Sport: Death of Griffo

Thirty-four years ago a small, mobile man pushed aside the swinging doors of a Manhattan barroom and strode to the middle of the smoky, beery room. He unfolded a snowy clean handkerchief; spread it neatly on the dirty floor, stood on it.

"'Oo'ever knocks me off this 'and-kerchief," he announced, "I buys a drink for. 'Oo'ever don't buys one for me."

Befuddled strong men advanced greedily, baring hairy arms. The first one swung viciously. The stranger ducked neatly, picked up the handkerchief, announced his would be whiskey.

How many thousand drinks of whiskey were thus...