"Short fishing excursions in which I have sought relief from the wearing labors and perplexities of official duties have been denounced in a mendacious newspaper as dishonest devices to conceal scandalous revelry," the President penned hotly, but who cares? Such "petty forms of persecution [are] nothing more serious than gnat stings suffered on the banks of a stream." Other engagingly caustic remarks, together with some cooler advice on hooking a bass or popping a rabbit, are the substance of Grover Cleveland's Fishing and Shooting Sketches, a little book out of print for 60 years, which is one of 12 antique sports books to be published, beginning in September, by the new Abercrombie & Fitch Library.
Talk about your ruddy pluck. Out a mere $79,305 for finishing second in the Indianapolis 500, there was Jim Clark larking with a toy tractor (below) while Graham Hill, who finished first, came from behind to supply a push. The game goings-on developed at a welcome-home champagne surprise party at Hill's house near London. "I reckon that there has been some clever under-the-cuff planning with Jim as chief instigator," said Hill, hardly knowing what to say. Ah, well, "It was another British win—that's all that matters," said Clark, the Scot, and faintly, ever so faintly, one seemed to hear the strains of Rule Britannia.
The nationwide fame he picked up playing end for Cornell in the late '30s gave him a leg up in life, all right, said two-time All-America Jerome (Brud) Holland, one of the first Negroes so recognized, "but the lessons I learned in football—the discipline, the organization of time, the coming back from defeat—those things helped me more." Well, sure, said a reporter in Buffalo, but considering Dr. Holland's size and former speed, if he were graduating this June he would be worth at least $100,000 to the pros. That being the case, said the president of Virginia's Hampton Institute, it was a shame he couldn't do it all over again. "But only for a couple of years, and then on to graduate school," he said. "I mean I think I'd do the same thing the same way but only with a little more money in the bank."
Off to the post in the near future goes Mr. Blackeye, a 2-year-old colt named by his mistress, Lana Turner, "because he has beautiful black eyes." The horse is the Sweater Girl's first excursion into Thoroughbred racing (the El Tee Stable), and all hope he proves to be a stretch runner. Mr. Blackeye is scheduled to race first at Hollywood Park. The coincidence there, Lana points out, is that the president of the track, Mervyn Le Roy, is the same man, don't forget, who in 1937 produced and directed Miss Turner's first picture, They Won't Forget.
It was the morning after the long Memorial Day weekend, and hard, lean James Wadsworth Symington, LBJ's new chief of protocol, was about to open a meeting with his aides—the majority of whom were ruefully accounting for the aches, sprains and bites they had accumulated during the three-day romp with their families. Jim Symington, a thrice-weekly tennis player and a onetime (Yale, 1949) lightweight boxing champion who hasn't put on a pound since he left the U.S. Marines 20 years ago, turned an unsympathetic ear to the men. "You guys," he said, "belong to the Pepto-Bismol generation."
In Houston to open a new domed (what else?) theater-in-the-round, Edward Everett Horton, with 12 weeks of summer stock facing him, claimed tennis kept him up to snuff. "Of course," said the 79-year-old actor, "I only play with the best—the tennis pros. They're the only ones who'll play my rules: the ball must be hit to me wherever I am—at the net, off the court or where I'm sitting down."
Given his druthers, Italian President Giuseppe Saragat would elect to angle for trout in a fast-moving ruscello in the Italian Alps or at the presidential estate set amidst piney woods near Pisa. But as a longtime Democratic Socialist, Saragat's hectic politics have pitted him first against the Fascists and now against the Communists, and he learned years ago to snatch leisure where he finds it—as upon the fantail of a minesweeper (below) while paying a state visit to Denmark. Sadly, fog obscured the passing scene of the shoreline, the fish did not take the president's bait—and a rightist weekly back in Rome poked fun at the whole adventure, pairing the picture with one of Umberto, Italy's last king, as a tot in a sailor's costume. Said the caption: "Italy is always at sea."
Things have changed for Lamar Lundy since he struggled up out of the ghetto of Richmond, Ind.'s northside and became defensive co-captain of the Los Angeles Rams. For example, home in Indiana last week for a community-sponsored "Lundy Monday," Lamar had lunch at a country club on the swanky southside, was paraded along the downtown streets and was named honorary mayor of the city. And, though it was perhaps the minimum view, a banquet speaker that night saw a connection between the shotgun ambush of James Meredith in Hernando, Miss. and the festivities in Richmond: "For every dastardly deed done," he supposed, "there is a good one done somewhere else."