APPROACH TO THE GREEN
Looking fit and lean after his September heart attack, President Eisenhower flew back to Washington where he tried out his putter before moving on to Gettysburg
Handling Golf Club for the first time in seven weeks, President Eisenhower limbers up on the White House green. Advised to "take it easy on the weekend," Ike later practiced a few putts before rearing to a nearby chair where he basked in sun and kibitzed as son John tried a few putts of his own.
Sand trap (to the right of the flagpole) marks presidential putting green in aerial photograph of Eisenhower farm at Gettysburg, Pa. The newly completed green, presented to him by the Professional Golf Association, will provide some mild exercise approved by the President's physicians, at the same time help Ike keep his short game sharp for the eventual return to his favorite sport. To the left of the green is the 100-year-old farmhouse the President bought in 1950 and remodeled from nine rooms to 14. Artist Eisenhower uses studio on the third floor. Other building is the barn where Ike keeps black Angus cattle.
PLAY WELL, WORK WELL
International Business Machines believes a sporting employee is a happy one. Last week at the IBM Country Club at Endicott, N.Y., Board Chairman Thomas J. Watson Sr. presented 251 trophies to IBM's latest batch of tournament winners
Board chairman Watson, 81 (left), gives trophy and friendly pat to Kenneth Sanford, winner of 8 to 10 junior badminton title. Then Mr. Watson sat down for a group portrait (above) with IBM winners. At awards dinner, the trim, 140-pound Mr. Watson summed up industrial recreation programs as useful since "people who play well together, work well together."
HOME WAS NEVER LIKE THIS
The fine British challenge in the Ryder matches at Palm Springs was accomplished in the face of some very un-British conditions
If you tried to dream up an environment completely the antithesis of the staid, cold, unglamorous climate in which British golf pros ply their trade, you could hardly improve on Palm Springs, the scene of this year's Ryder Cup matches in which the Americans defeated a very capable British contingent 8-4. It was an extremely good show by the visitors, especially since they had to accustom themselves not only to the desert sun and Bermuda grass greens but also to such unfamiliar subsidiaries as swimming parties in November, a parade down the main street, a clubhouse thick with movie stars and starlets, and a new type of gallery who rode the rough in a fleet of auto carts inscribed with such bright names as Tennis, Anyone? One of the British who captivated the spectators, both motorized and ambulatory, was Harry Bradshaw. Harry's appeal is that he is just the reverse of the American concept of the successful pro. A 42-year-old native of County Wicklow, Ireland, Harry weighs 210 pounds, walks like a second-string mailman, practices only an hour a week, and somehow manages to be eternally good-humored under pressure.
The moist hip, British cousin of the hotfoot, is applied to John Jacobs as Harry Bradshaw slips a napkin-wrapped ice cube into his pocket at Hudson party.