Golfing To Me Is Not Elementary

Peter Napolitano, known to many as “Produce Pete” for his televised broadcasts about fruits and vegetables, died Monday at age 80. 

I never met him. But I did meet his brother, a vice president at Morgan Stanley back in 2007. Somehow Chain Store Age convinced Napolitano’s department to sponsor a conference on the retail industry. A sponsorship cost about $100,000 net back then, a large commitment for any advertiser, especially one that previously had never targeted the retail trade.

Months before the conference, during the spring of 2007, Napolitano invited me and two of my colleagues to a charity golf tournament Morgan Stanley was sponsoring at the Rockland Country Club in Sparkill, NY. 

Now, I have never and will never be mistaken for a golfer. Not even a duffer. Here’s a story that elaborates on that reality: At one time Siemens Nixdorf was among Chain Store Age’s largest advertisers. Siemens annually sponsored special reports on technology and hired us to produce user group conferences. 

At the end of a successful conference in Lake Geneva, Wis., at a hotel that once was a Playboy resort, the Siemens national sales manager invited me to join the golf tournament he organized for the retailers at the meeting. I told him what I did with clubs could not be considered golfing. 

Don’t worry, he assured me. You’ll play in my foursome. We’ll be playing a best ball tournament, where each member of a foursome has to hit just one shot. 

Bottom line—he was a really good golfer and expected to win his own tournament (sounds very Trumpian, now that I reflect on it). Well, with me as a teammate, we didn’t win. Not even close. 

He was quite understanding and gracious on the outside, but Siemens went that afternoon from being a top advertiser to not giving us another ad for the next ten years, until he left the company. I have no doubt that was payback for my ineptitude on the course. 

End of that digression. Back to Sparkill. A highlight was playing nine holes with Aiden Quinn, the actor from the movie “Avalon” and the TV series Elementary, a takeoff on the Sherlock Holmes mysteries. As a member of the country club, Quinn served as a host and was assigned to play with several foursomes.

As much as I liked Quinn, the more exciting hook was the chance to meet several New York Giants players and coaches, including Eli Manning and Tom Coughlin, as well as athletes from other teams and WNBC-TV sportscaster Bruce Beck. 

This was the summer before the Giants won Super Bowl XLII 17-14 against the 18-0  New England Patriots. Eli was not yet a proven star quarterback. He was a lot taller and fuller than I expected. I didn’t realize he was 6’5”. Coughlin was taller as well, 6’2”. During game he would usually be seen bent over on the sidelines. Retired Pittsburgh Steeler Jerome Bettis was enormous, easily deserving of his nickname “The Bus.” Beck, on the other hand, was tiny, in the mold of Bob Costas but with broader shoulders.

Anyway, I told Quinn my favorite film of his was “Avalon.” For nine holes he chewed on a cigar and played with us. He left us right before I drove one of my better tee shots a good 150 yards, right, that is left, into a pond guarding a par-three green. By that time I had stopped counting strokes. When asked how good a golfer I am I always say I generally hit par, as long as par is about 135.  I’m good for at least that many strokes and at least five or six lost balls per round. How anyone can find this game relaxing and enjoyable is beyond me. The game is far from elementary.

Swag from the charity event included golf balls, knitted head covers for woods, towels, and a set of heavy duty poker chips in a steel case. I gave all the golfing stuff to my niece’s husband. I kept the poker chips.  

Thoughts from Facebook, Substack and My Own

Marie Graham posted on Facebook: 

“Red State Texas has 2.1M undocumented immigrants. Red State Florida has 1.6M.

“Blue State Minnesota has 130,000. 

“Don’t let anyone tell you this is about immigration. It never was.”

Also on Facebook: 

“When Jesus said ‘Love thy neighbor,’ all his neighbors were Jews.”

After The New York Times did an article on the sale of Nobel Prizes (https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/15/world/americas/nobel-peace-prize-sold-auctions.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share ), the following appeared on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/17obPV8udj/?mibextid=wwXIfr

Here’s a Substack posting I liked and agreed with, this one from Charlie Dog:

“As the Kardashians celebrate their 20th season I would like to congratulate myself for never watching a single episode.”

If the NFL wants to balance the debate on the “tush-push” quarterback sneak, the league should outlaw any gain by a quarterback pushed from behind or carried forward by a teammate, a la the nine-plus yards Buffalo Bills quarterback Josh Allen gained against Jacksonville in a recent playoff game. 

