John Delach

Part 3: Kula Lumpur, Paris and Home

Our early Saturday morning flight to Kula Lumpur on a Philippines Airlines 727 was uneventful as was checking into the KL Hilton. We waited in the lounge to be delivered into the dubious care of Champagne Tony D, Paul’s successor as station chief in KL. Tony was another professional Brit ex-pat who had previously spent time in Hong Kong and Seoul, South Korea. But, unlike Paul who maintained his colonial aloofness and distanced local culture, Tony prided himself on his assimilation. In addition, he was certifiably insane. Paul never drove totally depending on Manu, his chauffer and favorite whipping boy. (Little did Paul realize that Manu, a wise Indian national, kept track of all of his hours including waiting time, which he faithfully submitted to the company. Over time, this made him one of the best paid employees in our KL office. Not only that, Manu used all of that time waiting for Paul to study local real estate where he made several killings.)

Manu’s earnings declined appreciably under Tony who used him sparingly preferring to chauffer himself most of the time. He fetched us from the hotel Sunday morning for a tour of the countryside, sacred caves, the jungle and scenic overlooks. Our tour included an impromptu stop at a roadside stand to sample a vendor’s coconut juice. Tony picked a dirty stand on a dirty road where he eagerly selected a coconut. The local vendor retrieved his machete from the mud, rubbed it with a dirty rag sliced and chopped a hole into the top of the nut. He extracted three opaque colored glasses that he swished with water that failed to alter their suitability. Tony did the honors and poured the juice. Then he offered a toast “cheers” and downed his share. Alan returned his glass to the stand while I poured mine onto the ground. Unabashed, Tony beckoned us back to his car and continued to drive around like a mad man.

We did have dinner at his home and his wife, Jan, a lovely lady who served an excellent meal. Anchor, the local beer, wasn’t bad either. Tony led the conversation telling us the glories of his previous posting in Korea. At one point he asked Alan, “Have you ever been to Korea?”

“No, no, the closest I got was Japan.”

Blithely ignorant that this happened in 1952, Tony continued: “Oh, dear Alan, what a shame. You really should have pressed on to Korea.”

Alan shook his head, “Tony, I don’t think so, when I was in Japan, people were doing their best to kill each other in Korea.”

We spent three days at morning meetings, lunches, afternoon meetings and dinners, a schedule not unusual for road shows back then. The lowlight was a presentation that Alan was asked to make to some association of junior insurance people on the subject of marine claims. Not an uplifting topic to begin with, the presentation was scheduled for after lunch on a hot afternoon in a room that was better suited for a three lane bowling alley. Alan’s audience was a sea of young Chinese and Malaysian guys and gals all dressed in white tops and dark pants or skirts. The awful audio quality in the room was compounded by Alan’s low gravely voice. The result was a disaster that couldn’t end quickly enough. Thankfully, there weren’t any questions.

Other than that we broke even and got out of KL without further incident. We flew first class on an MAS, (Malaysian Air Systems), 747 that left KL at 11 PM. We both slept most of the way to a scheduled stop in Dubai and I didn’t even leave the aircraft to wander the terminal during our layover. The trip from there to Paris was livelier and I realized that the Malaysian air hostesses were playing a game to see how much we could drink. Alan was drinking Scotch and water and his drinks turned progressively darker and darker as the flight progressed. I was drinking vodka so there wasn’t much they could do to me that I couldn’t detect.

We did have a scary moment over the Alps shortly after it became light. Sitting by the window, I first saw a dot straight out from our flight. As it grew, I recognized it to be an aircraft flying perpendicular toward us. It seemed to be at the same altitude and I quickly said, “Alan, look, this is going to be close.” With that, the jet was above us and gone. But I can report, I was able to tell it was a Swiss Air DC-10, Registration Number SW 22941, the pilot had blue eyes and his name tag was Hans Serbil!

When we arrived in Paris later that morning, the giggling stewardesses looked at us in awe and said, “You two can really drink!”

A cold, wet day greeted us on our arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Neither Alan nor I had ever been to the City of Lights before and the only reason we stopped there was to break the journey. This concept had seemed like a good idea when I was putting the trip together; to have a rest stop along the way, but reality demonstrated that such breaks just provided additional opportunities to get in trouble…and so it goes.

After recovering our grips, we made our way to a taxi stand where I showed the dispatcher the name of our hotel together with an appropriate tip. Even so I was surprised by his efficiency in procuring the taxi for us and dispatching the driver to our destination, Hotel George V. Being rookie travelers, neither of us had a clue that we were booked into one of the finest Paris hotels.  We arrived too early to check into our rooms so we dropped off our bags and made our way onto Parisian streets.  We walked along the Seine, to the Isle de la Cite peaked into Notre Dame de Paris and enjoyed a light lunch at a local bistro before returning to George V where we both enjoyed marvelous naps before readying ourselves for an early dinner and a night to sample the touristy things first-time visitors do in Paris.

We picked one of those restaurants that caters to unsophisticated diners by using menus with photographs of the food. For all I know the bouef et pomme frites I ordered may have been horse meat. Ordering a drink was easier. I looked at an ad posted on the wall, raised my hand to my mouth imitating a drinking motion and said, “Becks.”

Our first stop was the Moulin Rouge for their early show then on to Le Crazy Horse Saloon for their cabaret performance. Good clean touristy fun, we were home before midnight, had one or two at the bar for the ditch then off to bed. One last 747 the next day, an uneventful and, needless to say, a quiet flight home to JFK on TWA.

I don’t exactly recall how long it took to recover but it countered the old saying that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I can now add, “Not always.”

