End of a Decade
As it must to all convicted of intolerable violation of the antitrust laws, dissolution came this week to the International Boxing Club ( Truman Gibson, president; James D. Norris, former president). Ruling for the People, the Supreme Court of the United States upheld the order of the district court (SI, July 1, '57) dismantling the iron web of monopoly which the IBC began to weave just a decade ago. The court ruled that the IBC has "exercised a stranglehold on the industry for a long period," that it amounted to "an odorous monopoly...still feared in the boxing world."
As editors of a four-year-old magazine which has for four years devoted substantial time and space to a documented account of the lamentable effects of the IBC monopoly, we look forward with good cheer to the prospects of a new and freer atmosphere in a great sport in the decade ahead.
South Bend Rebuttal
When Terry Brennan was dismissed as football coach of Notre Dame, the action was widely interpreted in the U.S. press as a retreat by the university in the face of "win-'em-all" alumni demands. This magazine called its own account Surrender at Notre Dame. On pages 16 17 of this issue the president of Notre Dame, Father Hesburgh, borrows our space to refute this interpretation. We are glad that Father Hesburgh has chosen SPORTS ILLUSTRATED as his forum, and we welcome his word that there has been no change in the standards that Father Hesburgh himself has set for Notre Dame; that the only surrender at South Bend is Notre Dame's long-committed "surrender to excellence on all fronts."
The Truly Small World
Christopher Columbus doubtless had his share of trouble on those transatlantic voyages back in the 1490s, but at least no one stepped down to the beach to greet him with that fine old clich�, "Well, it's a small world, isn't it?"
We regret to report that the same cannot be said of Columbus' most recent emulators. The somber fact is that the first words spoken in the Western Hemisphere to the daring four who had drifted for 24 days on wind and tide from the Old World to the New were—approximately—"Say, are you folks The Small World!" Except for the quibble that he was seeking factual information about the name of their frail craft, the questioner, a Barbados fisherman named Braithwaite, might just as well have been mouthing the clich� that echoes through the Ritz Bar in Paris a thousand times a week. And the funny part is that the clich� makes sense, for—dammit all—it is a small world, isn't it?
Some 1,875 well-filled commercial airliners made the trip between New York's Idlewild and various European airports in the three weeks Arnold (Bushy) Eiloart and his companions drifted over and on the Atlantic. The U.S. sent another satellite aloft to join the three already orbiting, each of which traversed Eiloart's projected course in a matter of minutes. Another steel monster flew skyward out of Russia to spurn the earth entirely and find its sport in the vaster area of the solar system. A revolution was consummated and a dictator ousted in the very island group toward which The Small World was headed.
And yet one day a native fisherman seeking dolphin saw a strange craft bobbing about in the wastes of the Atlantic and recognized it instantly. "Are you The Small World?" he asked. "Yes," answered Bushy Eiloart, now bushier than ever with a harum-scarum beard to match his shock of blond hair, but "No," we must answer for him. Neither the gas-filled balloon that kept them airborne for two days, nor the plastic boat that kept them afloat on the sea for 22 more, neither Eiloart himself nor his son Timothy, who promptly overate himself sick when they reached land, neither Colin Mudie, the eager yachtsman who kept them pointing in the right direction, nor his gallant wife Rosemary, whose first thought ashore was of bobby pins, properly constituted the small world of today. That world was the world on whose surface they drifted, not creatures from another universe as Columbus must once have seemed, but predictable, if unimportant, parts of a tight little global community so small that nothing in it is any more truly lost but only temporarily misplaced.
"Oh, it's you," the Barbados fisherman might well have said to the brave little party of foolhardy adventurers at the end of their long voyage. "Well, come on. I'm busy."