Bill Bradley has gained one more distinction never before attained by any basketball player—collegiate, high school or pro. The Princeton gem from Crystal City, Mo. is now being acclaimed underground: a room in Meramec Caverns (Mo.) has been named for him. The cavern will contain pictures of Bradley, stories written about Bradley, Bradley memorabilia and, of course, a basketball hoop.
Richard and Elizabeth Burton, the latter attired as usual in her $6,000 anorak, came in from the cold for a midnight visit to Dublin's Jameson whiskey distillery. After several whiskeys and Irish coffees, Burton felt he could best illustrate his verbal replay of the Irish Rugby international match by getting down on the floor with an Irish newspaperman to demonstrate proper scrummaging. "Oh my God," exclaimed Liz brightly, "what's he doing now?"
There they were, Manager Yogi Berra and Manager Johnny Keane (below), matched in a rerun of the world championship. You knew it was going to be a tough series from the moment the umpire yelled "Play bowl!" The National and American league bowling all-stars were evenly matched, but managerial form prevailed. The result: Keane's all-stars 137, Berra's 134. The individual champion and winner of the Fred Hutchinson Memorial Award was, appropriately, the late Cincinnati manager's star outfielder, Frank Robinson.
The last time he came west. William Warren Scranton made the mistake of making his run in public and ended up with a sad little grin on his face. Changing tactics and opponents this time, Governor Scranton tackled the slopes at Alta, Utah—in secret. Aided by careful preparation, heavy snowstorms and an uninterested press, Scranton and family remained mostly incognito. There was only one lapse. Son Joe, aged 15, nearly spoiled the whole scheme by finishing second in a giant slalom.
Further Finley fillip: While the Kansas City A's train at Bradenton in deep dread of Opening Day, their mule mascot—prospective mount of Owner Charles O. Finley—is getting his own spring training. Finley has sent the mule to a fancy Kansas City riding academy, where he is being taught to take bows.
Paul (The Waiter) Ricca, elder statesman of the Chicago rackets, displayed more gambling zeal than sports knowledgeability at a U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service hearing seeking evidence to deport him. Questioned about his 1962 tax returns, the Syndicate magnate testified that he won $25,000 by betting on Floyd Patterson against Sonny Liston. "It was my recollection that Liston won that fight," said the inquiry officer sweetly. "Well," shrugged Ricca's lawyer, "then the World Series or Liston or whoever it was he bet on."
Bro football players, always a clannish lot, perfected a new extreme in that trait last week. Raider Fullback Alan Miller, returning to Oakland after a year's retirement, had to sell his 10-room house in Sudbury, Mass. You might say the fellows kept it in the lodge. Boston Patriot Guard Charley Long bought the house; Patriot Safetyman Ross O'Hanley handled mortgaging through his new employer, the Commonwealth National Bank; former teammate Gerry DeLucca took care of the moving.
Bobby Kennedy needed a lot of help to get to the top of that mountain, and Bobby is not the kind to forget or forgive such an embarrassment. He brought mountain-climbing professionals Jim Whittaker and Barry Prather home to Washington and sicced the Kennedy household on them. Predictably, Whittaker and Prather went down to ignominious defeat under the onslaught of Ethel, nine children and an indeterminate number of miscellaneous four-legged pets. In the morning Whittaker lost to Ethel Kennedy at tennis. In the afternoon he and Prather succumbed to the Kennedys in touch—nobody said how hard—football. After three days as guests in the Kennedy ménage, both were stiff, muscle-cramped, elbow-skinned and sore of shoulder and shin. "Kennedy's got a houseful of built-in exercisers that turn off only to eat and sleep," sighed Whittaker. "I'm heading for the mountains to rebuild my ego."
The Duchess of Windsor (below), already owner of four pugs, shopped at the Pug Dog Club show in London, hoping to find still another. "I wanted to buy a bitch," the Duchess said, "but I suppose it would not be wise to upset my old boys."
When Pierre Salinger, the late President's press secretary, ran for Senator last fall, he did not rely entirely on impressing Californians with his key role in Cuba-crisis policy decisions. One of his other promotional gimmicks was a Salinger for Senator bowling team in San Francisco's 921 Classic League. Salinger lost, but the Salinger for Senator bowlers, somewhat embarrassingly, bowled on. More embarrassingly, they kept winning—until the one that really counted. Last week—exactly five months after election day—the Salingers for Senator lost the championship to the Parisian Bakery. Unlucky Pierre was notably absent.