Part Two: Manila

Manila was insane. Traffic was a chaotic choreography that, before it was politically incorrect, we’d refer to as a “Chinese fire drill!” Local jitneys, called Jeepneys, ruled the roads traversing vague routes that locals understood, but were indecipherable to rookies like us. We arrived Thursday morning for a stay of two days and nights. The Hilton was our base and Paul C, our station chief in Manila was our guide. I first met Paul when he ran the office in KL. A middle-aged Brit professional ex-pat, Paul enjoyed the good life mostly operating out of the Anglo-American-European restricted men’s clubs.

Paul had his driver pick us up at the hotel later that morning and take us directly to his shirt maker who outfitted us in Barong Tagalong shirts. Made of light-weight, local fibers, they are accepted as proper business dress designed to be worn outside over a tee shirt without a jacket or tie to deal with the tropical heat. Then we were off on a tour of clubs, lunch and a short visit to his office so he could show it off and make note that this was an official visit. Cocktails at one of Paul’s favorite clubs proceeded a relatively early dinner allowing Alan and I to crawl back to the Hilton for a decent night’s sleep.

Friday was more of the same. Prior to the trip, I had hoped to visit the battlefields on Bataan and Corregidor, but reality proved both to be too far away from the city for a day trip. Paul did introduce us to a couple of his clients, but we met more of his ex-pat buddies than we did clients that day.

Paul hosted cocktails in his personal regal digs, then it was off to dinner followed by more clubs until we ultimately found ourselves back at the Hilton in the early morning hours. I recall a worker waxing the floors when we arrived. “Alan,” I said, “We’re screwed if we go to bed. Our flight to KL is at seven and it’s almost three. Let’s go up, pack and come back down. We’ll grab some shut eye at the airport.”

By 4 AM, we were checked out and on our way to the airport. Manila, without Jeepneys  allowed us to reach the airport in record time. We quickly settled in at the departure lounge for what we hoped would be quiet time.

Unbelievably, we found an open bar where I ordered us Bloody Marys. Alan and I were quietly resting on a faux-leather sofa nursing our drinks when, next we knew, there came this clatter of hoofs roaring down a near-by stairs like an imitation of Fred Astaire dancing his way to Ginger Rodgers. We watched the chap responsible for this commotion dance by and greeted him with what I considered an appropriate greeting of, “F— you!”

My obscenity didn’t stop him; it only redirected him toward us. He saw our drinks, went to the bar, grabbed a Bloody Mary, headed back to us, sat down, let us know he was an Aussie and, unimpeded, proceeded to tell us his story:

“Mates, let me tell you about the week I just had. I came up here on what I expected to be a hell of a trip. I was so anxious that I set aside the entire week to resolve the problems I’d encounter. But unbelievably, I pulled off the deal before lunch time on the morning of the first day!

“I couldn’t believe this miracle so after a celebratory lunch, I returned to my hotel where I had myself pampered that afternoon in their spa. I had a light dinner then headed to an upscale club to celebrate before checking out and heading home the next day. Ah, but I fell into the company of a beautiful American woman who took me back to her place and proceeded to f— my brains out!

“The next morning she insisted that I check out of my hotel and move in with her for the remainder of my stay. Not only was she a thoroughbred in bed, she was socially well connected. She took me to the race track, cocaine parties at her clubs, top shelf dining, dancing and drinking.”

Then he stopped, took a sip of his drink, shook his head and said, “It was the most incredible week of my life.”

“Where are you going now?” I asked.

“Why to KL,” he replied, “I’m meeting my wife and kids. We’re going to a Club Med for holiday. Well, good day mates, I’m off.”

With that, he disappeared into the terminal. The two of us sat there absorbing this encounter. “Alan,” I asked, “Do you realize what just happened here?”

Alan shook his head. “Alan, we were that bastard’s window of opportunity. We are two innocent bystanders to whom he could brag before he met his wife. Otherwise, he’d never be certain if what happened was real. Now he can relive it and know it was real.”

Part One: Journey To the Far East

Alan and I sent the first post card to his boss, Doug Adams, during our layover at O’Hare International Airport. The front had a skyline shot of Chicago and on the back I printed:

Hi Doug,

This place is nice and the girls are great.

John & Al.

This would be the identical message I’d put on post cards that we’d mail to him from Tokyo, Manila, Kula Lumpur and Paris.

We planned this trip in the late winter of 1983 to visit an oil company client in Malaysia. The outbound flight was the brain child of my buddy, Mike Scott, who discovered an ad in the Wall Street Journal for a special fare for first class travel on Northwest Airlines on their route between New York and Manila. “Hopie,” (then my nickname at work,) “look at this crazy cheap price for your trip to K.L.” (Kula Lumpur, Malaysia.)

Mike was right; Northwest’s price for a first class ticket to the Far East was less than business class on all other airlines. Better yet, it also put us in first class for all of the other legs of our journey: Manila to KL, KL to Paris and Paris to JFK. The bad news I discovered the flight was via Dulles in DC, O’Hare and Tokyo’s Narita Airport; a total flying time of 23 hours!

Somehow, I convinced Alan that this could be a blast and being 39, I considered myself young enough and eager enough to believe it would be fun. The 747 left JFK about 9 AM and the first two legs to DC and Chicago were uneventful. Our accommodations were in the upper cabin where we found nine of the largest and most luxurious seats we had flown in arranged three across in three rows. We were seated in Row 1, Seats A and B. Our defacto private nine-passenger cabin remained exclusively ours during these first two legs. I cannot describe what the seating was like in the rest of this jet as I never ventured below except to deplane during layovers. Service was attentive, Bloody Marys, etc. before take-off and in flight; though the flight attendant let us know that her crew was deplaning in Chicago. We did notice one thing on the airplane that seemed unusual. On the bulkhead in front of our seats were three metal stanchions arranged like the letter “L”. Neither one of us could imagine what purpose they served.

