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Original Issue



Despite the ingratitude of upstate New York voters, Senator Kenneth Keating managed to swallow some upstate champagne to help his office girls celebrate a birthday. Sun-tanned and smiling after two weeks in the Virgin Islands, Keating even managed to joke about newspaper stories consigning him variously to Hollywood, to the baseball commissionership and to television. But what he really wanted to talk about was fishing. Trolling with Wyatt and Nancy Dickerson (the NBC newsgirl) off St. Thomas, Keating had caught a 7-foot 1-inch sailfish, five wahoo and one barracuda and was eager to boast about it. "My one plan now is to go back and land bigger ones," he said.

"I'm so nervous I'm shaking all over," said the weekend tennis player from Newport and points west as she stepped on the courts at New York's River Club to play with two former champions. But after the match was over, Davis Cuppers Dick Savitt and Bill Talbert agreed that Jackie Kennedy could hold her own on any court. Jackie and Dick beat Bill and his partner 6-4 in the first set and dropped the second by the same score. "She's a real competitor," said a panting Talbert later.

A war that ended two years ago spoiled opening ceremonies of Europe's first year-round competitive artificial ski piste. Lyons Mayor Louis Pradel had invited Annapurna conqueror Maurice Herzog, now Gaullist Minister of Youth and Sports, and Olympic champions Francois Bon-lieu and Marielle and Christine Goitschel to inaugurate the 950-foot-long, 250-foot-drop trail on the slopes of Fourvière. All accepted. Then the mayor made the mistake of criticizing the Gaullist regime for its handling of the recent Algerian crisis. "In these circumstances," said Herzog, taking his huffy leave, "it is not desirable for the Minister of Youth and Sports to participate in the Lyons ceremony."

The sweet life in Rome was marred by at least one sour note for Sugar Ray Robinson. The highlight of his visit was supposed to be an audience with the Pope, but before Sugar got to the Vatican he dropped in at the Colosseum. There, nattily dressed in a white jump suit, he went a few unorthodox rounds with onetime Mr. America (now the ex-Mr. Jayne Mansfield) Mickey Hargitay, who was dressed as a Roman gladiator (below). Their audience was a random group of Romans and three starlets from Cinecitta who were scarcely dressed at all. Somehow or another, after that episode, arrangements for a papal audience bogged down. Later on, in one of Rome's most glittering niteries, pious Sugar philosophized on the contiguity of worldliness and holiness in the Eternal City. "It is easy," he said, "to defend one's faith far from all temptation."

The night before the opening of the elk season, New Mexico Governor Jack Campbell left his warm office in sunny Santa Fe to camp overnight in the snow in the Pecos Wilderness Area. Temperature outside the tent was zero, the snow was 12 inches deep, and the elk wholly eluded his sights. "I'm really a fisherman," the governor said after one day of it, and departed.

Although Cleveland's stage-struck Left Fielder Leon Wagner needs glasses to see properly, he eschewed spectacles during the Indians' 1964 season in the hope that a movie scout in the stands would be overwhelmed by his handsome visage. Now that he has got a role in the TV series The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Wagner says he will make a concession—he will wear tinted contact lenses next season.

Walking along Manhattan's 50th Street minding his own business, Floyd Patterson was suddenly and unceremoniously seized and stuffed—protesting—into a taxi by Baritone Robert Goulet, who wanted help in the celebration of a great event. The event was the birth of his first son, which Mrs. Goulet (nee Carol Lawrence) had delivered with enthusiasm via psycho-prophylaxis, or natural childbirth. Fortified by six weeks of Slow Chest Breathing and Mild Effleurage of Abdomen, Rapid Panting and Pant-Blow Breathing, psycho-prophylactic patient Carol—in her own words—"felt bright, alert and thrilled the minute the baby was born." Only moments after delivery she greeted the ex-heavyweight champion in her hospital room as enthusiastically as a fight promoter with a million-dollar guarantee and a return-bout clause. "Poor Floyd," she said afterward. "He did look extremely embarrassed."

By courtesy of the White House, Secretary of the Interior Stewart Udall was a three-letter man for the duration of one luncheon. Introducing Udall to U.S. Olympic medal winners, President Johnson praised his Secretary's former prowess as a star player on the University of Arizona baseball team. A subsequent White House transcript of L.B.J.'s remarks corrected the statement to make Mr. Udall an iron man on Arizona's football team. Then UPI stepped in to explain that the Secretary was neither of these things, but an All-Border Conference guard on the Arizona basketball team in 1946. In actual fact, Stewart was just a run-of-the-floor basketball player at Arizona. His brother, Morris Udall, currently the Democratic Congressman from Arizona, was the all-conference man. Is that clear?