Cerutty ran into the Caudle family on shipboard in 1958, when Ivor was a lean and compact child of 7 Cerutty invited the Caudles, father and son, to join him in trotting around the boat deck each dawn. Watching the loose-jointed Ivor loping alongside, Cerutty was impressed by the boy's steady, even strides, his instinctive control of breathing and his calm temperament. He suggested that Papa Caudle, an orange grower, bring the boy to the Cerutty miler factory at Portsea. This was all the suggestion the Caudles needed, and since then they have shown up at every available opportunity. Says the Senior Caudle: "Perce can inspire young chaps. It is something more than technique. He moves them inside." Says young Ivor: "He's always laughing and joking and playing games. Sometimes it seemed funny running in a race against an old man with white hair. But really he doesn't seem old at all. He's a beaut."
At Portsea the brown-haired, impish Ivor enjoys an idyllic existence. Cerutty limits him to two hours a day of dune running and light weight lifting. The rest of the time Ivor goes fishing with Herb Elliott or just hangs around, listening. At night he sleeps in John Landy's old bunk. Meals are typical Cerutty: raw oatmeal, dried fruit and walnuts for breakfast; salads for lunch; vegetable stew with a little meat and cooked barley or fish or chicken for dinner.
The elder Caudle, who once ran a 4:20 mile, is so taken with the Cerutty interest in Ivor that he has contemplated moving the family to Portsea from Adelaide. But Cerutty counseled against the move. "I told him to wait until the boy does something," the coach said. So far the best "something" Ivor has done is a 6:03 mile, which probably is a world record for 10-and-unders.
THE BRAVE BULL
There was a bullfight in Providence the other day. The combatants were a bull buffalo named Pal, who resides in an enclosure in a city park, and a fierce matador named Manuel (Manolete) Viera, who oversees the buffaloes in the park.
At 4 a.m. Pal got out of his cage, and Viera went after him. Aided by a troupe of peones, Viera got a rope on the bull, but el toro would not be held down by anything so fragile. At that point the true corrida began. Manolete decided to tire the bull with a series of passes. He began with a ver�nica, followed with a couple of estatuarios and finished off with a pase de pecho. The bull gored him in the leg.
A substitute torero named Dr. Seymour Hoffman was brought in for la hora de la verdad. Declining to go in over the horns for the grand estocada, Dr. Hoffman approached the problem from another angle. He jabbed Pal in the buttocks with a tranquilizer. Pal climbed happily into a cattle truck, his tail and both ears intact. Ol�!
Seasonal housing is a problem with professional athletes. They may live in Schenectady and play for Fort Worth. The same is true of coaches. Three pro basketball coaches have handled it this way. Paul Seymour, who lives in Syracuse and coaches in St. Louis, has rented a house occupied during the baseball season by Cardinal Pitcher Larry Jackson. He has rented his Syracuse home to Syracuse Basketball Coach Alex Hannum. Hannum, who lives in Los Angeles in the off season, has rented his home to Fred Schaus, new coach of the Los Angeles Lakers, who moved from Morgantown, West Virginia. Now if Jackson could be persuaded to move to Morgantown....
THE SAGA OF SOCKEYE SAM
The single-mindedness of some of nature's creatures has always amazed man—the lemmings and their suicidal drive to the sea, the eels' annual return to the Sargasso, the swallows' comeback to Capistrano. At the American Fisheries Society meeting in Denver recently, naturalists heard another such saga. Scientists at the Bonneville Dam fisheries laboratory on the Columbia River had decided to find out how seriously the salmon takes his yearly task of swimming upstream to spawn. A system of connected pools, each a foot higher than the other, was set up, and a salmon was introduced. Affectionately known as Sam, the sockeye kept climbing to the top of the system, only to be sloshed down to the bottom by the ichthyologists. At the rate of 50 jumps an hour, Sam went through 6,648 pools, gained a total elevation of a mile and a quarter. By this time, Sam hadn't even worked up a salmon's version of a sweat, but the naturalists had. They opened the last gate and let Sam swim upstream.