A few other travelers joined us at O’Hare but several seats remained vacant. The purpose of those mysterious stanchions became apparent once we reached cruising altitude out of Chicago and in-flight service began. A flight attendant climbed the spiral staircase from the main cabin carrying pieces of metal and fiberglass and went to work. She fitted a “u” shaped metal leg into the two stanchions one on top of the other and the bottom and a straight metal leg into the third. Then she placed a fiberglass table onto the top of the u brace and placed the top of the other leg on an angle into the bottom of the table. By Jove, she had built a bar and then this angel proceeded to stock it with spirits, wine, ice and mixers. She had our complete and undivided attention. Satisfied with her effort, this extraordinary woman turned around and addressed her charges: “Tell me what you are drinking gents. I’ll make you each your first drink but from then on it is strictly self-service.

I wanted to ask her if this was heaven but I was afraid she’d reply, “No, but we’re flying over Iowa.” Compounding this experience of being a kid in a candy store, the fourteen-hour flight to Japan had left O’Hare about 11 AM so we’d be traveling during the day most of the flight meaning sleep wasn’t an option. Add to that the excitement of making this trip and I was still running on adrenaline when we deplaned in Narita 14 hours later for the layover.

I recall that the first class lounge was outside the main terminal meaning Northwest had to issue us “shore passes” allowing us to clear Customs and Immigration. Not much to report about the stay. We bought the post card and a stamp and found a mail box to post it. But I do recall teaching a group of Japanese businessmen a mathematical card trick that my colleague, Lisa had taught me. Called, “The Sundance Kid” using a prepared deck, I dealt four fellows and Alan each a hand. When they turned over their cards, each of them had a full house. But, I had also dealt a straight flush to myself. They were astounded.

I “crashed” as soon as I re-boarded the 747 and slept for the full six-hour flight to Manila.

Baggage claim in Manila, I think Alan tried to tell me about things that happened on the flight from Tokyo, but I explained I missed all of it. In 1983, the suitcase of choice for people flying into Manila was the corrugated box and I do not believe I had seen that much cardboard since I quit being a cargo surveyor. I deemed cardboard boxes to be the national luggage of the Philippines!

I wrote this in April, 2012 but it was never published.

Dark, dank, dirty inhabited by two-bit hustlers, hangers-on, seedy boys and men of ill repute; the New Ridgewood Grove was a grimy, old-time pool hall located on St. Nicholas Avenue on the Brooklyn – Queens border. It smelled of smoke, old beer and decay. The glaring lights above each table illuminated only the green felt surface and the balls in play giving each table the appearance of being a bright island in a dark sea that consumed the players as they moved about to make their shots. Only their cue sticks and their fingers guiding the motion of the sticks were visible.

The pool room was located on the second floor of what had once been a fight arena, a place like Sunnyside Gardens and St. Nicholas Arena where club fighters, newbie’s and has-beens battled in obscurity. But overexposure to television during the 1950s killed this bottom end of the boxing trade and the arena gave way to a super market. The pool hall remained run by a just plain nasty manager who lived in a caged enclosure, took in the money and ordered the players about. A rummy bartender served up cheap rye whiskey, brands like Philadelphia, Wilson and Imperial or Pabst Blue Ribbon beer in cold, brown, twelve ounce bottles.

Warm, charming, friendly? Hardly! Not this joint. Not a woman in sight and not a good place to find yourself alone or separated from your pack. But it was a thing to do on another dateless Saturday night, an alternative to a movie, bowling or the neighborhood bar. My friends and I, war babies all, were newly minted legal drinkers having reached the age of 18. We proudly carried Selective Service Cards, not to prove that we had registered for the draft, but as our passport to the drinking man’s world, a valid ID that let us in.

We knew our place, avoided the prime tables and accepted the older ones crowded together in the corners of the room, the ones with rough, worn and stained felt surfaces. The closeness of the tables forced us to patiently wait our turn while players at the table jammed next to ours took their shots. When it was your turn to buy four beers for the pack, the other three would keep a watchful eye until the gofer safely retuned.

On that fateful Saturday night, March 24, 1962, one of the guys returned from a beer mission to report on the progress of the third in a series of prizefights between Emile Griffin and Benny “the Kid” Paret for the welterweight title. The fight was broadcast on the black and white TV mounted on a wooden platform over the bar. I don’t remember much of the fight, but as the rounds progressed more and more players put down their cue sticks and made their way toward the bar to watch the fight unfold. We joined the men remaining a respectful distance from the center of attention. I do remember the twelfth and final round when Griffin beat the Kid senseless while the referee, Ruby Goldstein, did nothing to stop it. Trapping his prey in a corner of the ring, Griffin hit the defenseless Kid in the head again and again. Why didn’t the Kid go down? Why didn’t Goldstein stop the fight? Why? By the time the Kid’s manager threw in the towel, it was too late.

All noise in the pool hall ceased as the Kid lay motionless on the canvas. The broadcast didn’t show the attendants sliding a stretcher into the ring or Paret being carried away. The pool hall crowd sort of stood around waiting for something to happen and we felt their mood darken. Without speaking, we knew the night was over and it was time to go. We downed our beers and left. The next day, the papers reported that the Kid was in a coma. He died in the hospital ten days later.

Timing is everything and mine couldn’t be worse. Modern surveillance strikes again. Thanks to an Atlantic City elevator camera, I inadvertently became part of Roger Goodell and his lieutenant’s three-ring circus at 345 Park Avenue. I joined the party watching the protectors of the NFL shield commit one PR blunder after another attracting the an army of wags, talking heads, scribes, self-serving special interest groups and well-compromised politicians, all going after Goodell’s $44 million ass. In the process, these fools, jokers and scalawags managed to waylay my little piece. A pox on them all, but I will persevere!

In Part 1, we left off with the creation of the greatest show on earth, the super bowl.

