sustained a gash to his elbow that required seven stitches at halftime and cut his tongue during the game.

“If Taylor went up to get a program, Huff was supposed to hit him. Wherever Taylor went, Huff went with him. (Taylor’s teammate,) Jerry Kramer told The Associated press in 2008, ‘I remember sitting next to Jimmy on the way home (on the flight to Green Bay) and he had his topcoat on. He never took it off. He had it over his shoulders and the guy was shivering almost all the way home. He just got the hell beat out of him that day.”

Goldstein continued: “After the game, Taylor accused Huff and some of his teammates of piling on after stopping him.”

‘Taylor likes to crawl,’ Huff responded. ‘The only way to stop Taylor is to make sure that he’s down.”

Taylor’s toughness was personified by his instinctive running style. Other premier backs like Jim Brown and Gale Sayers used finesse to make potential tacklers miss while they hurried by these frustrated opponents; but not Taylor. Lombardi explained: “Jim Brown will give you that leg to tackle and then take it away from you. Jim Taylor will give it to you and then ram it through your chest.”

Abe Woodson, the premier 49er’s defensive back also explained Taylor’s M.O.: “Most people run away from a tackle, not Taylor, even if he had a clear path to the goal line, he’d look for a defensive back to run over on the way.”

The longer I watched Taylor on that frozen afternoon, the more I became in awe of him. By the fourth quarter, the winter sun had settled and a mind-numbing cold had enveloped the playing field and we, the faithful fans, Taylor was hunched over, reduced to hobbling back to the huddle like a cripple, bent over and spitting up blood. Still, when Starr called the next play, Taylor, lined up in the “T” formation behind Starr and charged ahead at the snap of the ball either to carry it or to block for Paul Horning, his running mate. He did this repeatedly with the same ferocity until the referee fired the shot that ended the contest.

Taylor scored the only offensive touchdown in the game and this is how he described his score, a seven-yard run, and rest of the game:

“It was the only play of the game they didn’t touch me. But they made up for it the rest of this miserable afternoon. It was the toughest game of my life. They really came to play.”

Jim Taylor: RIP

I would not have discovered the existence of Gulliver’s Gate had it not been for a letter from an old colleague and model train enthusiast, Fred Fort. Fred has experienced the ultimate HO model train exhibit in the world, Minatur Wunderland in Hamburg, Germany. When Fred’s daughter alerted him that a similar exhibit is on display in Manhattan, Fred passed this news to me knowing I shared his love of model trains.

It’s true, both as a kid and a young teen, I made an annual pilgrimage to the Lionel layout located at 15 East 26the Street just to the north of Madison Square Park. I traveled there with my cousins, Bill and Bob on a given Saturday between Thanksgiving and Christmas during the mid-1950s. O Gauge ruled s kid’s world of trains making Lionel the king of electric trains far more important than American Flyer or Marx. The release each fall of their annual catalogue was a national holiday in Lionel’s kid’s kingdom and the Lionel layout was our Mecca.

Most of us grew out of our trains. Lionel itself went out of vogue, their layout closed, and we too, ceased to build our Christmas layouts. Trains were boxed and put away, plywood boards were relegated to garages, cellars or basements and we moved on with our lives. Having children brought about a resurrection. Now mature adults (more or less,) we added switches, elevated routes, bigger transformers and the capability of running multiple trains at the same time. Some converted to HO, but I added to my O Gauge motive power and rolling stock.

A second resurrection followed the arrival of grandchildren. I joined the Train Collectors Association, (TCA) and journeyed to York, Pennsylvania where I gladly joined an army of old men ogling over various locomotives, diesel engines, rolling stock and accessories. We justified all the stuff we bought by telling ourselves, it was for the grandkids.

What a seasonal layout I created in our family room. A town trolley, an elevated subway train, a long-distance passenger train and a grand and varied freight all running at the same time. Mary Ann created the scenery that gave it class. We proudly watched as each child took it in for the first time with eyes wide open and disbelief at this miracle of electric technology.

How dated. How obsolete, one by one, each of the five outgrew interest as new electronics accelerated their loss of interest. It ended one season when the only times I turned them on and ran them was for my pleasure…sad, and so it goes.

