A mighty roar
echoed from the stands at Tanforan race track in California one day last week
as a big, sleek chestnut made his move in the stretch of the $4,000,
six-furlong feature. Hoofs pounding, nostrils flared, the great horse, 12
lengths off the pace at the half, drove past one after another of the field of
nine to win by half a length in 1 minute 10[3/5] seconds, the second fastest
time in the meeting.
The horse's name?
Who's on First,
By all odds, the
most important development of the winter baseball meetings held in Washington
D.C. last week was that Dick Nixon, at the main banquet, wore his own tuxedo.
Certainly little else happened.
legislation was either voted down, passed in a milk-toast form or tabled into
some distant tomorrow. Two committees already formed to consider the problem of
10-team leagues were dissolved; another was created and it in turn handed the
whole ugly problem over to a research agency. The realignment of two minor
leagues was settled, disrupted, then settled again with a maximum of confusion
player representatives asked club owners for 20% of each team's gross income
and were answered with a loud and unanimous "no." International League
players threatened to strike unless their owners created a pension fund, but
scarcely anyone bothered to answer them.
The most definite
statement of the meetings was made by Will Harridge, president of the American
League for 28 years. The statement: "I resign." Everyone, including a
number who had long wished he would, said how sorry they were to see him go.
There is perhaps no one that American League club owners would rather see in a
nice out-of-the-way spot than George Weiss, general manager of the New York
Yankees, so they promptly offered George Harridge's job. He said he wouldn't
There were a few
trades. Wally Moon came to Washington as the St. Louis Cardinals' player
representative and left as a Los Angeles Dodger. Frank Lane made a trade,
naturally, getting Jim Piersall for Vic Wertz. Frank Lane loves to trade
ballplayers. It relaxes him.
spot during the meetings was the lobby of the Statler Hotel, baseball's winter
playground. There sportswriters swapped rumors, general managers whispered
secrets to each other behind potted palms and old outfielders tried to promote
new jobs. After midnight, the lobby became a stage upon which Casey Stengel
could perform his never-ending monologue act to a small crowd of delighted