In the end, Donald Trump’s pursuit of Greenland destroyed America’s credibility and loyalty with our allies. And exposed Trump as a schoolyard bully who, as the TACO label he has earned connotes, Trump Always Chickens Out when confronted by intelligent, committed adversaries.

To what end was Trump’s fulminating over Greenland? Probably, just public recognition that our status in Greenland will be similar to what we have in Cuba for the Guantanamo Bay base and for military cemeteries for our dead in France, Germany and other lands where and when we protected the world from aggression and evil. The land will always belong to Greenlanders but on military bases and other areas designated by Trump, America will lease territory in perpetuity with the right to extract any resources, for a fee. 

So now our country may return to its regularly scheduled program of “Epstein and the Missing Files, Promised But Never Delivered.” Stay tuned for more Epstein ad nauseam until Trump comes up with another distraction—Canada? Jack Smith indictment? Another love fest get together with Putin?  

As Trump and the Trumpster Party get reacquainted with reality, it is instructive to review the 2024 election results. 

No matter how slim their margin of victory, most politicians, especially presidents, view their success as a mandate for change. 

Trump is no exception. Yes, his Electoral College number far exceeded that of Kamala Harris. But a look at gross voter totals reported by Wikipedia provides a clearer view of how the country as a whole assessed his favorability. 

Eligible voters totaled 244,666,890. Trump garnered support from 31.6% of the eligible voters; Harris slightly fewer, 30.66%. Other candidates managed 1.19%. 

More than a third of all eligible voters—36.55%, or 89,425,935—chose not to endorse any candidate. In other words, by a large margin neither Trump nor Harris invigorated at least half of the electorate to vote for them. More people voted for Trump’s opponent or chose not to vote at all than voted for Trump. Hardly a result worthy of being called a mandate. 

Clearly the number one goal of our political process must be enhancing voter turnout. Election Day should be a national holiday for all workers. Perhaps moved to a weekend so more voters do not have to choose between work, schooling or voting. Now that most pols see the benefit of mail-in voting, we should expand the practice, with proper safeguards. 

Of course, Trump will continue to thwart efforts to make our democracy work more efficiently and effectively. He is, to our regret, an Old World authoritarian,  by nature as well as by deed. 

If you made it through David Brooks’ trenchant column in The New York Times on the unraveling of democracy under the narcissistic, power-hungry Trump, you would have read his concluding paragraph, reproduced here:

“As John Adams put it in a letter in 1798: ‘We have no government armed with power capable of contending with human passions unbridled by morality and religion. Avarice, ambition, revenge or gallantry would break the strongest cords of our Constitution as a whale goes through a net’” (https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/23/opinion/trump-authoritarian-power.html?unlocked_article_code=1.G1A.q_fk.w1MxL63SBrbL&smid=url-share). 

Morality. A man whose whole life has been shaded by immorality says his actions as president of the United States are limited only by his morality. 

How immoral is Trump? Let’s see:

Working with his father in their real estate business, the Trumps were cited for racial discrimination; he often stiffed contractors; he was found guilty of sexually assaulting a woman in a Bergdorf Goodman dressing room; he cheated on three wives; he would look in on undressed teenage contestants in his beauty pageants; he bankrupted six businesses; he bamboozled people seeking Trump University education; he fomented insurrection at the Capitol to stop the confirmation of Joe Biden’s election; he lies about events; he covets what is not his own; he palled around with Jeffrey Epstein; he pardoned convicted drug kingpins even as he was attacking Venezuela’s Nicolas Maduro for exporting drugs; he has pardoned or commuted sentences of numerous felons who bilked thousands out of millions of dollars, voiding restitutions; he has authorized the killing of civilians, ostensibly drug runners, on the high seas when international and U. S. law authorizes interdiction and arrest, not murder; he has taken action with a meat cleaver to shred social welfare and healthcare services to millions of dependent populations, many of whom are children, the most vulnerable, at home and abroad who need food and medicines to sustain life. 

And perhaps the most iconic evidence of Trump’s immorality and immaturity, his text to the prime minister of Norway that because he did not receive the Nobel Peace Prize he no longer “has an obligation to think purely of Peace.” 

 

No Show Snow Days after "Snowmageddon"

As most of the country prepares for “Snowmageddon” this weekend, I’m content to sit in my cozy home unconcerned about travel or work days lost. I wasn’t always so blissfully unconcerned. But that’s what retirement will do for you. 

No matter how conscientious you are, snow always seems to have the upper hand. When I worked in the city, I earned a deserved reputation for taking snow days at the drop of a snow flake. It came from my double experience in January-February 1978, my first winter working in Manhattan.