When the NFL and AFL merged creating the super bowl, television money flowed into the league’s coffers like never before. But wait a minute, wait a minute, “Ladies and gentlemen, kids of all ages; you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Sure revenue soared but this was still chicken feed. It took the growth of cable and the NFL playing one network against the other to change the revenue landscape. The networks didn’t like it and CBS was the first to shout, “No mas!”

No mas? Not exactly. Adios CBS. Those games went to FOX, then the new kid on the block, at a price here-to-fore unimaginable. And what happened to CBS? Why their Sunday night ratings went straight down the toilet bowl; without pro football as a lead in they had nothing.

Next time the contracts came up, CBS bit down hard and outbid NBC for its games. Now, guess what happened to NBC’s Sunday night ratings; crapper city!

Finally the Commissioners, first in the guise of Paul Tagliabue and then Roger Goodell, decreed that each penitent would be able to contribute to the league as the commissioner saw fit. And so it came to pass that Fox was granted the National Football Conference (NFC) and, CBS, the American Football Conference (AFC). NBC earned the rights for Sunday nights, deemed “Football Night in America” and ESPN (representing their parent, ABC) was granted Monday Night Football.

“Further,” spoketh the Commissioner, “From this day forth, I shall establish a new and separate entity that I will use to keep you bastards honest and I shall call it ‘The NFL Network.’ And it shall take games away from thee as I see fit and you will like it.”

And the networks all replied “Amen,” because the Commissioner was great and his product was the bounty that they needed and he alone spread it across the wave lengths.

That is why the networks are shelling out $27.9 billion to broadcast the NFL games for eight years. But Goodell is on a quest to double the league’s revenue by 2027. As a first step, he signed up an eager CBS to co-broadcast Thursday night games for one year with the NFL Network at no cost to the league increasing his network’s revenue while CBS pays a price to broadcast these additional games. Hello, first he took the games away from the networks and now he sells them back? W.T.F!

Going forward, he plans to beat down the opposition from players and fans to add two more games to the regular season, increase the number of playoff games and take the NFL world-wide. Step right up…

And NFL owners love it. Witness the recent bidding war to buy the Buffalo Bills. Forbes had estimated the worth of the Bills at $875 million. The team sold for $1.2 billion!

But what of the fate of the unwashed, loyal season ticket holders and other fans who attend the games in person? Remember when every game began at 1 PM. Ah, those 1 PM starts, cool crisp autumn afternoons; the kind of day when you sniffed the air and declared it to be “Football weather?” Fuhgeddabouit!

The regular season can end on December 31^st and most of the playoff games that occupy three weekends in January start in late afternoon or at night.

Still, television viewer ship continues to soar, as fans stay home to enjoy a plethora of games, in the warmth and comfort of their living rooms with a toilet nearby. They consume their own food and beer while viewing games on their HD and 3D televisions or watch that most wonderful of things, the NFL Red Zone, that shows every scoring play from every game.

How do you lure them to cold parking lots and stadiums where Canadian Clippers roar starting in late November? Why should they suffer traffic jams, $120 tickets, $20 parking and outrageous concession prices? Answer, the NFL is planning an electronic revolution, closed circuit apps, real time information on games in progress, fantasy league statistics and all kinds of interactive features. Just bring your smart phone and tablet and you too can be part of the elite.

What happened to watching the game? Me thinks there is a snake oil salesman in the house. Picture if you will the faithful flocking to Met Life Stadium in late December and January when that cold-cold zephyr we call the Hawk  makes his rounds, unimpeded, roars into the parking lots and the stands. Feet and ears go first so how will you go interactive with frozen fingers? Ah, welcome to the new NFL Experience.

But in the end, all of this is not what keeps the commish awake at night. A new demographic force is at work, a force that may end the absolute dominance that the NFL is in our culture. Trust me, it is not soccer, the long-time Progressives’ solution to the violence of football. Neither is it some alternative half-ass winter sport.

It is not the so-called Ray Rice cover-up, other domestic violence issues, perceived bullying, head injuries, thugs on and off the field, the “Redskins” name or homophobia. All of these are solvable distractions that are social media issues, not fan issues.

It has been said that professional football and television have the perfect marriage. But the pigskin has been on top of its electronic mate so long that TV is feeling blue. What if a sexy new kid arrived with growing revenue?  Could TV begin to lose its attraction for the game as it snuggles more closely to this latest sophisticated electronic lover? Oh, my, oh my. As it is, there is this curious phenomenon catching fire, “the E-sports generation.”

Witness, this from the NY Times: “Having already upended the entertainment world, global revenue for (electronic) games is $20 billion higher than the music industry and is chasing the movie business…” The same article reported that 73,000 “gamers”   attended a four-day tournament in Katowice, Poland in March. Last October, 8.5 million gamers streamed the championship of a tournament called, League of Legends. This is more people than watched the 2014 Stanley Cup Finals. Granted, E-sports will have its growing pains and setbacks as gaming manufactures, systems and venues come and go. Sounds like professional football back in the day.

But, if TV executives believe gamers are the future, they will swarm to their sport and shower them with undivided attention. The future of the spigot that feeds the NFL’s growth will be reduced to a trickle forcing football to retrench, rejoining the ranks of baseball, basketball and hockey as just another game. And TV will think nothing more about the NFL than they did about other sports they cast by the wayside, sports like professional wrestling, boxing and horse racing.

O.M.G. could this be the end of Western Civilization as we know it is? Naw, but at least they won’t have Goodell to kick around any longer.

The big, bad monster of the entertainment /sports complex is in trouble. O.M.G. THE NFL IS IN TROUBLE! Now I know you are thinking, Roger Goodell and the league’s hierarchy have been considerably less than stellar in their investigation and adjudication of Ray Rice. While the violent aspects of the game especially concussions are putting the league under the glare of an unfriendly spotlight, such violence off the field has been caught in the same glare. It is not the happiest of times at the NFL. The commish is on his heals defending his actions, lawsuits abound forcing the League to dig a bit into their coffers. Not only that, but even the Redskins’ name is an issue.

