Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara was talking about the possibility of protracted war in Vietnam as he faced a press conference, but that's not why he often winced and swayed against the podium. Fact of the matter, he had unknowingly chipped an anklebone eight days previously while playing tennis with former Deputy Defense Secretary Roswell Gilpatric. Later that day the ankle, throbbing acutely, was put to rest in a cast at Andrews Air Force Base. Said one aide: "I wish I could get a game with him now. He's too tough when he has both ankles going for him."
This is an article from the July 25, 1966 issue
Mix together 10 professional golfers (such as Art Wall and Tommy Bolt) and 20 professional football players (such as San Francisco's John David Crow and Denver's Cookie Gilchrist) and what do you get? A very rude raspberry—in Buffalo, anyway, where the 30 assembled for a gimmicky tournament, and the people of the city stayed away. In fact the Junior Chamber of Commerce, sponsors of the unhappy affair, figured their losses at $50,000. Not much better off was Gilchrist (below), who shot a 248 for 36 holes—108 strokes over par. He had never played golf before a gallery. Cookie explained, not even one as sparse as Buffalo's. "It's a lot different when people are watching you," he said. "They stand there waiting for you to hit the ball a mile, to flub it or to miss it completely. Let's just say that I wasn't hitting them a mile."
"Last year Somebody was looking out for the Twins," the Rev. C. Philip Hinerman wrote the Minneapolis Tribune. But this year "the Lord has withdrawn His blessing" from the league champions because they canned Second Baseman Jerry Kindall, a nonproductive hitter who nevertheless exerted a winning influence on the team through prayer meetings and Bible-study groups. In other words, said The Christian Century in a chiding summary of Mr. Hinerman's theology, "Somebody up there is miffed." Not really, said Hinerman. "My intention was just to have a little fun." And anyhow, said Jerry Kindall, now freshman basketball coach at the University of Minnesota, the "prayer meetings" were more like bull sessions and, whatever ails the Twins, don't blame the Lord.
England's antihero playwright Henry Livings, in Cincinnati for an American opening of Eh?, his two-act farce about a boiler-room night watchman, broke off preparations long enough to absorb the 10-act drama of the All-Star Game on television. "I was surprised by how elegant it was," said Livings. "It seemed almost in slow motion and had such a strange grace about it." Stranger still was the pitchers' ability to throw curve balls. Livings was skeptical, "but then I saw one do it. It was unbelievable."
A driver for 18 years ("if I had to choose between harness racing and public office I wouldn't want to"), Delaware Attorney General David Buckson had his mare in the lead at Brandy-wine Raceway with a 10th of a mile to go. But she faded in the stretch, and 24 other state attorney generals, in Wilmington for a convention, dolefully tore up their pari-mutuel tickets. "I tried hard, but I'm not too sorry I lost," said Buckson heartily, to console his friends. "It might have been unseemly for me, the host, to win on my home grounds."
Kind of hung up on sports, San Francisco's Jane Marsh, everybody said, would wind up swimming professionally or studying animal husbandry. Instead, Jane changed all that by becoming an opera singer three years ago and last week returned to the U.S. from Moscow with a first prize in the renowned International Tchaikovsky Competition. Moscow nice? Marvelous most ways, said Jane, who still swims at least four days a week, but she didn't spot Moscow's 3½-acre heated pool on the edge of town until the day she was to leave for home. Said the poised soprano, contemplating a return visit this winter: "I went flappy when I saw it."
That cauliflower face on Terry Downes (below)—is that what boxing does to man? This time, no, for the uncommonly versatile Downes (newspaper copy-boy, U.S. Marine, London bookmaker, world middleweight champion), now wealthy enough for a fancy house and Rolls-Royce, has merely taken to dabbling in the flicks, portraying in his first role a hideous hunchback in a horror-film satire called The Vampire Killers. Terry, asked to wrestle a wolf and toboggan down a hill in a coffin during the course of the film, wondered, "Why me?" when asked to take the part. "Then I figured they ought to know their business. After all, it's better than lying around at home, it's never a waste of time going through a new experience, and it's bound to be a giggle."