In January, after a 20-inch snowstorm, I trudged to the train station from our apartment in downtown White Plains in plenty time for my normal 8:18 am transport. The train arrived on time. I sat down for the usual 35 minute commute. Four hours later, the train pooped out in the tunnel beneath Park Avenue. Snow had fallen through the grates, blocking all trains from entering Grand Central Terminal.

We couldn’t move forward or back up. Metro North decided our only exit was vertical. All on board had to carefully climb down onto the tracks and ascend one of the emergency staircases, taking us up to Park Avenue at 72nd Street. From there I walked 15 blocks to my office at 425 Park Avenue. When I got there I discovered the office was closed. After a few minutes to thaw out, I was back on the street, slogging my way down to Grand Central, 13 blocks to the south, all the way hoping there would be a train back to White Plains.

I was lucky. Double lucky. A train was set to depart momentarily, and I had secured a seat. Four hours later it pulled into White Plains. I had spent more than nine hours commuting in the snow. I vowed to be more circumspect in future snowstorms.

I had my chance two weeks later when another 20-inch storm struck in February. This time I sought assurance our office would be open. I called our VP administration who, by coincidence, commuted on my same train each day. He daily drove down to White Plains from Ridgefield, Conn. If anyone would be a no-show, Mike surely would lead the pack. But his wife cheerfully reported Mike had set off for work. I reasoned I had better show up, as well.

Once again, I trudged down to the station. The 8:18 am train again arrived on time. I sat down. Once again, the trip south took four hours. This time, though, it made it all the way into Grand Central. I engaged a pay telephone (this was pre-cell phone days), called the office and discovered it was, once again, closed!

Once again, I was lucky. Double lucky. A train was set to depart momentarily, and I had secured a seat. Once again, four hours later it pulled into White Plains. Once again, I had spent more than a full work day commuting in the snow. 

This time, I came to the realization that snow was God’s way of telling me to slow down, that work could be done at home just as easily as in the office. I soon garnered my well-deserved reputation for taking a snow day for anything more than a dusting. 

Who Knew Sidewalk Stoop Ball Was Illegal?

Who knew? 

Who knew that playing stoop ball in front of my childhood home on Avenue W in Brooklyn could have gotten me arrested? Or that playing stickball on the street could have similarly been my ticket to a ride to the police station on Avenue U?

 

I’ve never been arrested and hope I never will be, but by the letter of the law I conceivably dodged the long arm of the constabulary hundreds if not thousands of times as a youth growing up in Brooklyn. 

Reading a New York Times article Monday on an effort to rescind an old, still on the books Los Angeles law that prohibits ball playing on sidewalks and streets (https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/14/us/los-angeles-catch-sidewalk-law.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share), I googled to see if New York City had a similar prohibition. 

Yup, it does. Who knew? 

The front steps of my family’s attached row house on Avenue W were perfect for playing stoop ball, a baseball-like game played with a ball, usually a pink Spaldeen (New York slang for Spalding) or Pensy Pinky. The batter would stand to one side of the twelve-foot walkway to the stairs; his (it was never a girl in the 1950s) opponent stood in the middle of the sidewalk, an obvious obstruction of foot traffic. 

The batter would throw the ball against the stairs. If caught on the fly you were out. If the ball bounced the batter was awarded a single, maybe even a double or triple depending on rules set at the outset of a game. 

Most front porches on our street had sharp, right angle brick steps. Our steps were pink concrete, rounded in front, making it harder to get a “pointer,” a line drive comeback that, if caught was an out but if traveling untouched a pre-determined distance in the air would be a home run. 

As my friends and I got older, we began playing games on the roadway of Avenue W—stickball and football. 

For stickball, home plate would be a round sewer cover. Games were played as long as a bat was available, either a real stickball bat with black tape spiraling on the handle or a purloined broomstick from an unsuspecting mother’s utility closet.

Avenue W had a canopy of leaves from maple and sycamore trees. If during a stickball game a ball was hit into the leaves it was a “hindoo,” a do-over, unless a fielder was agile enough to catch it for an out before it bounced. 

The trees, however, were not the biggest obstacle. Balls rolling into storm drains at each corner could wash out any game. Unless … unless you had a wire clothes hanger you could stretch out into an elongated fish hook. Lowering the hook end into the sewer basin, you would fish the ball up from the murky bottom. Whomever had the longest reach would lie flat above the sewer grate to fish out the ball. 