But frankly that is not what is troubling Goodell & Co. at their well-appointed Park Avenue HQ. What has them nervous and looking over their shoulders is: attendance is declining. “Not possible!” you say. Well, Batman, you are wrong. So sayeth the Wall Street Journal. Quote the WSJ: “Average game attendance is down 4.5% since 2007, while broadcast and online viewer ship is soaring.”

“Down only 4.5%; HA!” you exclaim, “B.F.D.”

Did you know Bob and Ray, that teams are driving down their own fan base? “No,” well take my beloved New York Football Giants as Exhibit 1. To finance Met Life Stadium, a.k.a., the new joint, they instituted personal seat licenses (PSLs) to the tune of from $2,000 to $10,000 per seat depending on its location. They raised a boat load of money, but in the process, the waiting list of fans hoping to acquire season tickets went from a reputed 60,000 to 0.0. Wait, there’s more; there can never again be a waiting list for tickets as the Giants no longer control who owns these season tickets. Each PSL owner controls his or her ticket and he or she can sell the PSL to whomever they please at a price equal to what the traffic will bear. Oops, I believe this is what is called an unintended consequence of a deliberate act, this time teams issuing PSLs. The Giants may sellout most games at Met Life Stadium but they no longer enjoy a 100% season ticket fan base!

How bad is this attendance thing? The WSJ article reported that it has forced the NFL to amend its most sacred of sacred policies, the TV blackout. Once the blackout rule was impenetrable: THOU SHALL NOT BROADCAST ANY GAMES TO THE HOME TEAM’S AREA. This rule was so inflexible that in the early 1960s during the Giants’ glory years that starred Y.A. Tittle, Frank Gifford and the great defense led by Sam Huff, fans without tickets wishing to see the games scrambled to motels on eastern Long Island or central Connecticut to pick up the CBS broadcast coming out of Hartford. Even the sold-out1962 NFL Championship game was blacked out in the Metropolitan area.

It was the Giants who were instrumental for the league finally amending this policy. In 1972, at about the same time that the City of New York agreed to re-build Yankee Stadium, Wellington Mara, the Giants owner announced that the Maramen would be moving across the Hudson to a new stadium to be built in that New Jersey swamp euphemistically called The Meadowlands. But it would not be ready until 1976 and his honor, John V. Lindsay, in a hissy fit, not only kicked the Giants out of Yankee Stadium as soon as the 1973 baseball season ended, he banned them from playing in the City owned Shea Stadium. Like vagabonds, Big Blue sought a temporary facility and finally settled into that dump in New Haven otherwise known as the Yale Bowl. New Haven, as far away as it seems to be from the Big Apple, remained inside the NYC blackout zone and all “home” games would be banned for the entire Metropolitan area. But the Commissioner of the NFL, Alvin “Pete” Rozelle rendered a one-time special exemption allowing the broadcast to go forth thereby pleasing most fans although depriving salivating Long Island and Connecticut motel owners of their anticipated new-found weekend income.

But one fan was displeased. Richard Millhouse Nixon, the 37^th President of the United States cried “Foul!” “No you don’t, Commissioner Rozelle, I’m president of all of the cities and states and if you can do this for New York, you can do it nationwide.”

Congress was ready to act, rumblings of anti-trust actions were heard so a deal was made and the new blackout rule went into effect: Television broadcasts could be shown in the home town team’s area so long as the game was sold out at least 72 hours in advance of the game.

And so peace reigned across the land and the airwaves for forty years from 1972 to 2012. But now the Journal’s piece noted that in recognition of the decline in attendance, this most sacred of rules has been gutted. Instead of a hard and fast rule, the home team now decides at what point enough seats have been sold to televise the game subject to a minimum number of 85% of the seats being sold. Now 85% seems like a high enough number, but it begs the question, “Is this a moving target, a number that will be adjusted downward as needed?”

The point of all of this is the need for the NFL to broadcast as many games as possible to as many places as possible to satisfy the TV gods. And why is this so? Simply put CBS, NBC, ESPN and Direct TV (not to mention the NFL Network) are contractually obligated to pay the league $27.9 billon between 2014 and 2022: Say “Hallelujah, television is good, television is great; all hail television!”

Hell, aside from Uncle’s spending habits twenty seven point nine billion dollars is a lot of money!

It is time to ask the musical question: “How in hell did the NFL coerce the networks to ante up such an insane price of admission?”

It began in the 1950s when Bert Bell, then the commissioner of the NFL, began the march into its modern era by signing the first league contracts to televise games on the Dumont Television Network. (Memo to Bob Sylvester: You know you’re (getting?) old if you can remember the Dumont Network.)

Football and television were a natural fit and the game blossomed in viewer ship with the playing of the 1958 NFL Championship Game between the Giants and the Baltimore Colts a game the Colts won in overtime. Still referred to as “The Greatest Game Ever Played,” it gave the NFL Lift-off. From then on, the NFL was blessed with continued though modest growth in TV revenue until it truly blossomed with the merger of the NFL with the American Football League (AFL) and the creation of the greatest show on earth: THE SUPER BOWL.

(To be continued)

Once upon a time the drinking age in New York State was 18-years of age whereas the voting age was 21. Now the voting age is 18 and the drinking age is 21 but the age in which you can be killed while serving in the military remains 18; go figure.

In my youth, we could drink and die at 18. I grew up in an ideal location for drinking, Ridgewood, Queens populated by a German-American majority who brought with them the old customs that included neighborhood bars and grills. In Ridgewood this meant that practically every other corner was home to a saloon. (We had small neighborhoods.)

