For those who may have forgotten that Buddy Hackett is appearing in a Broadway show, he has had 1,000 golf balls especially prepared as reminders. On each is printed: I Had a Ball. A sort of message in the rough.
After a weekend of quail shooting in Georgia, Hubert Humphrey (below) waited in the little Thomasville airport for the plane that would take him back to Washington. To warm himself against an early morning chill, Humphrey backed up close to the airport's gas heater. Too close. Suddenly there was a smell of burning cloth, followed quickly by a smell of burning vice-president. The Veep bounded across the room, but not before he had scorched his coat and pants. Nevertheless, Humphrey pronounced his trip a success. "It was a wonderful, wonderful shoot." And as for the impromptu barbecue: "Oh, that was great. It will be something to remember old times by."
Since that day in Boston last August when Phil Linz blew his harmonica and Yogi Berra blew his top, Linz has received some 50 gift harmonicas, including one two feet long and labeled "for baseball and cultural achievements." But what of the original harmonica, the one that Berra knocked from his player's hands? It now comes to light that Whitey Ford, obviously a man with an eye for history, scooped up the remains, taped them together and placed the famous instrument in his trophy case at home, where it is today.
"Ripping" said the members of the Warminster Rural Council when they received an application from the Marquess of Bath to erect a 14-foot fence around his 10,000-acre estate in Wiltshire and turn it into a game reserve. Then Lord Bath explained what sort of game: lions, hippopotamuses, that sort of thing. "I'm told that lions are not really dangerous as long as they are well fed," said the Marquess. Gulping hard, the council chairman announced: "We thought the fence was for deer. We shall have to take another look at that application."
While on a crusade in Hawaii, Billy Graham also played golf, lifted weights and took a fling at surfing. "I wish I'd started this earlier," said the evangelist. "Some spiritual lessons can be learned from surfing.... In Christian living one must keep his balance."
From the 10,682-foot Sandia Crest above Albuquerque, 66-year-old Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas and a party of forest rangers, all wearing snowshoes, set out down La Luz trail, nearly six miles in length. They were barely under way when a blizzard struck. For nine hours Douglas and his companions battled drifts and 15° cold. Several times the judge fell, once bruising his hip on a snow covered tree stump. Finally one of the rangers forged ahead and brought back horses so the party could ride the last mile. "Fine hike," boomed Douglas, ignoring his injury. "Mrs. Douglas and I plan to be back in the summer."
Chubby Checker has moved into a $100,000 home on Philadelphia's Main Line—not just an ordinary $100,000 home, but one with a few twists, e.g., a trout stream in the backyard, a 56-foot heated and filtered swimming pool and a stable. The stable, as yet, is horseless, but Chubby is planning a trip to Israel where he may buy some Arabian colts. "I used to ride a mule bareback," he says. "When I get on a horse you'd think I was born on it."
In his first race since giving up the sport 13 years ago at his wife's request, Governor John Reed reasserted his claim to the Maine ice sulky racing championship. Last time out, the governor collected nothing but abrasions; this time he swept honors at the Poland Spring raceway on Lower Range Pond. Reed, a former Fort Fairfield Driving Club president and an ice racer since he was 17, won two straight heats of a Class A race and defeated Maine's best dash driver in a Class C.
Over by the big tank in the New York Coliseum, former Heavyweight Champion Jack Sharkey, fly rod in hand, was demonstrating the fine art of casting at last week's Sportsman Show. "You like this better than fighting?" someone asked. "It doesn't pay as much," said Sharkey, "but then fish don't hit back."
The arm Scott Carpenter broke last summer is still giving him trouble. Last week he entered Methodist Hospital in Houston for surgery. The astronaut's injury may prevent him from further space flights, but what bothers him almost as much is his curtailed sports program. "I can't swing a golf club or grip a ski pole," moaned Carpenter.
Looking more like Mr. Clean than Ben Franklin, Robert Preston (below) turned up at the Broadway Show League's bowling night last week and took his turn on the firing line. Bowling left- and right-handed with equal inconsistency—his average is 131—the former music man admitted: "Acting is my real athletics. I'm running a four-minute mile there."