Skip to main content
Original Issue


Baseball players' families are always complaining that their guy is out of town at the crucial moment—when the baby is born, when the air conditioner breaks down, when the grass finally has to be mowed. Well, this year the American League seems to have scheduled its games in a way satisfactory to the family of Boston Red Sox Third Baseman Joe Foy, at least. Foy stays with his parents in The Bronx when the Sox play in New York, and he hit town last week just in time to lead them out of their burning house. He found them making their way through the smoke of a fire that destroyed most of the building, and he was still a trifle distracted the next day while he helped them settle in with a brother and a sister. Not too distracted, however, to hit a grand-slam homer the next evening to help the Sox beat the Yankees 7-1.

Jackie Kennedy is seeking privacy in Ireland, and she and the children (above) appeared to have found it last week as they cantered through a field of buttercups. Those who lost it were the residents of the tiny Irish vilage of Woodstown. Some 200 policemen, 30 special detectives and a couple of FBI men were cluttering up the place to insure Mrs. Kennedy's peace and quiet. In 1943 Harry (The Hat) Walker led the National League in sacrifices. Twenty-four years later, at the age of 50, he is still running out his bunts. Better than ever, in fact. In an exhibition game last week the former outfielder and present Pirate manager played first base for two innings. He beat out a bunt, stole second and scored on a single by Pitcher Billy O'Dell. The game was played against the Pirates' own farm team, the Columbus Jets, and the men took the boys 12-5.

The Ford Motor Company gave a party in midtown Manhattan last week following its second victory at Le Mans. Victor A. J. Foyt celebrated until 9 p.m. and then left for Kennedy Airport in a Ford-chauffeured limousine, with the mad hope of catching a 9:30 flight to Houston. Ford should have given him the Mark IV he drove at Le Mans and let him handle the trip himself. As it was, Foyt put in a bad 30 minutes, gritting his teeth in the back seat of the limousine, but not half as bad a 30 minutes, we bet, as his driver. They missed the flight.

Author George Plimpton has just sold his book Paper Lion, the account of his experiences as an amateur quarterback for the Detroit Lions, to United Artists. Producer Stuart Millar has assured George that he will be screen-tested for the role of himself, though he added, "We're not making any promises." It would be nice if George got the role. He did not really succeed in being a Detroit Lion, but who could make a better George Plimpton?

So you envy Sean Connery for all the time he spends making James Bond movies? Apparently you needn't. In Mexico City last week, where he was preparing to star in the first British Western ever filmed in Mexico, Connery was advised that there would be a lot of rough stuff in the film—a lot even for 007. Connery is reported to have replied, "That should not be too difficult, considering some of the women I have worked with lately."

When Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt dived into the pool at Camp David last week he promptly found the pair of borrowed swim trunks down about his ankles. The prime minister succeeded in holding his breath and staying under water long enough to haul them up again, but it certainly begins to look as though no aspect of American foreign relations can go smoothly. The swim trunks were on loan from LBJ.

Vern Wolfe ended up with plenty of fish recently—what got away was the trophy for USC's victory in the NCAA track and field championships. His assistant coach, Ken Matsuda, had caught a mess of trout in the Utah streams while the team was in Provo, and he offered some to Wolfe. Delighted, Wolfe packed them carefully in dry ice and carried them tenderly onto the plane for Los Angeles. He was somewhat less delighted when he realized that what he had not tenderly carried onto the plane was the Trojans' trophy: he had forgotten it. The following Monday at the weekly track writers' luncheon in Los Angeles, Paul Schechter, trainer for the Southern California Striders, announced, "I believe I have something Vern Wolfe wants." He hauled out a bulky package and handed Wolfe his trophy, which had been found abandoned on a seat of a bus to the Salt Lake City airport. If Wolfe had to forget one or the other of his prizes it is probably just as well that he remembered the fish—an abandoned track trophy smells better.

"I'm like a racehorse. I ready myself for the distance, no more, no less." So says 68-year-old Dancer Fred Astaire, currently filming Finian's Rainbow. And there are plenty of racehorses around who could use some of his stamina.

One perfect rose is always a nice present, but perhaps not quite the thing for one golfer to give another. So Doug Sanders recently presented friend Billy Casper with one perfect live buffalo. It was just a baby, at 400 pounds, and Sanders said, "Billy can either keep it as a pet or fatten it up to 1,200 pounds and slaughter it. Personally, I'd like to see Billy eat a lot of the steaks and get fat himself. Maybe I could win a little more money that way."