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At 4:30 p.m. Friday, October 7, Steven Derr, 11, and Phillip Derr, 10, of Baltimore became fourth and fifth in line for bleacher seats for the third game of the World Series, which started at 1 p.m. Saturday, October 8. Mrs. Paul Derr, the boys' mother, dropped by at 8:30 p.m. with extra blankets. Paul Derr paid his sons a visit at 1 a.m., with submarine sandwiches. By that time, Steve had organized a touch football game that went on until 3 a.m. Then the boys slept for two hours. "Steve did," corrected Phillip. "I didn't sleep at all." At 8:30 a.m. Mrs. Derr brought hot chocolate.

The ticket window wouldn't be open until 10 a.m., and the line had grown so long that Mrs. Flora Mason and Miss Sally Montgomery of San Francisco had given up. The two Negro ladies, both Dodger fans wearing "L.A." caps, had flown in on the chance they could get tickets. Touched by their plight, Mrs. Derr who is white and freely admits she is disturbed by both the form and substance of the civil rights demonstrations she sees on TV, told Mrs. Mason and Miss Montgomery that her boys might let them have their tickets.

She broke the news to Steve first. ("I was scared to death," she admitted later.) Did he want to give his tickets to these disappointed ladies? "Well, you have to be polite," Steve explained afterward. "I said O.K., but then I had to go and tell Phillip." Said Phillip, "Oh, I don't care."

During the second inning of the third game, Mrs. Derr's phone rang four times before she left the TV set to answer it. She told the caller, a reporter, that the boys were asleep—partly from exhaustion, partly because they were determined to get back on line for tickets to the fourth game. In the third inning, at Memorial Stadium, Buzzie Bavasi, the Dodgers' vice-president, agreed with the reporter that it would be nice if the boys could have box seats behind the Dodger dugout under their pillows.

At 7 p.m. October 9, in a hotel room, Steven and Phillip accepted their reward from Buzzie, who hugged Steven. Buzzie is the kind of guy who hugs people, but usually not that fervently. Mrs. Den-needled Phillip. "If you weren't going to cry," she said, "why did you walk away?" "Just like you said," Phillip replied, "I'm publicity shy." Did the boys really want to give their tickets to those ladies? the reporter asked. "At first we didn't," Steve said and paused. "At second we didn't, either."


The reason no Westerner has run across an Abominable Snowman is that we have been looking for them in Nepal, Sikkim and Assam, when all along they have been lurking in Bhutan. At least, so says the Bhutan Stamp Agency, which is inexplicably situated in Nassau, Bahamas. "The Bhutanese have heard that Westerners do not believe in the existence of the 'yeti' (as they call the 'Snowman')," the agency states. "This is of little concern to the Bhutanese, who regularly come across its tracks high in the mountain passes, and many have at one time or another seen the animal which can and will kill humans."

As evidence, the agency last week issued eight triangular stamps that show five different versions of the Snowman, reproduced from drawings in old Bhutanese manuscripts and from paintings on the walls of Bhutanese forts or dzong. The stamps come in 1 ch, 2 ch, 3 ch, 4 ch, 5 ch, 15 ch, 40 ch and 50 ch denominations. One hundred ch equal one Nu. One Nu equals about 14¢.

On the 1 ch and 15 ch stamps the Snowman looks like a very large cockeyed cat with a pointed head. On the 2 ch it has the appearance of an immense, voluptuous female. On the 3 ch and 40 ch it resembles a gorilla or maybe a hairy, white-bearded old man. The 5 ch shows only the head, which is quite human and has prominent pointy ears, and the 4 ch and 50 ch portray a figure standing on its hind feet, with a bearded face and a tail. It looks a bit like a bear.

"While the pictures vary considerably," the Bhutan Stamp Agency says, "the descriptions of the 'Abominable Snowman' are fairly consistent: much smaller in size than commonly are visualized by Westerners. It is described as about five feet tall, heavily haired, muscular of build and runs on all fours or walks erect. Its habitat is high up near the snow line at 15,000 or 25,000 feet altitudes. All descriptions feature the animals particularly strong with pungent bad odor."


The customer was well-dressed and had driven up in a Mercedes convertible, and his poodle was not causing any real trouble, just running back and forth with a tennis ball in his mouth. So Proprietor Allen Davis, of the Marina Tennis Shop in San Francisco, ignored the dog and waited on the man. When the customer left—without buying anything—Davis ruefully concluded that he should have ignored the man and waited on the dog. The poodle had lifted 12 slightly used tennis balls from the rear of the store and stashed them in the convertible for a clean getaway.


Willie Davis' egregious half-inning in the second game of the World Series (page 30) fell almost exactly on the 25th anniversary of the most fateful error a Dodger ever committed—Mickey Owen's dropped third strike in the fourth game of the 1941 Series. Owen was the Brooklyn catcher, and Tommy Henrich of the Yankees was at bat in the ninth with two strikes on him, two out and his team trailing. Henrich swung at a big curve and missed, but the ball got past Owen. Tommy made it safely to first and the Yankees rallied to win that game and, eventually, the Series. Owen has never been allowed to forget that error.

Charlie Clark, a deskman for News-day, a Long Island newspaper, doesn't want to forget it. It was his one close brush with history.