My house of sin was Artie’s, a watering hole located on Grandview Avenue between Harmon Street and Greene Avenue. (For the record, Harmon and Greene like other thoroughfares in Ridgewood were named after Revolutionary War heroes.)  Artie’s was a typical Ridgewood saloon with one important distinction for a neophyte under-age kid looking for a beer buzz. Artie, himself, made it known that he would never serve anyone under 18 unless they were quiet, behaved and, most importantly, they were accompanied by money.

We were brought up on beer and beer was all that we sought. Artie had all of the Brooklyn beers on tap, Piel’s, Reingold and Schaefer plus Ballantine. Beer cost fifteen cents for a seven ounce glass of one of these local brews. Every fourth round was on the house, but bar etiquette required that customer never left after a buy-back. Artie had other rules as well. We were responsible for other non-legals we brought in, never bother the regulars, never sit at the bar until we were legal, never sit at the owner’s table unless invited to do so and don’t violate any other rules; real or implicit. Transgressions resulted in expulsion but the guilty would be re-admitted the following Friday night so long as he was still accompanied by money.

There was a prank regulars would play on the unsuspecting. I admit I fell for it: “Hey kid, Ace, (the bartender on duty) is short of pennies. Can you pay for your next beer in pennies?”

I obliged only to watch Ace scoop them up and scatter them behind the bar making me the fool. Part of my education, I learned and at least it didn’t happen when Artie was tending the bar.

Friday nights were special. Ginny, Artie’s wife, made what they called, “bar pies,” small pizzas cut into four slices that were out of this world. If our stamina held up to face the 4 AM closing hour, Artie was not adverse to arming us with cardboard travelers that my mates and I carried to nearby Grover Cleveland Park where we could finish our fantasy while we barked at the moon and solved earth’s problems.

Once legal we were welcomed to sit at the bar as citizens and I did spend many Friday nights and Saturday afternoons in this environment. This afforded me a distinct insight into the hierarchy of the hooch Artie served to his faithful. Behind the bar were three shelves with a mirrored backdrop. There were remote areas for gin, vodka, cordials and the like, but most of the shelves were devoted to whiskey. On the top shelf were the real whiskies, the Canadians; Seagram’s Seven, Seagram’s V.O. and Canadian Club.

(No Scotch, no bourbon, it would be further into the 1960s when Artie introduced a first Scotch, J&B and Kentucky’s Old Grand-Dad, both to culled out spaces on the top shelf.)

Below were an assortment of what we then were told were Rye Whiskeys that I now know as “American Blended Whiskeys.” Here is a definition of American Blended Whiskey: “They’re a blend of cheap whiskey with grain alcohol which is then watered down for bottling.”

On the middle shelf at Artie’s were Schenely, Four Roses, Three Feathers and Fleischmann’s. Down on the bottom; first choice of serial drinkers; Wilson, Philadelphia and Imperial. The bottom three were usually consumed as a “bat and a ball,” “a depth charge” or, simply, “shot and a short round.” Each involved a shot of booze with a 5 oz. beer chaser.

Four Roses should not be confused with Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey of the same name that has been extremely popular in Europe and Asia for many years and has a growing fan base here. Sold to Seagram’s in 1941, this American Blended had the best reputation of the lot.

Wilson has been lost to history except for a photograph I found in the Duke University online library taken along US-1 (The Lincoln Highway) in Rahway, NJ in 1940. In the background is a billboard that has a raised bottle of whiskey and the copy: “No Better Whiskey in Any Bottle – Wilson Whiskey, ‘That’s All!”

Here are some reviews of the others that continue to exist:

Schenley from Schenley Distillers, Owensboro, KY / Bardstown, KY / Atlanta, GA. Tag Line: “America’s Finest.” “I detect hints of acetone and notes of toluene as well as other industrial solvents. I have never put anything this terrible in my mouth. ‘America’s Finest’ Paint Thinner, maybe.

Philadelphia Blended Whisky (sic) from The Medley Company, Bardstown, KY. Tag Line:”The Heritage Whisky.” “Mommy, it hurts when I swallow. This dreck is insulting to everyone’s heritage. According to the label this stuff is ‘a premium quality blended whisky famous since 1894 for its smooth taste and incomparable flavor.’ Drano also has an incomparable flavour.”(sic)

Imperial American Whiskey from Barton Brands, Bardstown, KY. Tag Line: “An Exceptional American Whiskey” The Urban Dictionary: “A cheap rotgut, bottom shelf booze that drunks love.” Or this: “Imperial is a whiskey one drinks to get drunk provided one can drink enough of it.”

Thank god we only drank beer back in the day and I never said the Ridgewood of my youth was a classy place.

Kodachrome

They give us those nice bright colors

They give us the greens of summers

Make you think all the world’s a sunny day

I got a Nikon camera

I love to take a photograph

So mama don’t take my Kodachrome away.

Kodachrome lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

Songwriter: Paul Simon

Kodachrome, Eastman Kodak’s non-substantive color reversal film. Born 1935 – Died 2009. It produced the sharpest, brightest, clearest slides, films and photographs and in the hands of a skilled photographer or film maker, brilliant shots and scenes that forced us stop and take notice. Gone, a casualty first of digital photography and finally of cell phone cameras. Now the name is remembered by most as the title of this song replaced in talk about photography with a new and crass expression, “the selfie.”

Paul Simon’s Nikon camera and paper photographs are also on the list of endangered species extinguished by smart phones, tablets, text messages, etc. and sites like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblir, Flickr and other social media destinations. The SLR is being relegated to the small ranks of serious photographers and professionals. The camera of record is the cell phone where an endless stream of junk photographs and out of focus videos fill whatever the space is where the internet exists covering such riveting, moving and important subjects as, what I ate for supper, how I am dressed, look at my fabulous vacation, my children doing disgusting things and cute pet tricks.

