The Marichal-Roseboro brawl set off heavy repercussions in the southern California apple-juice market. Marichal had been proclaiming his taste for Saxon Apple Juice on billboards and in newspapers all over the Los Angeles area. After Juan used John's head for batting practice, it abruptly occurred to Saxon's advertising agency that Angelenos might now prefer carbonated lye to anything Marichal drank. Within two days Saxon copy featured a less inflammatory foe, peacemaker Willie Mays.
You know how they always call a singer a "knockout"? You ever heard of belting out a song? Well, that's what the British cabaret circuit's newest knockout was rehearsing to do last week at Newcastle. Below: Joe Louis takes a crack at Passing Strangers.
Like every other lovely young lady who was once a world champion skater and has now opted for domesticity, Carol Heiss is a natural for one of those hands-in-the-sink dishwashing commercials. That, in fact, was why she was in Cincinnati: to promote a miracle detergent called Thrill. Carol admitted to a Cincinnati reporter that she still impressed the kids on her block in Akron, although it's neither her Olympic and world figure-skating championships nor the commercials that Thrill them. "I was in a movie with The Three Stooges," she explained. "Whenever Snow White and The Three Stooges comes to Akron, all the kids go past our house saying, 'That's the lady who knows The Three Stooges.' "
Notre Dame alumni have long been unhappy that so few people visit the monument erected at the remote point in Kansas where Knute Rockne died in a plane crash 34 years ago. This Sunday the Irish will dedicate a new memorial in a more accessible place—-a service area on the Kansas Turnpike. There, far from the playing fields of South Bend, amid the aroma of frying hamburgers and diesel exhaust, Rockne will be immortalized in bronze as—the inscription will read—"the greatest inspirational coach of all time."
Buddy Dial took a clutch of Dallas Cowboy teammates (Bob Lilly, Harold Hays, Ralph Neely and Chuck Howley) to his ranch near McKinney, Texas, for the opening of dove season. Here is Dial's unexpurgated account of the hunt: "It was a very successful shootout. We used 10 boxes of shells and got 118 chi chi birds, two squirrels, three rabbits, a hole in my barn and two doves. And one wasp, shot in retreat by Bob Lilly. You know it's not easy to bag a wasp with a shotgun."
Cassius Clay—that's right, the one from Louisville with the wicked hook—has given up boxing and is now selling stocks and bonds. That's not generally known, but neither are the facts that Clay was actually better at baseball and football than at boxing—he played double-A ball with Houston and was fullback on the great Louisville Manual High School team of 1948—and, despite all you hear, can't stand to be called Muhammad. Clay, who is 36 and white, can correct his hook (he is a two-handicap golfer) and hide his boxing trophies, but he can't do much about his name. "I don't even try to cash a check when I'm not known," mourns Clay. "Even with credit cards, driver's license and everything else, people think it's a gag." There have been other problems, too. Several years ago when he was selling machinery, he visited a company with a new purchasing agent. "I'd never met him and didn't even know his name," Clay says. Cassius presented his card to the agent's secretary, who glanced at it—and at him—and burst into laughter. "I looked myself over to see if anything was wrong," Clay remembers ruefully. "She kept giggling. Finally I had to ask her what the devil was so funny." "Do you know who you're calling on?" asked the secretary. Clay admitted that he did not. "The name of the man," the girl said, "is Floyd Patterson."
Even as the Mets were recently winning seven out of 10 games from the Dodgers, Giants and Cardinals, underdogs the world over were cheering an even greater victory. The upset occurred in the Dax, France bullring, where, glory be, the bulls won. All the matadors, including the famed El Cordobés, bit the dust, leaving the final bull to run around the ring unchallenged, its head held high. After the first bull had gored Fermin Murillo, El Cordobés' second bull scored a cut. The last animal got Manuel Amador in the thigh. All three wounded matadors were carted off to the clinic, and it took a rain shower to send the last bull back to his pen.
French Finance Minister Valéry Giscard d'Estaing (below), France's busiest minister—he is in charge of gold inflow—and a man whom some insiders consider a dark-horse candidate to succeed President Charles de Gaulle, is already practicing a prime presidential trait: monumental indifference to criticism. While De Gaulle opponent Jean-Louis Tixier-Vignancour was condemning Gaullist ministers as "servants and lackeys" ("I beg you, let us leave them in the kitchen where they belong"), M. d'Estaing, abstaining from comment on T.-V.'s remarks, was doing his roasting—and swimming—not in the kitchen but on the sandy beach at Saint-Jean-de-Luz.