Taxes were burdensome, and for nine years income was nil, so, said Archie Moore, he was compelled to sell his sylvan training camp in the hill country east of San Diego. In palmier days even Cassius Clay had worked out there (below) and because of the physical agonies of getting fit for a fight, Archie always called the place The Salt Mine. But letting go of the 120 acres—the boulders, the trees and the lake—hit the old boxer where it truly hurt. "I'd always hoped that it would become a shrine to boxing, a hall of fame where the great names of the sport could be remembered," said Archie. "It had a wealth of lore about it: that old bucket o'blood gym, my 33 steps, named for sports writers, leading to the top of the boxing ladder. Just a wealth of lore."
Writing in Buffalo, a Chamber of Commerce slick-paper monthly, Buffalo Bills Quarterback Jack Kemp had plenty of nice things to say for ex-Coach Lou Saban, who led the Bills to the AFL championship—and then resigned to coach the University of Maryland. "I can't speak for all," wrote Kemp, a part-time public relations man, "but Lou was the finest coach for whom I've ever played.... He combined more talents into his coaching ability than my previous coaches." O.K., but how many coaches has Kemp played for? Nine, besides Saban, including George Wilson, Buddy Parker, Vince Lombardi, Jim Lee Howell, Sid Gillman and Al Davis.
Having endured every other indignity—capture, picture on sweat shirts, exposure to public gaze in a Seattle aquarium—Namu, the pacific killer whale, has been forced into a Hollywood movie. Actor Robert Lansing plays a naturalist who gets Namu from fishermen and, though a watery encounter between them is described as a "frolic the like of which no one has seen before," the rest of the script is the baleful tale of a child cured by Namu of "fear of bedtime, of darkness, of black deeps." Along the way one dry-eyed fisherman takes a shot at the whale. Namu bashes in the fellow's boat but then furnishes him, via dorsal fin, a lift to shore. At this juncture the whale and Lansing "exchange looks." As well they might.
With Bat-ball and Bat-bat, who needs baseball? Not of concern to everybody but a thought that gave comfort to Pitcher Jim Grant as he approached the Twins with a $41,500 "final-offer" salary demand. As a promoter of the new Batman paddle game, said Mudcat, he was sure he could forget baseball and live handsomely off Batman and the song-and-dance act he himself puts on. Not all that sure. He signed for less than $38,000.
The professional Charleston (West Va.) Rockets played great football last fall, winning all their 14 games and the Continental League championship as well. But local apathy has led the team to look for a new home city. Into that crisis last week stepped a minor shareholder: John D. Rockefeller IV, the nephew of the governor of New York who came to Charleston 18 months ago to immerse himself in an Appalachian poverty program, is now staying on to seek a seat in the state's House of Delegates. "For the good of this community, this region and the state," said 28-year-old Jay Rockefeller, "we must not, need not and will not lose the Rockets because of lack of support." Rockefeller's solution: a pledge to buy $75,000 worth of Rocket stock if others will match it.
"As a boy I always knew I would be a concert pianist," Eugene Istomin once lamented, "but I wished just the same I could be a baseball player—a Joe DiMaggio or anybody." Coming as close to that ambition as he probably ever will, Istomin, now 40, spent a week with the spring-training Detroit Tigers in Lakeland, Fla. as the guest of his pal, Manager Charlie Dressen (below). Mornings he dutifully practiced for three hours on a Steinway shipped to Tigertown from Tampa, but afternoons he played catch with writers or took his innings batting against Iron Mike. "I bruised my hands doing that," said Istomin, very major league, "so I soaked them in the clubhouse whirlpool bath." As for the Tigers, don't worry about them. "Willie Horton is going to be great, and the team has a wonderful new outfielder in Mickey Stanley. If he hits, we win the pennant."
Just for a starter, Joe Namath wouldn't wear neckties in public, and now he's talking about opening up a cozy little nightery on Manhattan's East Side—the Jet Set, he wants to call it. Jets' Owner Sonny Werblin, who sometimes acts as if he had bought body and soul when he shelled out $400,000 for Quarterback Namath, is heartsick. "I don't like the implication that Joe is a guy who hangs out in a bar," said Sonny. "Playing football is his business; not running a nightclub."
Coast to coast the Republicans are talking about fresh faces and fresh ideas, and in two instances have come up with fresh, athletic candidates. Philadelphian Tom Gola, 33, will chuck his career with the New York Knickerbockers and run for the Pennsylvania House from an all-but-shoo-in Republican stronghold. Californian Bob Mathias, 35, twice the Olympic decathlon champion, is shooting for Congress as representative of the central district of the San Joaquin Valley. Gola says juvenile delinquency is a problem in his area, and Mathias says the current grape-pickers' strike is a problem in his. Neither young politician has proposed any solution, and what could be fresher than that?