The newly elected president of Dublin's Colmcille Swimming Club is Siobhan McKenna. That's odd, considering that Siobhan is an ex-camogie center-fielder and an actress—not a competitive swimmer. But the 150 members of Colmcille tend to overlook details like that because presidential duties are dimly defined and because Siobhan's son, Donnacha O'Dea, is a brilliant 17-year-old swimmer who holds seven Irish records and has won much fame for the club. Nor has anyone forgotten that it was Siobhan McKenna who, a few years ago, put on a benefit theater performance in Dublin to fatten the Colmcille coffers.
Though he had lost only three of his 27 professional fights, onetime Olympic light-welterweight boxer Joe Shaw nevertheless despaired some months ago of ever getting much further and settled down instead to the bleak but steady-paying job of nightclub bouncer. Now a Joe Shaw comeback is being engineered by a 10-man New York group that is peopled, in part, by such literary-social lights as Norman Mailer and Bruce Jay Friedman, George Plimpton and Charles Addams. Says one syndicate man: "The feeling was that while Joe couldn't get the fights he needed, maybe the publicity connected with his new sponsors will do the trick." Joe Shaw shrugs, but he is now hard at work training for a fight set tentatively for May.
Conductor Arthur Fiedler of the Boston Pops hadn't been near a Boston Public Garden swan boat since he was 4. Not without considerable stir, then, did the onetime Coast Guard seaman 2nd return 66 years later to be kicked upstairs as vice-commodore of the swan-boat flotilla. Whereupon Fiedler slapped a gold-braided cap over his white lion's mane, piped a high-C whistle (below), built up pressure on the bird's bicycle-pedal inner workings and went burbling off across the waves on a quarter-mile shakedown cruise to usher in spring, his 37th season with the Pops and you name it.
Should his initial gift of a million-odd dollars to build some indoor tennis courts at the University of Wisconsin not prove sufficient to get the job done, why, says A. C. Nielsen Sr., the TV rater, he'll just have to provide—you know—whatever it does take. When finished Nielsen's tennis building will sprawl across two acres of the campus and will contain 10 tennis courts, five singles squash-racquets courts and one doubles squash-racquets court. A lot of courts, but you've no idea. Actually, says A. C., the six squash courts, ounce for ounce for sweat and strain, provide the recreation of seven tennis courts. And since any one indoor court (calculating the Great Lakes weather factor) is worth 2� outdoor courts, we have, voila! 42� courts. It's very important that people have a place to play tennis in the raw Wisconsin winter, says Alumnus Nielsen, the greatest living benefactor the university has ever known. "Otherwise," he says, "people might beat their wives."
A California high school teacher visiting Washington dropped in on Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield to present a photograph of the 1927 Montana School of Mines football team. Mansfield, who had played end on that team, was specific about his contributions to the Orediggers' forgettable ( Carroll College 66. MSM 6) season: "I was the oldest, slowest, 16th man on the 16-man team."
"I have been reading in the paper," said the letter from Kansas to Baltimore Manager Hank Bauer, "that you will come in third. But I pick you to come in first...because of the way you manage. You know just when to take out a pitcher. Also you know how to put big men in the lineup.... Tell the team I said they have a good manager. Tell the guys I think they can pound every team. Love, Herman." Bauer's sentimental fan: his 9-year-old son.
Four years ago Nebraska Alumnus Ted Sorensen urged District of Columbia's Langston Coleman to hitchhike to Lincoln and try for a football scholarship at his old university. Mission accomplished, the All-Big Eight defensive end wants to help Ted's younger brother, Philip Sorensen, in his campaign for governor of Nebraska. Except that whenever the two of them show up somewhere everybody clamors for the football player's attention and autograph. Wonders Coleman: "Should I tell them it's Mr. Sorensen who is the candidate?"
Though Princess Grace of Monaco had the better seat in Seville's bullring. Tourist Jackie Kennedy, across the way, had the official box—down below which El Cordob�s and two other Spanish matadors bowed elegantly in succession and dedicated their first bulls to her. Then, handing off their headgear for Jackie to hold, the three dispatched their animals, while she dispatched an aide to a nearby Air Force base to fetch three J.F.K. half dollars—which she tucked into the hats and returned.
Wasn't that cowboy coming in from a ride in Alberta (below) really Lord Louis Francis Albert Victor Nicholas Mountbatten, Admiral of the Fleet and Earl Mountbatten of Burma, K.G., G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., G.C.V.O., D.S.O., P.C.? Sure as shooting—but y'all just call him Dickie.
"I'm not much of a public speaker," Rocky Marciano told a high school audience in a rugged West Virginia steel-mill town. "I don't sing, I don't dance and I don't recite poetry like some of my colleagues." But, said Marciano, "just to prove I'm sociable—I'll fight anyone in the house."