And that’s just some of the benign uses. Humans behaving badly take pains to utilize their devices to record their transgressions. They don’t do this secretly or covertly; no, no they share it enthusiastically. Any thing of note that happens, a fist fight, accidents, crimes, natural disasters; people are seemingly poised to shoot the scene usually poorly. But this doesn’t prevent the media from running with it. These scenes will viewed on countless outlets where talking heads guide us through what is otherwise unrecognizable. Beyond television, many watch on the internet, podcasts and other social media locations which will take hits in the millions.

This junk photography and free electronic distribution has also wrecked and continues to wreck print media. Once upon a time, the various entities within Time – Life preened about the quality of their photography particularly Life Magazine and Sports Illustrated. In the 1970s, Sports Illustrated’s advertising slogan was, “We Are Sports in Print” and this slogan would appear under dramatic action photos on billboards and posters mounted on buses and train stations. I remember one in particular photo taken at the 1976 World’s Series. Taken from behind first base, it shows Mickey Rivers in the air as he is starting his attempt to slide into second. The baseball is passing to the left of his head on its way to Joe Morgan who strattles the bag, glove extended waiting to make the tag. Definitely Kodachrome; now that was a photograph. We Are Sports in Print indeed.

Now Life is long gone except for special editions, Time is a shadow of itself as is Sports Illustrated. The entire organization is in doubt. As David Carr wrote in his piece, “Print Is Down, and Now Out” in the August 10 edition of the NY Times, “The people at the magazine business Time Inc. were not so lucky, burdened with $1.3 billion in debt when Time Warner threw them from the boat. Swim for your life, executives at the company seemed to be saying, and by the way, here’s an anchor to help you on your way.”

Regional newspapers are on life support and successful media giants are casting out their print divisions. Time is not alone. Rupert Murdock set the Wall Street Journal adrift. Granted, he did it with a generous infusion of almost $2 billion but it begs the question, how long will it take to burn through that?

Gannet has cast aside USA Today. Good grief, does this mean that McPaper’s days are numbered?

Dark days ahead according to Mr. Carr:

“Newspapers will be working without a net as undiversified pure-play print companies. Most are being cut loose after all the low-hanging fruit like valuable digital properties have been plucked. Many newspapers have sold their real estate, where much of the value was stored.

“More ominous, most print and magazine assets have already been cut to the bone in terms of staffing. Reducing costs has been the only reliable source of profits as overall revenue has declined. Not much left to trim.”

It seems a brave new world is before us, one without photographs to view in albums nestled in our laps, or newspapers to fold and caress or even magazines for in depth coverage of news we already know.

As I read David Carr’s piece I wondered if he stopped to consider: “Damn, I’m writing my own obituary!”

To the average sports fan, the New York Times is the most infuriating vehicle of any existing newspaper that prides itself on sports section staffed by a dedicated stable of professional sports writers. When we try to obtain information about our favorite sport or team, the Times is woeful. Give me the New York Post, the Daily News or Newsday, please.

I don’t believe the Times’ editors are trying to murder their Sports Section although the Paper of Record does favor its Arts Section over Sports. Despite cutbacks, arts continues to stand alone seven days a week whereas sports has been subsumed into the Business Section four of those days and only stands alone on Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays. But the Times does understand the value of sports to its readers. Witness their E-edition. The index to its sections is as follows: First: Top Stories, second: Opinion, third: Sports, fourth: Arts and five: Fashion.

It is bad enough that the editors constantly try to minimize mainstream sports. For a while they actually eliminated baseball box scores until a howl of protests forced its return. Still they over-report obscure and junk sports consistently loading the pages with in-depth articles on trivial and trendy happenings (in their eyes) at the expense of decent coverage of out-of-town NFL, MLB, NBA and NHL games. And don’t get me started on that artificially hyped quarto-annual phenomenon, The World Cup. Again we went through it this spring from Brazil; soccer is the next great thing. The Times fell over themselves with their coverage. Every four years, here we go: THIS TIME IT’S FOR REAL, THIS TIME AMERICA IS READY FOR FUTBALL, FUTBALL IS AMERICA’S FUTURE; balderdash!

The latest manifestation of their editorial policy came on August 15, 2014 in a piece by Sarah Lyall: “Mini Golf as Career? She Gets Past the Obstacles.”  Ms Lyall profiled Olivia Prokopova, a 19 year-old girl from the Czech Republic who… “last year swept the sport’s three top competitions – the United States Open, the Masters and the world championships-for an unprecedented triple crown in miniature golf.”

Miniature golf! Surely, this was a put-on, a ruse, a tongue in cheek attempt at humor? I’m afraid not. Ms Lyall navigated the subject and gamely authored paragraphs like, “Olivia? There’s no fear in her,’ said Rick Alessi, 57, a municipal heavy-equipment operator from Erie, PA, who is to compete against her in the 2014 United States Open Miniature Golf Tournament…”

Or this: “Prokopova proved an elusive interviewee. She speaks only basic English, and a Russian interpreter had been provided so that Vlk, (who dat?) who speaks Czech and Russian could relay questions to her. But she tended to refer queries to her father, Jan Prokop. That added another layer of complexity because the burly, chain-smoking Prokop, who spent much of the interview talking excitedly and banging messages into his two cellphones, speaks no English at all.”

Que pasa, why is the old man’s name different and isn’t this right out of Monty Python?

Worse yet, putting it in perspective, the Times ran this article alongside  three legitimate sports articles; the first about the election of the new Commissioner of Baseball, the second, a piece about an “All-Black Team” from Chicago competing in the Little League World Series and, the third, about Tony Stewart’s accident prompting changes in Nascar rules. Results of the Mets game that night were tucked inside.

So why today, mini golf? Let’s delve deeper into what the paper that proclaims it presents, “All The News That’s Fit To Print,” didn’t see fit to print.

