Skip to main content
Original Issue



Three shots got by him, but Jean Paul Belmondo made enough diving stops (below) to hold off Les Escrocs while his own team, which goes by the name of Les Polymusclés, also scored three times to tie in a soccer match at Cannes. "We'll play regularly next year," said Belmondo, "and I will be the goalie—when my movie commitments permit it." Indeed he will. Belmondo owns the team.

On a flight to Jackson Hole, Wyo., Lynda Bird Johnson wasted no time lining up some press corps members for a little bridge, but the game did not really get going until the plane landed at Kansas City, where a new player got on. Nor was there then any confusion as to the sides. Said Lynda Bird: "O.K., Mother, let's take them." And they did.

One of the founders of San Francisco's newest bank, Fisherman's National, is Joe DiMaggio, and so it is not unnatural that the bank should be located down in the wharf area where Joe grew up. And what exactly will Banker DiMaggio do? "Me? Oh, I guess I'll be some kind of vice-president or something."

Missouri Pacific railroad employees never have any difficulty telling when President D. B. Jenks is planning one of his annual hiking vacations. To get in mountain-climbing trim, onetime Yale crewman Jenks forsakes the elevator of the MoPac building in downtown St. Louis one floor at a time. About a month before his vacation he leaves the elevator seven floors below his office. By the time he is ready to take on Yosemite, the Tetons or Glacier National Park, the MP president is hiking up the full 22 stories.

Former Heavyweight Boxing Champion Ezzard Charles now works for the State of Illinois as a $100-per-week driver's license examiner. "I have no debts," he says. "Also none of the more than $1 million I made as a fighter." Besides a portfolio of investment lemons, Charles has an extensive collection of jazz records and a good bass fiddle, about equally useless. "I never hear either," he sighs. "Our apartment throbs with the Beatles or the Dave Clark Five. My daughters, Deborah and Leith, are nuts about those guys. The walls are plastered with their pictures. It's outrageous."

Billy Haughton, the most successful driver in trotting history, traded sulky and whip for riding breeches and mallet to play polo for Lexington, Ky., against Lancaster, Pa. Despite his stated intention before the game to "stay out of the way," Haughton, in his first polo contest, set up a goal that put Lexington in front. Lancaster, however, came back to win 8-5 before 1,000 spectators, and Haughton, winner of 2,300 races and over $8 million in purses, was still looking for his first victory at polo. He had previously succeeded with Thoroughbreds and hunting horses, however, and he was laying plans for his new sport before he had dismounted. "Stout Fellow," he mused to Mrs. Haughton, "is small and quick...." "Oh, no," said his wife, who is smaller and quicker, "you are not going to make a polo pony out of my horse."

"Keep Bull Fighting Out of Minnesota," appealed 150 billboards around the Minneapolis-St. Paul area. Five weeks later came the sequel. "Victory Announced," screamed the same billboards. "Bull Fighting Cancelled in Minnesota." To Rudy Boschwitz, president of a Minnesota building materials firm, Plywood Minnesota Inc., and perpetrator of the advertisements, it was just a joke, but at least some people took the appeal literally. Boschwitz got several calls from congratulatory antivivisectionists, one of whom has been bombarding him with literature on the subject ever since, not to mention angry howls from the hotblooded Swedes who had been looking forward to those bullfights.

Reporters trooped dutifully into the home of Lawrence O'Brien after his appointment as Postmaster General, but before Mrs. O'Brien could say "welcome" one of Washington's most closely guarded secrets was out. There on a wall for all to see was a framed golf card giving the details of a nine-hole match played at Burning Tree Golf Club. The results: Larry (O'Brien's 19-year-old son) 48, Lyndon Johnson 49. "Oh pshaw," said a blushing Mrs. O'Brien, turning on the most exquisite diplomacy. "L.B.J. deliberately lost to young Larry."

It took some doing to top the sweet young things parading around Forest Hills last week in their off-the-shoulder fishnet tennis costumes but, by golly, Hazel Hotchkiss Wightman, tennis' 78-year-old grande dame, did just that, modeling a grass-length beauty (below) that was big when 23 skiddoo was the rage and I Love, I Love, I Love My Wife, but Oh, You Kid was the tune. Not that Mrs. Wightman had anything against briefs. "Snappy," she said of one daring outfit known as a French rabbit, but as for wearing it herself, she added, "Not on a bet."