Now I attend train shows when convenient, so the knowledge of Gulliver’s Gate was a welcomed invitation to enjoy one close to home. My companion, my youngest grandson, Cace, eleven. Tickets in hand, we set out on the last day in August for 214 West 44 Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. I’d watched several videos about this exhibit and I warned Cace: “I think there’s a big difference between this layout and the one in Germany. The one in Hamburg is train-centric and this one is architecture-centric with the trains playing a secondary role.

However, I was perplexed about its location. How did the designer find a space big enough in mid-Manhattan to build an exhibit as large as I imagined this one must be? As we walked east from Eighth Avenue, I had my answer. “Of course, it is domiciled in the vast second floor of the old New York Times printing plant.” The exhibit partially fills a vast space once filled with old linotype machines and other equipment that printers used to publish the daily paper.

As soon as we entered the space, I knew my observation was correct. If you plan to see Gulliver’s Gate, leave your engineer’s hat at home. It is a terrific exhibit, but trains are a minor part and many of them were not operating. I don’t believe they were out of order. My impression is that the operators choose which trains will run that day. Nonetheless, the builders have created excellent renditions of important structures from all over the world. New York City has received the prime focus that includes the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges, the World Trade Center Memorial and all the major sky scrapers. The High Line Park is included, and Grand Central Terminal has trains running in its basement (not operating that day.) The exhibit is capped off with a working model of the Thanksgiving Day parade.

The exhibit took us to London, Rome, Paris, St. Petersburg, Moscow Beijing the Middle East, Southeast Asia, Mexico and South America. Panama included two working locks from the canal. Model ships enter the locks, the gates are closed, water is either pumped in or pumped out lifting or lowering the models to the correct level. Cace and I thought this was the best working feature of the exhibit until we visited the airport located in a separate space.

The Airport has timed takeoffs and landings. Before the takeoff, a model airliner taxies out to the end of the runway. First, white Take off lights come on, then, they intensify just before the aircraft begins to move. The sound of jet engines fills the room as the plane accelerates, rotates and climbs with the assistance of a rod connected to the belly. It stops on a metal platform above the end of the runway where the rod is disconnected, and a device transports it into a passageway out of sight behind a wall.

The plane reappears and enters a second platform at the other end of the runway. A rod is re-connected that brings it in for a landing and a final taxi to the tarmac.

Pretty neat and worthwhile seeing. But, and there is always a but: From the videos I’ve seen, I truly doubt if it competes with the airport operation at Minatur Wunderland.

Minatur Wunderland is the major leagues and Gulliver’s Gate is AAA minor leagues, the best of the minor leagues but still the minor leagues. Then again, taking a train ride to Midtown Manhattan from Port Washington is considerably easier than making a flight to Hamburg.

“On any given Sunday, any given team can defeat any other given team.”

Bert Bell: NFL Commissioner 1945-1959

February 7, 2008; my son and I witnessed our 12-7 Football Giants take on the 18-0 New England Patriots whose fans expected victory and the Pats coronation as the greatest NFL team ever.

The Giants started the game by keeping the ball for 9:59, a Super Bowl record for an opening drive. It ended with a field goal; Giants 3-0. Michael and I decided to forego our seats at the top of the upper deck to stand behind a handicapped seating area considerably closer to the field. A security guard confirmed we could stand there. “You just have to stay three feet from the last row of seats.” So that’s where we stood for the rest of the game.

Tension filled the day as the first half continued. Even though the Patriots scored in the second quarter; the score was only 7-3. It remained fixed at this number when the Giants forced Tom Brady to fumble at the end of the first half. I said to Michael, “I’m glad that we are standing. I’m too stressed to sit. This is insane. I think the key to this game will be the Patriots opening drive in the second half. If the Giants stop them, we have a chance.”

I looked around Phoenix University Stadium during halftime. The girders supporting the closed retractable roof are impressive, the sightlines were good and the field; first rate. But the scoreboard was garish and so busy with junk that it was hard to find the score, down or yards to go. The P.A. announcer was awful. His voice was a far cry from Bob Shepherd’s melodious voice.

What I saw in the Giants so far was complete focus and intensity. They retained it as the third quarter began, stopping the Patriots and forcing them to punt. And they accomplished this despite having a penalty called on them for having twelve men on the field for a previous punt gave the Patriots new life on that drive.

