"I won't be back until I've caught up on my fishing," said White House Press Secretary George Reedy as he headed out for an Acapulco vacation. A friend, who knew Reedy's appetite for the sport, said, "Too bad—we'll never see you again." But 10 days in Acapulco were enough even for greedy Reedy. He caught six sailfish, two over nine feet long and one big enough to give him a five-hour battle. And to make up for the manta ray that got away, Reedy shot three ducks and 10 pigeons, and ate most of them before L.B.J, called him back to work.

The horse named Briar Patch did not win any blue ribbons at the National Horse Show and nobody really expected he would. But to soften any possible disappointment, his compassionate owner, Mrs. Huntington Hartford, had his stall in the Madison Square Garden basement carpeted in soothing blue from wall to wall.

Once a pretty fair country pitcher, Dizzy Dean, 53, has now been acclaimed a better-than-fair country music man. In Nashville last week some 3,700 country music enthusiasts christened him "U.S. Fan No. 1." Accepting the honor humbly and respectively, Dizzy slud up and down the scale a few times with The Wabash Cannonball to show his appreciation.

The only legitimately elected mayor in the nation who also plays high school football scored his fifth touchdown last week as his team finished the season with eight wins, one loss and one tie. Halfback Jack Kelly (18, and no kin to the Princess of Monaco) is mayor of Boys Town, Neb. And when not busy winning letters in football, basketball and track at the local high school, he presides with stern efficiency over the teen-aged City Council.

Early-morning romps over the rooftops of London may or may not have contributed indirectly to his romp to victory over a Labor opponent while other Tories fell to earth, but reelected Conservative M.P. Sir Hamilton Kerr (left) promises to continue them just as vigorously as he has for the past 40 years. Every morning Ham—the sharpest dresser in the House—leaps out of bed at chilly dawn, nips up to the roof of his block of fiats attired only in shorts and vest (Americans will please read underwear) and sweater, scampers about purposefully for 10 minutes, comes down for a cold bath and finishes off with a Yoga headstand and several press-ups (American readers will please substitute push-ups).

Jake LaMotta—a few pounds heavier—is scheduled to meet Rocky Graziano, the cultured yogurt eater, any day now, but only on the silver screen. Both will appear in a flick called The Doctor. Jake doesn't box anymore; in fact, he doesn't even dare enter a gym. "When I go to a gym," says the former middleweight champion, who is billed as the Bronx Bull of Comedy on the supper club circuit, "I want to box, but I'm 43 years old now and I can't take it. Neither," adds the ex-middleweight with a touch of pride, "could the kids who might want to box with me."

"Some people call deer hunting a sport," said Society's Friendly Undertaker Cleveland Amory before a meeting of the Tarrant County Humane Society last week. "But has the animal really got a chance?" It will if Amory gets his Hunters Hunt Club started. "We shall define conservation for hunters the way they define conservation for deer," he says. "We don't want to get rid of all the hunters—just thin the herd a little. You've noticed how hunters are crowding the woods. It's unhealthy. They breed like flies." But he doesn't want to be misunderstood: "This club has restrictions. We don't bag the quarry inside city limits or in parked cars or during its dating season." Some Dallas-Fort Worth hunters approved—with reservations. The rest formed a Hunterhunters Hunt Club.

"It's harder than running for reelection," said Adam Clayton Powell, after several unsuccessful attempts to stay upright on a surfboard on Waikiki's waves. In Honolulu with the former Miss Ohio (secretary Corrine Huff) and Chief Investigator Odell Clark on a trip combining pleasure with business, as usual, New York's lamister Congressman was willing to talk to reporters about everything from New York's race riots to his Sunday-only visits to the city (to avoid arrest). Powell backed away from only one query: about Cassius Clay. "Sorry," he said, "I don't rhyme verses."

Whoever it was that called horse racing the "sport of kings" should have been in London this week. If there were any kings at the local racetracks, they weren't letting on, but the annual meeting of the International Yacht Racing Union, presided over by defeated America's Cup Skipper Peter Scott, boasted at least two reigning monarchs, King Olav of Norway and King Constantine of Greece, both of whom were Olympic gold medalists. And Britain's best-known yachtsman, Prince Philip, who is a kind of king, was an interested observer.

The easy grace and dignity were still there, but a conservative blue business suit had replaced navy blue pinstripes on white flannel. The eyes were still forthright, even if the crow's-feet around them had scratched a little deeper and the black hair, still full and close-cropped, had turned to gray. At the half-century mark Joe DiMaggio looked joltingly tanned, trim and fit as San Francisco tossed him a birthday party. The only thing that seemed to have deteriorated was the famous swing. No matter how the news photographers strained to make that phony bat look real (below), Joe looked exactly like a man taking a cut at a cake.