Stickball definitely required our being alert to oncoming traffic, from both sides as Avenue W was a two-way street. Of course, it’s doubtful street stickball resulted in any arrests. Heck, Willie Mays himself would play it on the streets of Harlem (see photo). 

As we got into our teenage years, football games dominated Saturday afternoon play time after we returned from synagogue and eaten lunch. Three or four players to a side. Four downs to each possession. No first downs. Two hand touch. No tackling. Ten Mississippi’s to pass the ball before a defender could charge over the scrimmage line to down the quarterback. Precision passing required to precision pass route running, between and around parked cars. If a team scored a touchdown, losers walked the length of the “field” to accept the throw-off (we weren’t accurate enough to attempt kick-offs). 

I can recall only one person ever getting hurt. Jerry caught a pass running across the width of the avenue. From behind, Marty tagged him hard. Jerry spun around, lost his balance and fell, his head hitting a fire hydrant on the curb. Blood, not water, gushed out. 

We raced to a friend’s house on the corner. His father was a doctor. But he was no ordinary doctor. He said he was an insurance doctor and would not, could not, help, an answer I have yet to understand.

We needed to get Jerry to an emergency room. But Jerry was Orthodox. He had never ridden on the Sabbath. It took some convincing but Jerry finally agreed to go to Coney Island Hospital where several stitches closed his wounds. A week or two later he was playing again.  

Greenland's World Aftermath Does Not Look Rosy

However the imbroglio on Greenland turns out, several things are certain:

Europe no longer can count on Trump’s USA to have its back, protecting NATO members from Russian aggression. Even with a change in administration in 2029, doubts about America’s fidelity to NATO will persist. The Baltic States of Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania might be next on Putin’s platter of vulnerable countries; 

Similarly, Taiwan can give up the notion that America would help it resist a Chinese invasion. Trump might be able to bully European allies but China’s Xi Jinping is no paper tiger. All that stands between China’s absorption of Taiwan is Xi’s calculation of the most appropriate time to launch his “Greenland” version of island usurpation in the name of national defense;  

Third, Israel no longer will enjoy favored nation status with Trump, indeed, with many Americans and their elected officials. Trump’s plan for Gaza will be a constant point of disagreement with Israel’s leadership. Trump does not take kindly to disagreement; 

South America will be a playground for Trump to display his testosterone, threatening military punishment to any country that doesn’t kowtow to his whims. Expect U.S. military raids on drug manufacturing sites in any country south of our border where Trump suspects cartels are operating. Attacks will happen with or without the consent of local governments. What the attacks will not stop is China’s unyielding supply to cartels of ingredients to produce fentanyl that will saturate America with the killer drug. Trump is powerless to force Xi to act; 

Trump’s obsession with expanding U. S. territory will continue with his push to incorporate Canada into his empire. National security and access to natural resources beneath the Arctic tundra motivate his undiplomatic appetite for conquest. 

Since World War II presidents and their advisors have had an overly unfettered opinion about their power on the world stage. Mostly, they restrained openly displaying that power, though covert actions toppled governments presidents disliked and installed dictators more appealing to Washington insiders. 

Trump has taken that conceit to the extreme, openly using tariffs and military threats as a cudgel to control friend and foe alike. 

What happens after Trump is gone (through constitutional or natural causes)? Will foreign relations revert back to PT (pre-Trump) times or will his successors, from either party, feel empowered to follow in his footsteps, albeit, perhaps, in a less Tony Soprano style? 

If Trump had any hope he would ever qualify for a real Nobel Peace Prize, he squandered that possibility by accepting the 2025 award from its winner, Venezuelan activist Maria Corina Machado. Machado presented the award in a blatant attempt to bribe Trump into publicly endorsing her to be Venezuela’s new leader rather than Nicolas Maduro’s vice president, long considered a corrupt politician. 

Trump called Machado a nice lady but remained steadfast in backing the despot in place versus the populist he just met. In doing so, Trump was consistent with the maxim “honor among thieves,” not its corollary. 

Putting aside Trump’s internal and external battles, no doubt the Norwegian Nobel Peace Prize committee did not take lightly Trump’s denigration of its award. Trump would truly have to earn the award by doing something extraordinary, like actually brokering a meaningful peace between Russia and Ukraine, or actually disarming Hamas and stopping Israel from usurping Palestinian land in the West Bank. 

Of course, even if he miraculously welds a peace plan that lasts, the Nobel committee will deduct points for his termination of healthcare and humanitarian aid to African and other Third World countries, resulting in the death of hundreds of thousands, multiple more lives that have been lost in the wars that Trump thinks he stopped.