In Ohio the man who has the governor's ear is the man who has the wit to drop by one of Columbus' neighborhood bowling alleys. A newsman came by this intelligence the other evening when, along about midnight, he tried to reach Governor James Rhodes at his home. The governor's not in, the reporter was told, he's out with his 16-year-old daughter, Sharon, trying to squeeze in a few frames. Midnight, when the leagues have finished play, is about the only time the pair can find an unoccupied lane or two.
All she had on was a bikini, but when Bob Hope, sore from a round of golf, winched Elke Sommer from a bathtub while shooting a movie script, the effort so aggravated the pain in Bob's back that he had to go to bed for two days.
Like a Mississippi riverboat run aground, the post office-general store in Hye, Texas (pop. 135), four miles from the LBJ Ranch, is a glorious affair of red, white and green tin gingerbread (below). Just the place, President Johnson decided, to swear in his new Postmaster General, Larry O'Brien, and, figuratively, to huddle around the cracker barrel later to munch the cheese and shoot the breeze. That picture over yonder, the President pointed out, shows Hye's 1936 all-brother baseball team. It was the nine Deike brothers he meant, and at the President's side, beaming fit to pop, stood Shortstop Levi Deike, today postmaster of Hye.
Maybe it was time to haul out the "Situation Sought" want ad that he had placed almost two years ago in The Sporting News. Anyway, Pitcher-Author-Commentator Jim Brosnan was out of work again, this time getting the business, he said, from his employer for the past 13 months, Chicago television station WBKB. It was literary vitriol that had soured the Chicago White Sox on Brosnan as a pitcher, and now, said Tom Miller, WBKB programming director, it was Brosnan's biting, behind-the-scenes analysis of sport—interesting as it was—that did not sit well with Chicago viewers. "The city is full of sports nuts, and they give Chicago teams their patronage," said Miller, "but except for the final score they don't want to hear about the game after it's over." Brosnan, who obviously had failed to make his TV exposure dull enough, will now bear down on two unfinished baseball books.
For all the playing time he spends on the field—say three minutes per game—Andy McGraw will never be the University of Pittsburgh's most valuable player, but the Panthers are lucky to have him at all. McGraw, a 26-year-old punting specialist, wedges football into a chockablock schedule of attending classes, selling insurance, working as a signal block operator for the Pennsylvania Railroad, husbanding his family of four children and running for public office. Three days after Pitt lost to Syracuse 51-13, McGraw was elected justice of the peace in South Fayette Township. "I was a little worried about that Syracuse score," McGraw said, "but I guess the voters overlooked my missing Floyd Little on that punt runback."
Certainly it's not easy to think up new ideas for daily television variety shows—else why would anybody think to ask Zsa Zsa Gabor to play polo on a Philadelphia main drag for The Mike Douglas Show? Zsa Zsa agreed to go along with the daft enterprise but, shedding more light than anyone else, she was frank to admit: "A woman needs her head examined to try this very dangerous sport."
He was ever the Lip and never the Velvet Fog, but Leo Durocher once tried to set baseball to music by playing himself in an old Fred Allen operatic spoof. Borrowing liberally from Gilbert and Sullivan melodies, The Brooklyn Pinafore was first heard one Sunday evening in 1945, and a recording of the Durocher skit will be part of a Fred Allen anniversary show on NBC radio this coming Sunday night. But be certain it is Leo's pipes, not the age of the recording, that are responsible for the uneven quality of such songs as:
Though bad language and abuse
I never, never use,
No one do I intentionally irk.
Though, Heavens, I may
I never call an umpire "Jerk."
In a hockey game the eyes of the Chicago Black Hawks' Bobby Hull are as hard and cold as ice. But when the game is done and his thoughts can return to the Polled Hereford cattle on his farm in Ontario, those blue eyes all but mist over. Hull is taking two yearling bulls to the Royal Winter Fair in Toronto this month, and he has high hopes. "One of them, Hardean Wood-row Masterpiece, is a beauty," he said, savoring each syllable. "Hardean Woodrow Masterpiece won the Belleville fair, you know. We might even take him to the International in Chicago."
Maybe the man can rest easy now. For the second time in two years a proposal to strip the name Jim Thorpe from a borough in Pennsylvania and to restore the original name of Mauch Chunk (who never even played football) was defeated by voters last week.
Nobody was saying she wasn't racy; it was merely that the management of Melbourne's Flemington track had in mind something a little less—er—revelatory when it invited Jean Shrimpton (below) to Australia to help herald last week's racing carnival. The Shrimp, as the English fashion model is internationally known, showed up on opening day for the Derby wearing a little, white, high-fashion nifty that stopped four inches from where her knees began, and started all manner of outraged gossip and slander by other, probably less pretty, lady racegoers. "Melbourne," sniffed Shrimpton, "is not yet ready for me."