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Original Issue

Events and Discoveries of the Week

Caught subsidizing football players last year, Indiana U. was put on trial by the Big Ten for doing more or less openly what almost everybody else was doing clandestinely. This week Indiana was found guilty by its peers, and a three-part sentence was imposed. First, the university was placed on one-year probation. Second, it was ordered to forfeit its share of conference TV revenues (about $75,000). Third, in accordance with football bureaucracy's unwritten law, "If you can't keep it clean keep it quiet," Indiana was told that for 1960-61 its games as well as its recruiting had better be clandestine. The Hoosiers may play out their schedule, but win, lose or tie, the results will not be listed (or counted) in conference standings.

To the sponsors of the lawn fete at St. Philomena's Roman Catholic Church in Franklinville, N.Y. the slowly descending parachutists were like manna from heaven. They were part of a show that helped swell attendance to almost 4,000. To the fans at the Franklinville-Salamanca baseball game the selfsame parachutists were like rain from the sky. They forced the umpires to call time on three separate occasions. They were part of a show that helped swell attendance to almost 4,000. To the fans at the Franklinville-Salamanca baseball game the selfsame parachutists were like rain from the sky. They forced the umpires to call time on three separate occasions.


John Buckley is a man who knows a good thing—and hangs onto it. Buckley is manager of Paul Pender, holder of [2/50] of the U.S. (and world) middleweight championship. The good thing for Buckley and Pender is fighting in Boston, the old home town. Buckley's boys seldom lose in Boston. They seldom win anywhere else.

A logical fight, of course, would be between Pender, titleholder in New York and Massachusetts, and Gene Fullmer, champion of the rest of the world. But Buckley will have no part of it. "We ain't going to fight Fullmer in Utah, where he's the home-town boy and would have everything going for him," he says.

What about Terry Downes, the British Empire champion who wants a title match in London? "They offered us $85,000 for a fight with Downes," Buckley observes, "but we'd get robbed there, too."

Finally, French Middleweight Marcel Pigou wants to meet Pender in Paris. "I don't know French, but I know the French," says Buckley. "Nine times I had fighters in Paris. Nine times we get guillotined."

Buckley has a simple solution to the problem. He says, "We'll fight anybody—in Boston."


Tommy Bolt, the Vesuvius of golf, has been quiescent since his eruption at the National Open last month, but the lava flow continues.

"Tommy," a fellow pro needled the other day, "is it true you were only trying to hit a catfish when you threw your club in that lake?"

"Doggone right," drawled Bolt, "and I got fined $100 for it. So what happens? I quit the tournament and I'm watching the last round on television. There's that little fellow, Hogan, bold as brass, taking off his shoes and socks and wading in that lake Claimed his ball was in there, but I know he was just trying to gig one of them fish with his toes."


A familiar argument has it that to beat the Russians we must adopt some Russian methods ourselves. The stunning victory of the American college chess team in Leningrad last week may modify that argument. No sport has ever been as state-sponsored as chess in Russia, or as little supported as chess in American colleges—yet the American triumph was clear-cut and decisive. In the 18-day meet, officially known as the World Students' Championship, the four Americans beat teams from East Germany, Sweden, Finland, Mongolia-Hungary, England and six other countries. Except for one loss to Yugoslavia, they swept the tournament—and whipped the four best college players in the Soviet Union 2½ to 1½.

The Russians accepted the U.S. upset gracefully enough, but in the Soviet press it was noted—with some irritation and perplexity—that the subsidized young masters weren't very masterful this year.


"Palooza, a handsome, virile young bachelor porpoise, pride of the Miami Seaquarium," will shortly wed "Lalla, a lovelorn lady porpoise who lives in a canal in Cesenatico, Italy." So says a press release issued last week by the Seaquarium. It adds that Palooza will be flown to New York while resting on a rubber mattress, that he will not mind because he breathes through a hole in his head and that he will be transported to Italy in a rubber pool on the deck of an ocean liner. The release concludes by thanking Christopher Coates, director of the New York Aquarium, for his help "in consummating the romance."

Intrigued by this porpoise-full plot, we called on Coates to ask the nature of his assistance. "We're going to provide Palooza's transportation from the airport to the boat," he said, "and we're going to provide good water for the pool. A porpoise can't live in fresh water, and the harbor water is too soiled, so we're supplying 800 gallons from our own tanks."

What are the chances of Lalla and Palooza having a happy marriage? "There's no way of insuring that porpoises will successfully mate in captivity," Coates said. "It's anybody's guess. But they have done it. You know," he said dreamily, "we had a couple of porpoises years ago that were so affectionate we had to take them out of the tank."


California and Florida share oranges, sunshine, a mutual antipathy and the Los Angeles Dodgers, all in unequal amounts. Now it appears possible that Florida will lose the Dodgers altogether. By order of the Federal Aviation Agency, the Vero Beach city council must renegotiate the lease for the Dodger spring training camp at the Vero Beach airport.

The team, when still the Brooklyn Dodgers, began its vernal romance with Vero Beach in 1948. It was a cushy deal: the rent for 100-odd acres of the airport grounds was $1 a year plus the gate receipts from one exhibition game. In 1952 Vero Beach extended the lease for 21 years on the same splendid terms, having meanwhile made things even nicer for the tenant by supplying field lighting and bed linens. Indeed, between 1948 and 1953, a U.S. government audit shows, the town spent $18,000 on the Dodgers, and the Dodgers spent $1,700 on the town. (The Dodgers say they, too, made "costly improvements" on the property, and that they built a stadium and donated it to the city.)

At any rate, the FAA, under whose jurisdiction U.S. airports fall, considers Vero Beach's lease with the Dodgers and 41 other tenants "unbusinesslike." And it has said the airport, leased to the city, will revert to federal operation if changes are not made. Consequently, a crestfallen city council has had to ask the Dodgers for a more businesslike arrangement (like money).

The Southern California Committee for Major League Baseball, jealous of even a six-week defection, is now pressuring the team to spend its springtime at home. An association of five desert communities, the SCCMLB, promises the Dodgers all the dollar advantages they used to enjoy in Florida, plus that "invaluable intangible of California climate."

Any climate that costs $1 a year is likely to appeal to Walter O'Malley.

George B. Schaller, the young research scientist who was received in amiable fashion by wild gorillas (SI, June 20), has been chased out of the Congo by members of his own species. Schaller last week advised the New York Zoological Society, co-sponsor of the gorilla studies, that he moved his pretty wife Kay to Uganda at the beginning of the Congo troubles. He then returned to the Virunga Volcano area for his notes and his household effects—and to bid farewell to his gorilla friends. There was nothing amiable about the Congolese by this time. On the way out, Schaller ran a police blockade in his speeding truck, placated a mob with gifts of cigarettes, blew a tire and finally crossed the border on the rim just ahead of a pursuing horde of natives. In Uganda, Schaller will continue his gorilla studies with animals that have had closer contact with man than those in the Congo. On balance, it would seem likely that they will be less friendly.

Romeo wooed Juliet with pretty speeches, Don Juan strummed a dulcet guitar. Last week Bill Nieder, a world-record shotputter who is every inch a man's man, redefined the serenade in terms appropriate to an Olympic year. While his lady fair, Barbara Huffman, convalesced from an appendectomy in a New York hospital, Nieder stood beneath her window and, to fill her lonesome hours, furnished a daily demonstration of his proficiency in chucking a cannon ball.