The You've Come a Long Way, Baby (though we aren't sure where from on the way to what), Award of the Week goes to Julie Heldman. Asked if she'd wear hot pants, the tennis player said, "On the street, maybe. But not playing tennis!"
This is an article from the March 1, 1971 issue
Somebody ought to get Henry Alper a flask. A while back the owner of three-time British hurdle champion Persian War entered another of his steeds, Lucky Streak, in a race sponsored by Stone's Ginger Wine. According to a London Daily Express story, Alper stopped in at the bar set up by the liquor firm and for some reason was told he didn't belong there. A week later Persian War ran at Newbury in a hurdle race sponsored by Schweppes—a race he'd won last time it had been run. For the occasion Schweppes laid on cocktails and a champagne lunch for 350, but Mr. and Mrs. Alper went to the Schweppes tent and...well, they came away thirsty. "It soon became apparent that we weren't welcome," Alper said. That was an understatement. The man from Schweppes—a PR chap named Eustace, not the commander named Whitehead—told Alper the firm was interested only in its customers, not in racing people, and he later accused Alper of gate-crashing. "He should not have come into our tent," sniffed Eustace.
Afterward, Alper announced that not only would he never enter Schweppes' tent, he would never enter their race again, either. Curiously refreshing.
Joe Namath has torn some muscles in his back, and his future, according to the Morning Telegraph, is very much in doubt. Joe Namath, the horse, you understand.
And Britain's Prince Charles rode a pony named Christine Keeler to score four goals and two victories for the Nairobi Polo Club recently. There was a little discussion beforehand about the propriety of offering the visiting prince a mount named for the former playgirl, but club members decided that, since Christine was the best and most willing pony around, why, Charles should have her, that's all.
A Manhattan settlement house recently offered charitably minded New Yorkers a chance to challenge tennis champs Clark Graebner, Manuel Santana, Roy Barth or Gene Scott on the courts of the Midtown Tennis Club in exchange for a $25 contribution. The program informed the challengers that they'd get their donations back if they could take two points out of 10 from one of the experts, which is a splendid idea—if you're not trying to raise money. It seems, first of all, that organizer Scott had meant for the programs to say three points. Then it further turned out that Santana hadn't been told about the money-back arrangement and played (shall we say?) charitably against some of his opponents. He was suitably aghast when he learned the truth. "I deed not know zees!" he said. "They would have got no points!" Speaking of getting the point, Manuel....
The San Diego Chargers' Lance Alworth was married recently to the former Marilyn Gallo. Both had been married before. Both have two children by their previous marriages. Got that so far? Anyhow, the ceremony was unusual in a couple of ways. First, the pair vowed to live together for "as long as we both shall love." And then when the judge came to the part about "Do you, Lance, take" etc., instead of letting it go with Marilyn, he asked did Lance take Marilyn, Bradley and Gregory as his "lawful wedded family"? And he asked Marilyn did she take Lance, Lance Jr. and Kelley? Does that mean all the kids are married, too?
President Nixon held his reception for the Council on Physical Fitness last week, and chuckling their way through the reception line came Andy Granatelli and his wife, Dolly—chuckling because the President had just told the 250-pound Granatelli that he was in perfect physical shape. Andy and Dolly aren't getting our Perfect Physical Shape Award of the Week, however. Dolly blew it on her way from the East Room when she tripped and broke her foot.
Cowboy Owner Clint Murchison, who doesn't have to worry a whole lot about credit credibility, is in the habit of signing his bill when he checks out of a hotel. When he tried it recently in Cleveland, however, the cashier looked him over and said firmly, "You're not Clint Murchison."
"No," the cashier informed him. "He stays with us a lot, and you're not him." Murchison took this calmly enough, but his next question indicates why he's an employer instead of an employee.
"Tell me," he asked, "when he stays here, does he pay cash?"
"Good!" said Murchison.
Corporal Bodacious here has just become one of some 4,500 stockholders in the Memphis Pros of the American Basketball Association. He affixed his paw-print on his very own certificate shortly after the club put out its first public issue recently. Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the transaction, however, is that someone of his background (Corporal B. is the son of Big Red Dreadnought and the Duchess, Lady Fearnought of Waterford) should be the owner of a mere 10 shares. The recession, obviously. It's hit everyone—ah, everydog.
Never mind The President's Analyst, the Vice-President's golf pro has spoken! Mus O'Linger of the Ocean City, Md. Yacht and Golf Club, says of Spiro T. Agnew, "He loves golf for what it is." Great, Mus, but in Agnew's case what is it?