"I was 18 and doing public address work at Ebbets Field," Clark is fond of relating. "I had a fancy uniform—high class—and sat on a folding chair at the home-plate end of the Dodger dugout. I saw this ball trickling to within a couple of feet of me, right over to the railing. That was a great shock. Mickey came after it with a big vacant stare on his face—disbelief. I got out of his way because he could have bumped right into me, but I felt like kicking it back to him so he could get Henrich going down to first. I had an awful temptation to kick it. I would have been famous."


In 26 years of coaching football at Clem-son, OF Frank Howard has worked right hard at being country—he chews tobacco and is particular about using the worstest, drawlingest English. Howard was born in Barlow Bend, Ala. (three wagon greasin's from Mobile), and while he played guard on the University of Alabama team that whipped Washington State in the 1931 Rose Bowl, he originally went to Alabama on an academic scholarship.

A lot of folk have got a big kick out of Howard's act, especially Howard. But one thing he hasn't taken too kindly to has been his annual game with Georgia Tech. Clemson hasn't won one since 1945. A fortnight ago it came close, only to have Tech intercept a pass in the last two minutes to win 13-12.

"This is getting on my nerves," Howard said after the game with exemplary diction & grammar. "I get tired of everybody calling me a hayseed s.o.b. who plays Georgia Tech just for the $100,000 guarantee."

Two days later Ol' Frank was finally able to put his city cousins in their academic places. The game films showed Tech had 12 players on the field for the last three plays. At the time, Clemson had the ball and was moving desperately into field-goal range.

Drawled Howard: "I don't know nothin' about them log-y-rhythums they teach at Jawja Tech, but I damn sho' know my 'rithmahtic."

Jawja Tech sent its apologies, along with an explanation: "The reason we didn't know we had 12 men out there," said Assistant Coach Lew Woodruff, "was that all of us were down on our knees praying."


Traditionally, baseball players don't make waves. They are supposed to be strong, silent, manly objects with no control of their destinies and less to say about them. The only time they are permitted a discouraging word is at contract time, and even then it is a faux pas to utter it in public. Therefore, when Jim Kaat opened his mouth the other day it was like hearing Flipper tell that little boy to get off his back.

The trouble in Minnesota began last year when Pitching Coach John Sain and Manager Sam Mele had differences, and Sain moved out of the coaches' room and into the players' locker room. This year the situation got worse, and when Bullpen Coach Hal Naragon sided with Sain, Mele accused both of disloyalty and fired them (they subsequently signed on with Detroit).

Then Kaat, who won 25 games for the Twins, spoke his piece. He admitted he wasn't qualified from a front-office standpoint to give reasons for what "I'm afraid will be known as The Great Mistake [but] I am qualified from a player's standpoint to say that this is the worst thing that could happen to our club at this time."

His statement—actually an open letter to upper Midwest fans—went on to say: "Every move John Sain and Hal Naragon made was in the best interest of the Minnesota Twins. To me this is not disloyalty. Two years ago the Twins were known as a club with fine hitters and not much pitching strength. Now we have a surplus of starting pitchers and some very capable relievers, largely because of a man named John Sain. Allowing him to leave is like the Green Bay Packers allowing Vince Lombardi to quit.

"My sympathy goes out to whoever our pitching coach will be next year. For him it will be comparable to an ordinary pitcher like myself trying to follow Sandy Koufax' feats every fourth day.

"Hal Naragon was the last instrument of communication between Mr. Mele and the players. Now there is complete division."

Asked what possible good he thought his statement could do, Kaat replied, "I just think it should have been said."


More than 20 years ago somebody did take him out to the ball game, and Dr. Peter Adler, conductor of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, was hooked. This year, when the orchestra was asked to play before the third game of the World Series, Dr. Adler was delighted. He sent the Orioles into battle with Slavonic Dances No. 1 and No. 2 by Dvorak, California, Here I Come, Go, Orioles, Go, four Sousa marches and, of course, Take Me Out to the Ball Game.

Dr. Adler, who is 66, has often compared music and baseball, drawing some surprising but probably valid parallels. "I keep thinking how nice it would be if the audiences in our concert halls would understand not only the brilliant effect piece—the home run—but the fine points, the finesse, the no-hitter as well," he says. "Just as no team could last if it counted exclusively on home runs, so it is true for an orchestra."

Dr. Adler has even, in a way, applied the farm system to music, inviting a 15-year-old violinist to perform with the symphony out of town before appearing in Baltimore. "The idea of sending young virtuosos to the minors before they are thrown to the wolves in a major subscription series was a direct consequence of my following baseball's farm system," he says, adding, wistfully, "If the newspapers would have a daily music page as interestingly written as their sports columns, most worries for cultural life would be over."



Duffy Daugherty, Michigan State football coach, after Center Walt For-man, whose grade average was 3.89 out of a possible 4.0, quit the team to enter medical school: "We've learned our lesson. We won't recruit anybody that intelligent again."

John Erickson, Wisconsin basketball coach, on his attempt to recruit 7-foot-1 Lew Alcindor, now a UCLA sophomore: "I told Lew we wouldn't accept him until he took back what he said about the University of Wisconsin. What he said was: 'I won't come.' "