The score remained 7-3 at the fourth-quarter began. That was when the Giants seized the moment and scored on their first drive on a 5-yard pass from Eli Manning to David Tyree that Tyree caught in the end zone right in front of us; Giants 10-7.

Oh boy, oh boy. I thought I was going to explode. The Patriots stalled and punted on their next possession as did the Giants. Now 7:54 remained in the game as the Patriots started their next drive at their 20-yard line. Brady finally got his act together and engineered an 80-yard drive scoring on a third-down pass to Randy Moss with 2:42 left in the game, Patriots 14-10.

A Patriot fan standing near us pulled out a cigar held it in the air and announced, “This game is over.”

“I’m not so sure.” I said to Michael. “There’s a lot of time left on the clock and the Giants have all three time-outs.”

By now many of the stadium employees had stopped working and were watching the game. A big, bald security guard stood next to me. As the Giant offense returned to the field after they had run the kickoff out to the 17-yard line, I turned to him and said, “What do you think?”

He replied, “I think the kid can do it.”

And so, he did.

Manning put together a 12 play, 83-yard drive highlighted by his great Houdini-like escape from the Patriot linemen when they had him on the brink of ending the game. Manning escaped their clutches, sprinted away from them, turned and flung the ball 32-yards. At the receiving end, Tyree made an impossible one handed catch off his helmet. A few plays later, when Plaxico Burress put a move on Ellis Hobbs, all he had to do was catch Manning’s lob and get two feet inbounds – he did, Giants 17-14.

I kissed the security guard on the top of his head.

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. Corey Webster knocked the ball away at the last second. Ten seconds left on the clock and I was still holding my breath. When Brady’s next pass went incomplete, I lost track of the downs and Michael had to remind me that last pass was on fourth down and 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 couldn’t hear the trophy presentation and we were too far away to watch it, so Michael and I jubilantly exited the stadium to meet the drivers, wait for our mates and enjoy victory beers.

As we filed out past a sea of ticket hawkers now trying to buy used Super Bowl XLII tickets for souvenir re-sale, I asked Michael: “If we had to play these guys ten times, how many games do you think we’d win?”

“We just saw it, Pop.”

Our mates arrived in short order. 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 any of us had ever seen. Then Michael noticed a young woman wearing a Brady jersey walk by. He leaned out the window and said, “Don’t worry, Tom, 18-1 ain’t bad.”

“F**k off.” came her reply.

Brilliant, Michael had nailed her!

(On the Outside Looking in will publish on Thursday next week.)

Not too long ago, my grandson, Matthew asked my assistance with a report he had to submit for a high school class. The subject was should we have a military draft? “What do you think, Grandpa?”

Matt knows I’m an old Goldwater conservative, so he did not expect my response: “Absolutely! Citizen-soldiers protect the armed forces from being over used.”

Today we have professional, all-volunteer armed forces including the reserves. The patriotic men and women who choose to join the service want to be there and they bring a degree of commitment and professionalism to all the branches that would be watered down by draftees.

Draftees just want to do their time and get out. Army Reserve and National Guard units would revert to the days when individuals opted for six months of active duty and a six-year reserve commitment to fulfill their required service.

I accept that the commitment and dedication of our professional armed service would surely suffer, especially the Army, but I believe that such a downgrading is a price worth paying to offset the downside of an all-volunteer Army.

Our all-volunteer service has created a new form of separation, not by race, religion, background, education or nationality, but one that basically divides America. We have the few who serve while the rest of us go on with our lives completely removed from their sacrifices as if our endless wars don’t even exist.

Of course, there is public recognition of those who serve. Cosmetic recognition in the form of staged events such as honoring service members at sports events, football and baseball games, the Super Bowl and the World Series. We honor them during Fourth of July patriotic concerts and with pre-planned scripted TV moments showing returning troops surprising spouses and kids (usually at school.) We are conditioned to thank troops for their service and object to any behavior that could disrespect these men and women. They fight while we sprout feel good platitudes.

Meanwhile, we live our lives, attend births, holidays, graduations, marriages and funerals. Life goes on while far in the background, mostly soldiers and Marines suffer and die in lonely places like Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria and hot spots in other Middle Eastern and African locations. We have been engaged in “War Without End” since the attacks of September 11, 2001 and nobody screams, “Isn’t enough, enough?”

