One thing he has in abundance is pluck, and that, precisely, was the virtue called for when Stirling Moss turned out for a racing drivers' banquet in London wearing a dark-green-red-and-white kilt clearly too long for him, a sporran, a doublet and a pretty lace jabot at his throat. "Mother was Scotch," he gaffed, meaning she was Scottish, "so I'm entitled to wear the tartan of the Crauford family." That did not mean that Moss was especially fond of the getup. "But Mother and my wife thought it suited me. What the hell!"
Say, just who is covered by the President's Council on Physical Fitness, anyhow? The question seemed fair after a Texas museum official fished a note from the pocket of a suit donated by Lyndon B. Johnson. The note was from a tailor, and it said, "Dear Mr. President: This suit can't be let out any more."
O, it takes a heap of flogging to make the caulies pay the rent, the greengrocer said, meaning, approximately, that with cauliflower going at two bob each he had seen better paydays in the ring. But as he opened his new store in Wembley High Road, British Heavyweight Champion Henry Cooper (below) contemplated a happy future after his retirement and was already thinking of expansion. "It's a supermarket with personal service," said Our 'Enery, "and it's the place to come to in North London. Notice how we have mirrors all the way round. That way you can see the fruit from three or four angles."
At the invitation of the State Department, Joe DiMaggio and Lefty O'Doul agreed they would go to Vietnam early in the new year—the same way they had gone to Korea together 15 years ago. O'Doul, whose .349 lifetime major league batting average is the highest of any man alive (and sixth in the alltime list), was not sure that soldiers of the '60s would recollect his exploits in the '20s and '30s, but he saw a silver lining. "I'll just tell them who I am, and they can write home to their fathers and their grandfathers," he said. "Just mention O'Doul, I'll tell them, and they'll get a fast reply from the old man."
It had taken 37 years, but now at last, passing through Helsinki, the U.S. Ambassador to West Germany, George McGhee, had caught up with an old competitor, the great runner Paavo Nurmi. The race had been in Dallas, said the Ambassador, and some schoolboys had been selected to run a distance race against the Flying Finn in an exhibition. "I was only 16," said McGhee to Nurmi, "but for the first mile I managed to keep up with you. After that it was no race at all." The Ambassador wondered why Finland no longer produced the athletes it once did. Said the man who won gold medals in three Olympics: "Life's too easy nowadays."
Merrily crashing through brambles while running pell-mell over the countryside with map, compass and deathwish is a European pastime known as orienteering. England's Dr. Roger Bannister has taken it up, but since the man who first broke the four-minute mile wasn't winning any races ugly whispers cropped up that he was shamefully out of condition. Nope, that wasn't it, said Bannister serenely. "I don't regard it as a competitive sport in my case," he said. "It's exercise, and I like taking exercise—not because I feel it is doing me good, but because I enjoy it. And I walk up the hills because I feel better walking up than running up."
Considering how he had flubbed that third-strike pitch—and the whole 1941 World Series in the bargain—it was encouraging to see the old Dodger catcher hold onto something. Mickey Owen, now a sheriff in Missouri, joined forces with a fellow sheriff in a jailbreak manhunt and was on the scene when three of the escapees were tracked down in a farmhouse. For a while, Owen's bloodhounds had been put out of commission after the fugitives smeared black pepper and underarm deodorant on their shoes, but after six days of running (and one unhappy meal of bologna sandwiches washed down with cr√®me de menthe) the men were willing to call it quits. "Well, sir," drawled Mickey, "this one we didn't drop."
Everyone having had his say at an alumni meeting at Athens' Anavryta national school, King Constantine of Greece suggested a game of field hockey with the seniors to top off the day. Hey, yeah, they all agreed, and tumbled outside where Constantine installed himself before the goal and shouted, "Apano tous!" (Get them!) to his former schoolmates. Rallying cries were insufficient; Constantine gave up three goals to the seniors and got a banged-up knee in the process. "It is always fun when Megaliotatos comes visiting the school," said one young man of his 25-year-old king, "but I don't see how these old ones expect to beat us at hockey."
All anybody expected him to do was look in, make a token appearance and go away. But Interior Secretary Stewart Udall, who once—ages ago—played basketball for the University of Arizona, felt the old flames flash up when he was asked to join his staff for a U.S. Interior Department Recreational Basketball League game. Udall, 45, charged onto the court in full uniform, and his presence (below) was so stimulating—setting up plays, roughing it up under the boards—that his team held a one-point lead at halftime. But then the Secretary had to depart on official business, whereupon his demoralized teammates went down to defeat.