His credentials include canoe trips down raging rivers and a camelback jaunt over the Gobi Desert, and now Canada's swinging Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau has added another paper to his portfolio as the first of his country's Prime Ministers to visit the high Arctic. In a frenzy of athletic activity reminiscent of Teddy Roosevelt, Trudeau slept in a tent, caught a five-pound Arctic char, rode a motorcycle and searched among the icebergs for whales and seals. The 94 Eskimos who welcomed him in Grise Fiord were entranced. "We are very glad to see you," said an elderly native named Philipousie. "We are like a boy." Some of the PM's worried constituents in Pangnirtung flew in a Chinese chef to help soften the harshness of Arctic cuisine for him, but Trudeau would have none of it. "Why eat bacon and eggs when you're dying for stewed fox, seal liver and whale blubber?" he asked.
Old Maudie Frickert's alter ego, Jonathan Winters, is a dedicated and talented big-game fisherman, but he sadly admits that it's the golfers of show business, like Crosby and Hope, who get all the glory.
"The only tournament angler who ever made headlines was one who fell overboard and was lost at sea," moans Jonathan. And those legendary golf-course business deals? Not on the high seas, says Winters. "The biggest deal I ever made was when someone on a wharf gave me change for a dollar so I could make a telephone call."
Houston's Dr. Denton Cooley, one of the world's leading authorities on heart transplants, claims a background in athletics is a real advantage to the prospective surgeon.
August 11, 1968
"This is a specialty in which a person must have vigor and a healthy body to perform at his peak," says Dr. Cooley. "Competitive athletics teaches endurance, which is as much a state of mind as a state of the body." Cooley—a letterman on the University of Texas' 1939 championship basketball team—draws further parallels between sport and his own surgical specialty. "We're playing a game in which there are no rules," he says of the transplant business. "It's like the first day they put up a peach basket at the beginning of basketball."
After those two first-round knockouts by Sonny Liston, several unkind fight critics accused Floyd Patterson of having "impersonated" a fighter. The kinder ones said it was a problem of temperament. Soulwise, they pointed out, Floyd was less fighter than poet. Now, apparently taking the hint, the gentlest pugilist has decided to embark upon an artistic career—acting. His new agent became interested after hearing him on a TV interview. "I felt he had sensitivity, and I've found it is true," explained Dick Vitt. In TV's Wild, Wild West Patterson even has a stand-in to do his fighting. "Floyd hits too straight," the director explained. "It doesn't look as good as the roundhouse swings used in films." A wit as well as a poet, Patterson quipped, "I'd probably be better than the stuntman when it comes to going down, though."
If William F. Buckley Jr., articulate star of the political right, looks extra pained on TV in Miami this week, look to the left for the cause. Just before leaving for the Republican Convention Buckley, an enthusiastic blue-water sailor, was thrown to the deck of his 60-foot schooner, Cyrano, by an unexpected wave and suffered a broken collarbone—you guessed it—on his port side. But Bill never had much use for that wing, anyway. Shown here leaning, as always, to the right, Buckley commented, "I can fly on one wing."
There are those who claim that the national game (baseball, you recall) is losing its Moxie. But Tiny Tim, that long-haired, falsetto-voiced holdover from the age of Moxie and ice-cream parlors is not one of them. When he is not tiptoeing through the tulips Tiny, it turns out, is an avid Dodger fan. He was once kicked out of Connie Mack Stadium for blowing kisses at his idols. He says his presence at a game often distracts the players. "Like the time I was sitting in right field in Yankee Stadium and Mantle and Maris started talking about me."
Pitching and vocalizing, according to Tiny, have a lot in common. "Singing is just like being on the mound," he says. "Vocally, you either have it that night or you don't." The list of 16 song titles taped to the back of his ukulele is his "lineup card." After an occasional evening with young ladies, Tiny admits to reviewing his "errors."
During the winter he's a hockey fan, his favorite team being Toronto, "because the Maple Leaf is closest to nature." He's disturbed by the sport's rough play, though. "Spearing with those sticks," he says. "Ugh!"