We protest if someone slights the flag or football players kneel at the playing of our National Anthem, but our leaders don’t seem too give a damn that we are engaged in two wars, both longer than the sum of all the wars we fought in our nation’s history.

The clock on the Afghan War will tick over to 17 years this October. Iraq, in all its gestations, is right behind it. To date: “More than three million Americans have served in uniform in these wars. Nearly, 7,000 of them have died. Tens of thousands more have been wounded.”

Where is the outrage? Where are the protesters? I find it strangely sad that the old Viet Nam War protesters who I watched fill the green at the top of Main Street in Keene NH, to protest W’s war against Saddam don’t bother to picket any longer. They gave up during Obama’s reign or just became too old.

Instead of outrage over the death and maiming of our greatest national treasure, our young patriots, the protesters march against ICE, the World Trade Organization, Civil War Statues and other causes too stupid to mention.

Meanwhile, soldiers and Marines continue to give their lives for real estate that their bosses abandon in six months. Sadly, they are called on to do this repeatedly. Six month or one-year tours in “the sand box” until they get out, break down, or return maimed or in flag draped coffins.

How many times can the President, the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff believe they can send these brave men and women into harm’s way repeatedly before they break down? Enough is enough! Stop the madness!

The draft would re-establish a basic tenet of our Republic. Historically, a citizen army fights our wars and we need a citizen army to end this abuse of power.

No president since FDR has asked Congress for a Declaration of War. Our Constitution mandates that only Congress can declare that we are at war. Congress, long ago abdicated their authority and signed off on various Executive Orders taking us to war. Korea, Viet Nam, Desert Storm, Iraqi Freedom and whatever heroic name we use for that Afghan mess were all mandated using smoke and mirrors.

Presidents and the Congress realize that we, the American public, are content with our all-volunteer armed forces as we abhor the thought of little Johnny or Suzie being drafted and being killed in a war. Those we can’t trust exploit the volunteer army. So long as patriotic men and women volunteer to serve, the beat goes on

During the eight years when Dwight David Eisenhower was president, we had the draft and we didn’t lose one service man in combat. Ike detested putting his soldiers in harm’s way.

Today, we allow our leaders to thoughtlessly discard our sons and daughters, our greatest generation, because we don’t hold these leaders accountable. Shame on us! A draft would re-establish an army of citizen soldiers like our Republic meant it to be.

With a draft, if a future president attempted to dispatch Johnny or Suzie to China or Lower Nowhere without cause, we’d take to the streets for the real deal: “Hell no, we won’t go!.”

The Wall Street Journal recently published a piece about the next America’s Cup challenge. The Kiwi’s wrested the cup away from Larry Ellison in 2017 and brought it back to New Zealand. The next challenge is scheduled for 2021 and Ellison’s defeat opened a run by the New York Yacht Club to represent the United States in that challenge. So far, no other American challengers have appeared and “New York Yacht Club’s American Magic,” is backed by a $100 million fund. Granted, they have a long way to go but, if successful, they would return the Cup to 37 West 44 Street where it resided from 1851 to 1983.

Geoff Jones drew my attention to this fact and when Geoff asked me if I had interest in reading this article, my first reaction was to tell him my experience in 1984 while waiting for my overnight flight to London at JFK. I had made my way to the Ambassadors Club, TWA’s pay-to-play private club that catered to frequent flyers by providing a quiet oasis.

Enjoying a pre-boarding Jameson on the rocks, I found myself in a conversation with an Aussie enjoying his Beefeater Martini. The Royal Perth Yacht Club had wrested the cup from the New York Yacht Club that past September. A momentous achievement as the New York Yacht Club had successfully defended it for 132 years, ending the longest winning streak in sporting history.

He asked what my thoughts were on losing the cup and I cavalierly replied: “You have to understand that ocean racing is an elitist sport and most Americans don’t pay much attention to it.”

I should have realized that he must have been involved with the cup victory and measured my responce accordingly. He confirmed this by explaining that he was a member of Alan Bond’s syndicate. I congratulated him but didn’t apologize for my remark.

