Argentine golf pro Roberto de Vicenzo won the recent PGA Seniors tournament at Port St. Lucie, Fla., collecting $4,000 cash plus the free use of an $11,000 American-made luxury car for a year. De Vicenzo saw the trouble with that. "They give you this big car—but no gasoline," he said. The Ford people agreed and de Vicenzo will drive, instead, a compact made by them in Argentina.
The Mongolian national wrestling team is touring the United States, which presents certain problems of protocol—the Mongolian national anthem, for example, ought to be played at the beginning of the meets. But even after a lengthy search the AAU could not find a recording of it anywhere in the U.S. So Bob Grechesky, director of the Butler University marching band in Indianapolis, was asked to rise to the occasion and, after obtaining sheet music through the State Department, he and his men recorded the tune. To satisfy your curiosity, the Mongolian national anthem (People's Republic version) does not sound Asiatic at all. It sounds more East European or Russian and is described as "stately, regal and pompous." Something like this: tum-de-de-dum-dah-dum. Very hummable.
What is Joe Namath doing in a panty-hose commercial? Nobody seems to know, but there he is as big as life—at least from the thighs down—displaying Beautymist Panty Hose on nationwide television. The camera pans up a pair of attractive legs as a female voice explains, "This commercial is going to prove to the women of America that Beautymist Panty Hose can make anybody's legs look like a million dollars." Instead of cutting away to some beautiful doll, the camera keeps right on panning up to the face of Joe Namath. Apparently Namath shaved his legs for the commercial, just as he once grew a mustache and shaved it on TV for $10,000. But if Joe really has million-dollar legs, half of that is an investment in surgery.
If you're looking for a King of the Krewe of Gladiators for a Mardi Gras parade, who better than George Blanda, the oldest gladiator of them all? "It was one of the best times I ever had," said Blanda, after exercising the famous 46-year-old arm by throwing out miniature footballs and doubloons to the crowd. He had only one complaint, aside from the pranksters who punctured tires on the floats and delayed the start of the parade: "They kept introducing me as a placekicker, not a quarterback. Heck, I've thrown 300 interceptions."
March 3, 1974
Rosemary Davis, 21, has been technically knocked out by the Great Plains Boxing Association in her attempt to enter the Omaha Golden Gloves Tournament. "No, sir," Tournament Director Harry Farnham reportedly responded to her application, though "no, ma'am" or even "no, ms." might have been more appropriate. "Oh, I'm disappointed but not surprised," said the 5'3" Miss Davis, who would have fought in the 110-pound class. She says she spars with her fiancé, Duane Manchester, 160 pounds, whose Golden Gloves entry was accepted. And when she is not training at a gym in the basement of the Foxhole Bar, she works at the Pink Tiger Lounge as a go-go dancer. Her trainer, veteran Boxing Coach Jimmy McKay, had more to say. "I guess I'll have to get an injunction," he fumed. "They have girl jockeys and girl basketball players and girl etceteras. Where's the Legal Aid office?" Farnham was unperturbed. "Girls are for wrestling, not boxing," he ruled.
Elmer Francis Pennewell, a Pittsville, Md. grain farmer, was so busy catching up with the world feed shortage that he did not have enough time to check his state lottery tickets. When he did he discovered an October winning ticket worth $50,000. He explained that he had given the ticket to a friend, Otis Donaway, "to keep track of during harvesting." Donaway eventually became curious and found the number in a lottery commission list of unclaimed prizes. So is Pennewell happy? Not completely. All the hullabaloo has played further hob with his schedule. "I had four muskrats to skin today," he said, disconsolately. "Now they'll have to wait."
The official colors of the Minnesota Vikings arc purple and white and Fred Cox, the Vikings' good placekicker, is a man unafraid to show his colors. His farmhouse in Delano, Minn., is painted white with purple trim. The barn is purple—with white trim.
Susie Maxwell Berning, three times the U.S. Women's Open golf titlist and the current champion, happened to arrive at the West Palm Beach airport simultaneously with a gaggle of lady fashion writers. They were all heading for the Sears LPGA tournament at Port St. Lucie, and so they shared a cab to their destination, 55 miles to the north. Along the way, one of the fashion writers asked Susie if she played golf. Susie allowed that she did play golf and the writer continued, knowledgeably, "What's your handicap?" Mrs. Berning replied that she didn't have any. "You don't have a handicap?" the writer repeated incredulously. "That's right," said Susie dryly, "I don't have a handicap." "Well," the unzippered writer blundered on, "don't you ever keep score?"