Nov. 22, 1965
Nov. 22, 1965

Table of Contents
Nov. 22, 1965

Rabbit Hunt
Too Hot
Worrying Way
Football's Week
  • With almost indecent haste, bowl promoters were in the winners' locker rooms, contracts in hand. The Orange Bowl signed up Nebraska—precluding any chance of a 'national championship' game should the Cornhuskers and Arkansas finish as the two top teams of the year—while the Sugar Bowl collected Missouri and the Gator Bowl Georgia Tech. Meanwhile 1965 continued to be a year of dazzling individuals (next pages), and none was brighter than Donny Anderson, who ran through Baylor last weekend and now leads once-beaten Texas Tech against Arkansas with the Southwest Conference title and the Cotton Bowl at stake

Fearless Tot
Redcoats Return
Horse Racing
Horse Shows
Sam's Pigeons
19th Hole: The Readers Take Over


Her book is finished—Any Child Can Swim—and now, if a publisher is interested, Eleanor Holm is ready to talk terms. The champagne-imbibing Olympic swimmer of the early '30s is back from an all-bases-covered trip to Europe ("I even took a look at the Tower of Pisa"). She paddles 50 laps a day in her Miami Beach apartment house pool, and she's studying golf under the pro who taught Jack Nicklaus a thing or two, Jack Grout. "So far I'm not too apt," said Eleanor. "In fact, I'm lousy at the game. I can't hit my hat."

This is an article from the Nov. 22, 1965 issue Original Layout

He has a Rolls-Royce and "some other cars," but for fundamental locomotion nothing suits Britain's Sir Ralph Richardson better than his 750-cc. Norton motorcycle—the one he had out for a blurring tear with his wife and dog aboard. There's that strange excitement to be had that you find nowhere else, said the 62-year-old actor. "As in skiing, you have to will yourself round the corners."

There stood Australia's Herb Elliott (below) like a horse being fitted to harness. And, while the country's television audience looked on aghast, technicians in white coats attached the end of a giant roll of paper tape to a contraption around Elliott's waist and fussed with a bank of ball-point pens poised to write lines as the tape unrolled. Then, on a signal, his spiked running shoes bit into the seaside sand, and the man who holds the 1,500-meter world record headed down the beach with the paper tailing along behind. And what did it all prove? That the BiC ballpoint pen, when some others had gone bone dry, kept on "writing, writing, writing," and that Herb Elliott had a good idea where his next $1,300 was coming from.

The idea of the movie, see, is that Jack Lemmon is this TV cameraman who's assigned to cover the Cleveland Browns-Minnesota Vikings football game, and while he's aiming his camera a certain Cleveland halfback, Boom-Boom Jackson, knocks him range finder over teakettle—so he sues Boom-Boom, the Browns and, for good measure, the city of Cleveland, too. The real Browns were paid $150 apiece the other day to play make-believe football for the film sequence, and Art Model), who owns them and ought to know, watched and said sadly: "That's the best they've blocked all year."

The squabble out on the Miami sidewalk was between English-speaking police and a Spanish-speaking bar patron, so Pedro Ramos, a New York Yankee relief pitcher who is accustomed to rushing to the rescue, suddenly found himself interposed in the midst of things as a volunteer interpreter. Trouble was, one of the cops didn't want a volunteer interpreter and felt obliged to arrest Ramos for disturbing his peace. The charge didn't hold up in court, but it left Ramos more shaken than if he had walked in the winning run.

A sports program for 2,100 mentally retarded children in Boston public schools was off to a happy start as Eunice Shriver donated $15,000 from the Kennedy Foundation. "My sister Rosemary Kennedy, although retarded, could swim as well as the rest of us," said Mrs. Shriver, "and she was good at sailing and dancing. Her physical abilities formed a basis for a closer family relationship." Trusting that similar physical accomplishments may be developed in other children, the foundation will begin by providing phonographs and marching records, jump ropes, beanbags, quoits and bowling sets.

What he liked about it was the excitement, said the dashing old air commando, Colonel Philip G. Cochran, who swooped into prominence during World War II in North African skies (and, as Flip Corkin of Terry and the Pirates, in the funny papers of the same era). Now that he had given the matter 10 years of careful study, he meant to go into Thoroughbred racing in a big-time way. Accordingly, four brood mares and four horses would be moved from the colonel's place in Erie, Pa. to a new breeding farm in Ocala, Fla. But Cochran said he would stay with the trucking business in Erie. How, then, asked the cub reporter, could he keep an eye on things in Ocala? "Remember," said the silver-haired hero, "there are such things as airplanes."

Everybody keeps wondering: just how good is Sandy Koufax? "He's as good as Elvis Presley," says Hank Saperstein, the nation's foremost name merchandiser. A name merchandiser is someone who makes big heroes even bigger by spreading their names around (on things like cap guns and girdles), and while Saperstein thinks highly of such other classy clients as Wyatt Earp and Debbie Reynolds, he thinks Koufax is in the "superhero" class. "It's chemistry," says Hank. "He's a bachelor and he's handsome, so women dig him. He's a great athlete, so men dig him. He's quiet and confident, but not boastful, so kids dig him." Saperstein, who can foresee total sales ranging up to $25 million a year in Koufax apparel. Koufax foods, Koufax shaving lotion and Koufax bank savings accounts, digs him the most.

There was never doubt that Rocky Marciano was a heavyweight through and through, nor, judging from the Henry VIII breakfast clutter in his London hotel suite (below), that he would go on that way for some time to come. The former champion was in England as a guest of the Anglo-American Sporting Club, which fancies banquet prizefights in hotel ballrooms. Rocky, after taking in one of these fistic feasts, observed pleasantly, if pointedly, of the classic English stance: "Your boxers have style—plenty of sty le—but they're all the same. They're not natural."