Alan Bond was a bigger than life rouge, a phenomenon who went from rags to riches to disgrace in a mercurial manner. Bond recalls other rogues that populated the planet in the late Twentieth and the early Twenty First Centuries. Bernie Cornfeld, who created International Overseas Services, (IOS) with his evangelical command: “Do you sincerely want to be rich?” When IOS crashed and burned, Robert Vesco, another rouge, resurrected it until the SEC chased him into exile in Cuba. Bernie Madoff, who engineered the largest Ponzi scheme of all times, Crazy Eddie Antar whose pitchman guaranteed that “His Prices Were Insane” as was his business plan and Sean Quinn who rose to become the richest man in Ireland worth $6 Billion in 2008 only to declare bankruptcy by 2011.

Bond paved his way to success by using the tired true M.O. of most great rogues, “OPM,” Other Peoples’ Money. “Bond was a skilled salesman with a knack for coming up with cash. He never worried about whether he’d get credit. His early business partner, Cam McNab, (said) that Bond would often buy something that they could refinance on the occasions that they couldn’t pay their wages bill.”

At the time Bond first began his quest to take control of the America’s Cup in 1974, the Bond Corporation was already seriously in debt. Between 1971 and 1974 it had grown 12-fold, but its borrowings had grown 20-fold. accumulating $100 Million in debt.

He chose to win the cup to showcase his mega real estate investment, Yanchep Sun City, a luxury lifestyle for 200,000 people. Potential owners and investors were not exactly flocking to Sun City and it badly needed a boost.

When asked by a reporter if he entered the quest for the sake of sport, Bond erupted: “Anyone who considers racing for the America’s Cup isn’t a business proposition is a bloody fool. There can be no other justification for spending $6 Million on the Australian challenge unless the return is going to involve more than just an ornate silver pitcher.”

It took Bond four attempts to do it. The first three failed, Southern Cross lost 4-0 to Courageous in 1974 as did Australia in 1977. In 1980, Australia lost to Liberty, 4-1.

God only knows how much money Bond spent in 1983. The new boat, Australia II, was shrouded in secrecy and literally kept under wraps to hide its winged keel, designed by Ben Lexcen. Bond attacked the cup with military precision complimenting Lexcen’s genius with the superb sailing ability of skipper, John Bertrand. Still, Dennis Conner made it close losing the Cup, 3 to 4.

Bond was a national hero, and his empire seemed to prosper. It wasn’t until 1987 that it began to implode hitting bottom in 1992 when he declared bankruptcy with a debt of $1.8 billion. His marriage collapsed, he was convicted of fraud for syphoning off $1.2 billion from Bell Resources and sentenced to four years in prison.

Paul Barry, a reporter, was incensed by the shortness of his sentence. Barry noted that a 22-year-old Aboriginal man was given a mandatory penalty of a year for stealing $23 worth of biscuits.  “Had the same formula applied to Bond, he would have been imprisoned for 50 million years,”

Bond died in 2012 at 77.

Prior to 1983, the America’s Cup was proudly displayed mounted on a large table in the foyer of the New York Yacht Club on West Forty-Fourth Street in Manhattan. I was invited to lunch shortly after Bond won the cup and it was as if it was never there. Even though the United States has regained the cup twice since 1983, the winning boats did not fly the pennant of the NYYC, so the cup has never returned to the club.

New York Yacht Club’s American Magic may be their great WASP hope.

Although my 57^th year being a Football Giants season ticket holder began on Sunday September 9 with a 20-15 loss to the Jacksonville Jaguars my hope is they recover and press on. Meanwhile, I’d like to reflect on some odd experiences and thoughts about the mostly enjoyable but sometimes frustrating journey of being a season ticket holder.

Mike Francesca, the top-rated sports talk guy on WFAN in New York once described Football Giants season ticket holders as white-male, mostly middle aged or older who believe all home games should begin at 1 PM so they can return home in time for their evening martini. He almost hit the nail on the head, but I see no reason why the games can’t start at 2 PM as they did in 1962 and my cocktail of choice is 12-year old Red Breast in a short glass with three ice cubes.

I define the end of summer as the first morning that I step outside to retrieve the newspapers and sense the rising sun has yet to cut through the slight chill from the previous night. I never cease to thrill at the feel and smell of such a morning when I think to myself: “Ah, football weather.”

