Last month he was beaten stiff-legged and glassy-eyed by Dick Tiger, only to bounce back as vice-president in charge of sales for a Philadelphia dairy. Some switch, "but in case anybody thinks different, I'm working and it's rough," said ex-Middleweight Champion Joey Giardello. "You gotta fight to sell milk, you know." Why hadn't he gone into the beer business, as so many boxers have? "I don't want to be around places where there's drinking," said the old carouser. "There's always somebody who wants to take a punch at a fighter—especially a washed-up one like me."
While off in America distant cousin Guy de Rothschild's Diatome was winning the Washington, D.C. International, Baroness Monique de Rothschild was back in the saddle in France in her customary role of master of the richly traditional St. Hubert's Day horse-and-hound stag hunt. With a wicked dagger at her side, a puffed-up horn blower at her knee and on her face a look so imperious it might stop the beast in its tracks, Monique gave the signal (below) that sent 40 friends crashing off into the woods near Compi√®gne. All agreed the quarry—eventually driven into a pond and shot—was, up to that moment, a "magnificent" animal.
Provided there would be no written speech, no one telling him what to say, the National League's Most Valuable Player said he would gladly talk to members of Sargent Shriver's Job Corps in Washington. "Just point me at them," said Willie Mays. "I can get through." That's what he did when 50 young corpsmen crowded in to hear him field their questions of self-doubt. Said Mays to a would-be minister: "Don't listen to those who tell you you can't. At 19 I was 0 for 24 at Birmingham. If I had listened to the doubters, I would have quit baseball right then."
The magic of Spain's buck-toothed tennis-playing wizard, Manuel Santana, affects his countrymen in diverse ways—little boys have discarded soccer to dream of the Davis Cup and adults have created a dance that employs all the basic moves of tennis. The thing even got through to Robert Lilienthal, an American living in Madrid, who rose to the occasion by writing a song and dedicating it to Manuel. It is called Loco por el Tenis, and, as a sort of combination paean and step-by-step instructional, it advises: "First the drive, with your knees at ease and racket ready to swing/Turn, look and hit—bing—oh, what fun is tennis!"
Well, was it a national scandal, or wasn't it? Staging a low-class hunt race over brush fences at high-class Ascot was not only unheard of but plainly outrageous. Still, the idea had originated with England's Earl Marshal, the Duke of Norfolk, and his ideas, no matter how shocking, simply cannot be rejected out of hand. This one left everybody in a stew, but Norfolk was serenely sure of his unhallowed ground. "Traditions die hard," he said, "but snobbism in racing must stop if the sport is to survive." Then came the clincher: "Indeed, the Queen and the Queen Mother have been very interested in the whole project."
On the one hand is substandard housing for Negroes and on the other is the city council that can't make up its mind on a zoning change. In between stands Curt McClinton, running back for the Kansas City Chiefs, with ambitions to build a $400,000 apartment complex where he and other Negro athletes—and anyone else—can live in comfort. Provided the council and legal hasslers do not bar the way, McClinton and his associates (including Athletics' Pitcher John Wyatt) hope to begin construction on a 33-unit building that will feature a swimming pool shaped like a football and such rarities (for Kansas City Negroes) as central heating and air conditioning.
He had been around the world 10 times in his 29 years, he lamented, and now it was highly appropriate to worry about the future. Accordingly, Australia's Roy Emerson said he would give amateur tennis only one more go—a defense of his Wimbledon title next summer—before repairing to the U.S. for two years of study, he hoped at Harvard. Emerson's subject will be public relations and his bills paid by his employer, Philip Morris.
Their boat is a 24-foot Hydro-dyne with two clutch-coupled V-8 engines fitted with power-amplifying carburetors and tuned stacks capable of developing 1,000 hp and 100 mph. Even so, Astronauts Gordon Cooper and Gus Grissom were disqualified from the 500-mile Salton Sea speedboat race because—the very idea—they were five minutes late to a mandatory meeting. They should have been ashamed, and they were: on the way their car ran out of gas.
Montreal's Esquire Showbar billed him as L'Etoile de la Série Mondiale 1965—another way of saying plain old Mudcat Grant (below) was turning his hand to show business. And the Twins' heroic pitcher went over pretty well, too, as he danced a little, sang a few songs, told some jokes and recited selected quatrains of original poetry. But, listening to Mudcat's poems, it was good to know he can still pitch that ball. Sample lines:
Life is like a game of baseball,
And you play it every day;
It isn't just the breaks you get,
But the kind of game you play.