I have been a Yankee fan all my life, but no longer. The CBS deal was bad enough, but firing Yogi, one of the greatest Yankees of all time, was the clincher.

I do not like my baseball CBS style. Will the Yankee Haters of America accept a new member?
Austin, Texas

Mel Allen may be out as The Voice of the Yankees for any number of reasons that have been rumored since the 1962 World Series, but your rather snide reference to Mel's clichés and your remark about "picking him up by his ears" (SCORLCARD, Oct. 19) belong in a far less knowledgeable publication than SPORTS ILLUSTRATED.

There are very few in our profession who combine the technique required of a play-by-play baseball broadcaster with the insight into this very complex game and deliver both with the voice and eloquence that enable them to impart the word picture to a radio audience without slipping into at least a few of the hackneyed phrases and the inevitable redundancies you find so distasteful.
Rochester, N.Y.

In your article To Fight or Not to Fight (Sept. 7), Author Robert Boyle says, referring to me, that "McKenzie is best known in boxing circles as the commissioner who forgot to license anyone—fighters, seconds, managers, promoter—for the Patterson-McNeely title fight in Toronto." As a matter of fact, all parties connected with the fight were licensed.

Frank Tunney of Toronto held the promoter's license for this show and paid $500 for this yearly license.

The principals were issued licenses on October 16, 1961.

Pete Fuller of Boston was issued a manager's license. He also received seconds' licenses for Cleveland Spinney and Johnny Dunarumo of Massachusetts. Julius November received seconds' licenses for Bus Watson, Dan Florio, Cus D'Amato and Nick Florio.

D'Amato was refused a manager's license as he could not produce a managerial contract.
L. M. MCKENZIK, President
World Boxing Association

After considering very carefully the case of Buffalo Slayer Bud Basolo in the October 19 issue of SI, I am going to recommend sending him back to the beginners' class to keep company with Buffalo Bill, who never got out of it.

If Buffalo Slayer Basolo would study the subject, he would learn that the three vulnerable shots on a buffalo are neck, heart and head, with the latter a poor third. The neck shot is always fatal; one bullet does it. The heart is the same, if the hunter shoots low enough. But no self-respecting buffalo hunter ever wasted ammunition on an uncertain head shot. The real buffalo hunters, like F. H. Mayer, learned how to kill an animal with one merciful shot—no botched-up jobs; Mayer himself once took 59 animals with 63 cartridges; a hunter named McRae killed 54 with 54 cartridges, all one-shot dropping kills: in one day Mayer took 269 hides with 300 shots. The guns they used were "inferior" to the modern .300 Magnums, being old, black-powder smoke sticks. They were inferior but they killed better.

I hope members of every American Embassy and consulate will read your article on British soccer (Six Dreary Days—Then Saturday, SI, Oct. 12).
St. Louis

Jack Olsen probably comes as near as any non-Britisher could to understanding football and its relationship to our way of life. I fear, however, that the article is inevitably nostalgic and largely historical in that football's emotional grip is tending to die in proportion to the increase in our affluence.

I must admonish Olsen when he says, "I found a seat next to an elderly Geordie." Even today, Jack, to really enjoy football you must stand. I shall be in New York later this month and will come to an American football game to sec if I can generate a reciprocal emotion to Mr. Olsen's.
Nottingham, England

Jack Olsen's splendid story on British football rates him three cheers. Having braved the goal-zone crowds at the Liverpool pitch just one year ago, I can vouch for the drama he portrays. But the really amazing thing about the matches is the price of admission. I paid either 2s. 6d. (35¢) or 3s. 6d. (49¢) to stand opposite the Kop and watch the lads shoot. Much of our U.S. football is priced so high that being an active team supporter requires cither a varsity pass or a five-figure income. Might we learn a lesson from British football, or are we doomed to being but TV fans, getting our Saturday "religion" from the cold, ubiquitous box and missing all the taste, scent and sound of our game?
Arlington, Va.

Your picture of former boxer Tommy (Hurricane) Jackson (SI, Oct. 12) actually shocked me. As realistic as I try to be, I find it hard to comprehend how a former heavyweight contender could end up as a shoeshine boy on the streets of New York. You had an editorial in that same issue that pointed out the pension plans of the major sports. Some were quite lucrative and large, others were not so good. But at least other professionals receive some pension when they retire. It looks as if Jackson is lucky to receive a dirty shoe now and then.

It is easy for the rest of us, in our comfortable and full lives, to look at this former great athlete and turn away. Perhaps his problems arc a result of his own mistakes. But none of us is perfect. And I, for one, find it hard to look at this pitiful picture of a fighter who once gave me pleasure on the Friday Night Fights and see him in his current state.

Congratulations, boxing. And may you be flattened in the eighth.
Durham, N.C.

As a doctoral candidate and teaching assistant in physical education, I was sorry to note the implication in your article on Dick Butkus (Brute with a Love of Violence, Oct. 12) that physical education courses are inserted in the curriculum merely as a means of assisting football players to get through college. Today's physical education majors are prepared to educate the whole child. Man is not atomistic: we cannot separate him into mind and body and educate each separately. Where else in the school curriculum is the child subjected to so many types of educable moments? Physical education has progressed far beyond calisthenics for an hour.

Socrates said, "Let them fashion the mind...even as they finely mold the body." That is what the majority of us are trying to do. Give us a break!
Stanford, Calif.