Twilight was gathering when Floyd Patterson walked out on the front porch of his training camp and said to nobody in particular: "Well, this is the hour.... There comes a time when you have to face it, and this is it."
For weeks the films of Patterson's loss to Ingemar Johansson had been gathering dust at the camp. Nobody wanted to push Patterson into watching the pain and the agony of his defeat, but everybody knew that he would have to study the pictures sooner or later. Now he was ready, and into the viewing room with him went Trainer Dan Florio, Sports Editor Louis Chantigny of Montreal's Le Petit Journal and several others. No one spoke as Patterson himself set up the projector, snapped a switch and sat back, fingernails to mouth, his face a mask.
"There wasn't a sound at first," says Chantigny. "You could see he was trying to keep all expression off his face. But he looked like a guy who was going to get killed."
Suddenly it was the third round, and Patterson-on-film was on the floor. Patterson-in-the-flesh buried his head in his hands and groaned, "Gee, how could I be so bad?"
But he seemed to relax as disaster followed disaster. By the fifth knockdown he was smiling, and at the knockout he seemed genuinely relieved. When the lights went up, everybody started talking at once. "He had leverage on you." "You should have bobbed and weaved." "Don't let him get set...." Patterson said: "I should have looked at the pictures a long time ago. I know now that I can never be as bad as what I've seen."
The film was rewound and started again. Patterson sat quietly, unsmiling. When he saw himself hit the deck for the third time, he said, "That's enough!" Nobody moved. Patterson stalked across the room and pulled the plug. He was coldly furious, and mostly at himself.
The Texas interscholastic league stripped the Stamford High School football team of its state championship the other day. The reason: one of the team's players, a 220-pound center named Wendell Ray Robinson, had gone to live at the local fire-house when his parents moved from town, and Stamford boosters had paid for his room and board. Robinson ostensibly had worked for his keep, but the league decided that his firehouse duties were somewhat nebulous. "My job was to operate the radio," Robinson explained, "and tell the police when the fire truck went out. But I never needed to." Small wonder. The Stamford fire and police departments are housed in the same building.
END OF THE RAINBOW?
Utah's Rainbow Bridge is due for a dunking when a power dam being built on the Colorado River is completed. The only thing that can save Rainbow, the world's largest natural bridge, is a protective buffer dam. But the House Appropriations Committee has turned down a 3� million request for the buffer, arguing the whole project would cost a pot of gold—at least $23 million.
NEW FOREIGN AGENT