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Original Issue


Whatever happens to Purdue's new football Coach Alex Agase has got to be better than his summer fare—perhaps. He tried golf, fishing and bicycling and 1) got dragged up the fairway by his golf cart, 2) fell out of the boat while fishing and 3) tore his rib cartilage when he did a dive over the handlebars while trying to make a turn on the bike. The golfing accident was somewhat typical. "My partner was going to drop me off at my ball and then go after his," he says. "Somehow I caught my foot in the cart and went flopping down on my back. My partner didn't know what had happened and went driving away with me bumping along behind and yelling." His football team? After two straight losses, maybe you shouldn't ask.

Mike Lutz, an Associated Press sports editor in Houston, took a shot at participant sports recently and may retire to spectating forever. While warming up for a neighborhood tennis tournament Lutz felt a little ping on his left cheekbone. Texas style, he ignored it, played nine sets in seven hours, won the doubles title and reached the singles semifinals. Next day, however, he decided a persistent nosebleed probably could use a doctor's attention. How right. The doctor, discovering a .22-caliber slug in Lutz' cheek, told him, "An inch and a half higher and you would have been a dead man." Lutz soldered the bullet to his tennis trophy.

Why have all those baseball players looking for hypnotists gone so far afield, and especially Baltimore's Paul Blair? It turns out that Earl Weaver, manager of the Orioles, has studied hypnotism for years. Although he fervently minimizes his use of it, associates say he has hypnotized dozens of people in informal demonstrations. One story goes that he had former player personnel chief Harry Dalton programmed to say "Whoops!" whenever a triggering phrase ("banana peel on the sidewalk in front of the Southern Hotel") was spoken in his presence. Weaver himself says that hypnotism should be used seriously only by a doctor and only if the subject wants the treatment. But if someday Weaver is seen standing at home plate staring silently at a nemesis in blue.... Whoops!

Paper shredders are not popular in Washington anymore. So Attorney General Elliot Richardson, when he wants to make a point or two with the papers, takes his shots in this fashion. Of course, with paper there are no dribbles. Leaks, maybe.

Professional wrestler Happy Humphrey of Atlanta decided to go on a diet some time ago, and he trimmed from 802 pounds to 232. But then Happy wasn't happy anymore. He had a weight problem. "I got down to 232, and physically I was a champion but mentally I was a wreck." he says. "I couldn't cope with it. I was scared to death to go out of the house. People didn't know me." So Happy, who at that point could put his entire self into one leg of a pair of old trousers with a 101-inch waistband, went back to the doctors. They have his weight stabilized now at a tidy 640 pounds. He's back in wrestling (having just completed a profitable three-week tour of Japan) and happy again. "Heck," he says, "I had an uncle who was 7'8" and weighed 650." Yes, but how long did he live? "To 101."

Henry Aaron may be breaking home-run records, but Willie Mays has already set the alltime record for trips home. Mays went back to New York for his last night and drowned in a flood of gifts. Just for starters, Mrs. Mays did all right with a white jasmine mink coat, a diamond watch and a couple of wardrobes. Then the givers came on big with a 1974 Imperial, a 1974 Chrysler Sebring, a Mercedes sports car. a worldwide trip on Pan Am, his-and-her snowmobiles, a lifetime supply of record albums, a supply of champagne and Scotch, a four-channel stereo set, a private home telephone system, three sets of golf clubs, four more complete wardrobes and a trip to Acapulco. Nor could one ignore the framed collection of Mays bubble-gum cards, an honorary degree from Miles College, a college scholarship given in his name, dolls and toys for distribution to hospitalized children, a hockey game, a $200 gift certificate—and a giant salami from the Hebrew National Delicatessen. Put it all together, and you have to say that ain't just hey.

Will golf pro Miller Barber make the cut? Wrong question. The right question: does Miller Barber need a cut? In any event, it was only natural that when the Woodlawn Country Club set up this chair in its pro shop for trying on golf shoes, it should immediately be named The Miller Barber Chair in honor of the club's touring professional.

When Cincinnati played the Houston Oilers Dave Lewis was at one running back position for the Bengals and Charles (Boobie) Clark at the other. Lewis and Clark sounds like a good combination for gaining a lot of ground, particularly in the West.

Andy Armour, vice-president and part owner of the East Orange Colonials in the Eastern Basketball Association, has freckles, wears braces on his teeth and is a rising young financial genius—at 14. "Being the only owner under 30 on our team, my duties are a little more physical than the others," he says. "I put a string down and mark the three-point circle before the game. I carry water and towels. If the bleachers have to be moved after a dance, I do that." How did Andy get into the basketball business? First he made money mowing lawns and baby-sitting. He bought some stock and made more money. Then he bought another stock that went from $3 to $40, when he sold. Part of this comes naturally. His father Larry is a financial editor of Barron's Weekly and author of The Young Millionaires. One thing Andy has learned from owning his share of the Colonials, he says sadly, "is about losing money."