The organization behind this nonsense is the US ProMiniGolfAssociation, or the USPMGA. They run two of the three championships that Ms Prokopava won in 2013, the US Open and Masters. The 2014 Open took place last weekend, August 15-16, played at the Bluegrass Miniature Golf Course at Monmouth Park Racetrack in Oceanport, NJ. (If you know the history of Monmouth, you know Sonny Werblin and Leon Hess are spinning in their graves.)

Participants played nine to ten rounds in quest of a $3,500 purse for first place. In all $12,000 was awarded to the top 30 scorers. In October, the Masters will be played on two courses in South Carolina, one called the Hawaiian Rumble and the other, Pineapple Beach. Total prize money is also $12,000.

The USPMGA is serious, organized and has an extensive web site should you choose to indulge. They note in their “The World of Mini Golf” white paper that there are several thousand different balls approved for mini golf to account for all conditions and that scoring differs dependent on the different approved surfaces: Eternite, Betong and Felt.

I kid you not!

Here’s the best part; the USPMGA is a member of the World MiniGolf Sports Federation, (WMFS) and the newsletter notes, “Since October 28, 2000 the WMSF has become a Provisional member in the General Association of the International Sports Federation (GAISF) which is a big step towards becoming an Olympic Sport.”

With that the circle is complete. Mini golf may soon compete with futball and every four years the NY Times will tell us why one or the other will soon become our new national sport.

(For those keeping score, Ms Prokopova failed to repeat succumbing to Matt McCaslin.)

The buses left the hotel in Cleveland just past 2:30 on Sunday afternoon carrying about a hundred fans who had all made this journey to Ohio to witness Michael Strahan’s induction into the NFL Hall of Fame. The drivers were taking us south on Interstate 77 to Canton for the second day of the festivities. Yesterday, we visited the Hall, had a dinner and reception in a BBQ joint and watched the seemingly endless induction ceremonies that dragged on for five and one-half hours.

Today, our destination was a meaningless exhibition game between the New York Giants and Buffalo Bills to be played that night in Fawcett Stadium, a rinky-dink semi-ancient high school field. But that’s not the reason we went. Prior to delivering us to the field, the twin travel services, Big Blue and Road Crew had planned a reception and buffet diner at a Courtyard by Marriott in Canton where every fan attending would have a photo op with Mr. Strahan.

We had nine in our group, my son Michael, his two boys, Drew (14) and Matty (12), my cousin, Uncle Bob, his friends, Vinnie and Joe, my tailgate buddies, Dave and Tim and me. I had ordered white GMEN brand tee shirts for each of us before the trip. Strahan has an interest in this company and I thought he’d take notice. I had the back of each shirt customized by a local printer in the same black ink that proclaimed, GMEN, on the front:

MICHAEL

HOF

‘14

We decided that all of us who wore these shirts would have our photo taken with our former defensive end. Three hours passed between our arrival and Strahan’s during which we ate, smoozed and took advantage of the open bar. My second grandson, Matty, a natural born salesman and politician, worked his magic with Jim Fassel, the former Giants head coach who was our guest celebrity. He told Fassel how nice his 2000 NFC Championship Ring looked and the coach asked, “How’d you like to wear it for a while?”

Next we knew, Matty was sporting the ring showing it to anyone willing to look at him. It was big on his ring finger and he followed his dad’s advice to keep that finger curled up.

Meanwhile, Drew made his way to the lobby where he staked out a perch near the entrance. He carried a white-panel football made for autographs and a permanent-ink Sharpie pen. And there he waited and waited forgoing lunch or any other activities. As the time for Number 92’s arrival grew near, Matty decided to join his brother, but Drew had little use for this Johnny-come-lately and shooed Matty away. When he persisted, both his father and I shooed him away too.

But Drew’s plans were foiled as Strahan came in with four or five other people and walked straight by him without taking notice. Disappointed for the moment Drew joined us to wait for our photo while scheming how to pull off a post-photo signing.

We were lined up in numerical order based on numbered wrist bands previously issued to us. We were all in the forties and when we reached Mike, the fellow in charge, we explained that we’d all like to go together. He agreed as this also made his life easier and told us to spend a little time talking to Strahan. Our session went off well and he was enthusiastic about our shirts and amazed that my son was taller than him. We had photos taken of us facing the camera and with the back of our shirts to it.

As we left the room, both Drew and Matty lingered by the exit door. As Strahan left, Drew offered his football and open pen, but distractedly, 92 ignored it and grabbed an old visor with a Giants logo from Matty and signed the bill. YES: You read that correctly; HE IGNORED DREW AND SIGNED FOR MATTY!

Undaunted, Drew turned and joined the other fans chasing him and managed to get close. At just this point, Strahan was passing our buddy, Vinnie, who called out as he held up his hat, “Hey, Mike, would you sign this for a Vietnam vet.” (Vinnie had fought there earning three Purple Hearts.)

Drew had reached the Hall of Famer as he turned after hearing Vinnie. Instead of offering his ball for signing, Drew grabbed the hat from Vinnie, hustled back to 92 and gave it to him. Strahan took the hat from Drew, signed the bill and returned it while continuing toward the exit. Drew had had two choices, offer his ball or grab the hat from Vinnie. He chose to grab the hat but, in the process, lost his own opportunity. With that, Strahan was out the door. Drew stopped and before he could react, we all mobbed him praising him for his selfless act. All of us that is, except Michael who told his son, “Give me the ball and wait here.”

With that Michael went out to the car and chased the group down. That same fellow, Mike (in charge of the photos), told Michael, “Sorry, no more autographs.” But Michael went right by him and told Strahan, “My son gave this up so you could sign for a vet. Please sign his ball, he deserves it.”

Michael Strahan signed Drew’s ball.

The Giants won the exhibition game that night. We didn’t care; our day had already been made.