DEATH AND TAXES
Kansas City may lose its baseball team. The death of Owner Arnold Johnson posed some interesting tax problems for his widow, whose addresses—New York, Palm Beach and Chicago—perhaps indicate the extent of her home-town interest in Kansas City. The best guess is that she will unload the Athletics to the highest cash bidder.
The club is worth about $3,500,000, and no one in Kansas City has come running with opened purse. Instead, there have been firm bids from Dallas and Houston, where oil money has long coveted a major league franchise.
The K.C. Chamber of Commerce is trying to stir up home-town interest and has suggested that 1,000 local firms might put up $5,000 each to keep the club in town. The deal will take a hard sell.
The succession of second-division finishes and the vastly unsuccessful trades with the Yankees have soured fans. As one put it after watching the A's take a drubbing from the mighty Senators: "The trouble is, we've got the wrong half of the Yankees."
POST-MORTEM ON INGO
Everybody and your Aunt Sarah now has a pet theory about the big fight. Cynics aver that Johansson went into the tank to ensure a third fight, a fat gate and a generous addition to his crammed bank vaults in Switzerland. A New York doctor theorizes that Ingo might have been in a hypnotic state before he came into the ring. Columnist Leonard Lyons writes in dark and somber tone that Johansson was "listless and in somewhat of a daze," and that his eyes didn't sparkle before the fight. Was Ingo Mickey-Finned? Lyons leaves it to the reader's imagination.
One other hypothesis perhaps deserves mention. According to this theory, a healthy Patterson came out in the fifth round and biffed a healthy Ingo twice in the mush. The result could be described as resembling a deep trance or even the effects of a Mickey. Certainly there was very little sparkle, and quite a lot of daze, in Ingo's eyes. Bizarre as this theory may be, there are a number of radicals who embrace it.
THIS IS STATION PORCUPINE
Dr. William Marshall is one of those scientists who post themselves at the very outer limits of their fields. Marshall, a biologist at the University of Minnesota, has long wondered what animals do when no one is watching. To find out, he strapped six one-ounce transmitters to grouse and began tracking their activities by radio. As with Galileo, Edison and Marconi, there were setbacks. One grouse-borne transmitter went off the air completely, leading Marshall to suspect that it might be broadcasting in vain from the belly of a fox. Another grouse fell from a tree, broke both its neck and its antenna.