The best Sunday of the year is opening day when everything is possible. The second happiest day of the year is when the season tickets arrive in the mail. So, help me, I still get charged as I open the envelope. (Unfortunately, NFL teams are encouraging fans to download game tickets electronically to their smart phones, the Giants included. This year the powers that be referred to my cardboard printed tickets as “souvenir tickets” a portent of things to come and so it goes.)

I no longer attend night games although, playoff games may be exceptions.

Worst three defeats I witnessed. Number One: The loss to the Packers in the 1962 NFL Championship Game in Yankee Stadium, the coldest I have ever been. At 18-years old, I was crushed as my new love, the Football Giants lost 16-7. Number two: Super Bowl XXXV. In Tampa. The Ravens cleaned our clocks and the money I pissed away ticked me off, big time. Number Three: The overtime playoff loss to the Rams in Giants Stadium in 1989 when Flipper Anderson caught the winning pass right in front of us and just kept running off the field and into the tunnel leading to the visitor’s locker room. We were stunned, and I’ve never witnessed a packed stadium being that quiet. (Honorable mention: The Fumble on November 19, 1978 against the Eagles.)

Top three victories: Super Bowl XLII. (I will cover this in a separate piece, but the Giants won, and I traveled to Arizona to see the game with my son.) Number two: Super Bowl XXV. This came about by chance; my mates discovered a pool of tickets available for the taking at a reasonable price and four of us jumped on it. The Big Sombrero in Tampa versus the Buffalo Bills with the war in Iraq as a backdrop. Long story, short; Scott Norwood missed a 45-yard field goal letting us celebrate a 20-19 victory. Number three, the 1986 NFC Championship Game vs. the Redskins in the howling winds of Giants Stadium. The hawk was blowing that day allowing Sean Landetta, the Giants punter, to be the hero that day and send Big Blue to SB XXI.

I’ve rooted for the Giants at home in Yankee Stadium from 1962 to 1973, Yale Bowl in 1973 and 1974, Shea Stadium in 1975, Giants Stadium from 1976 to 2009 and now Met Life Stadium. Frankly speaking, Giants Stadium was a brilliant facility for football and head and shoulders above the abomination that is Met Life Stadium.

We began to tailgate in the early ‘80s and although the cast of characters has changed and evolved, the energy, team loyalty and our joy has been an enormous factor for many of us to continue attending games. Even in bad years we persist. Few summer soldiers in this group. We persevere through the heat of September, the great football weather of October and most of November, but also in the rains of late fall and that hawk that blasts cold Canadian wind through the Meadowlands with a vengeance in December and, God willing, during the playoffs.

To be a fan also means struggling to return home. For reasons, too numerous to enumerate, the options available to cross the Hudson River have been reduced to only the George Washington Bridge. Traffic is a nightmare just to reach the bridge where we only face several bad alternatives to cross the Bronx and make our way to Long Island. At seventy-four, I concede my alpha male role as driver to Joe M, my long-time mate, contrarian and resident cardiologist.

Since 1990, my son and I have enjoyed multiple out-of-town trips. We have been to the homes of the Bills, Patriots, Steelers, Bengals, Bears, Packers, Buccaneers, Dolphins, Saints, Cardinals, Rams, Chiefs, Cowboys, Texans, Seahawks, Forty-Niners and Chargers.

My personal favorite was visiting Lambeau Field, the NFL’s version of Mecca. This trip was made special by including my two oldest grandsons, Drew and Matt.

The worst experience was in San Diego. We were a group of ten. Unfortunately, most of us became involved in a short-lived altercation with local Charger fans. (Two of our mates were absent having left to make a pit stop.) Security guards broke it up with the aid of a San Diego patrolman. It appeared we were going to get the worse of the blame when our two mates, Tom C. and James B. re-appeared not knowing what had happened. “Seeing them, I exclaimed to the cop: “Wait, wait, my attorney is here.” (James B.)

James spoke to the policeman then came over to me and said: “He is willing to let us go if we let him escort us out of the stadium right now.”

Aware of our peril, I announced to the group: “On the advice of counsel, we are going to get the f*** out of here right now.”

As we exited each one of us thanked the officer and shook his hand.