Quantitatively, Pete Riccitelli, 22, a light heavyweight from Portland, Me., is the best fighter in the world. He has already had 20 fights this year, which is not only more than anyone else but, according to the Ring Record Book, more than any fighter had in all of 1965. Moreover, Pete has won 19 of the 20.
Is he, then, championship material? Well, for one thing, his opponents have been somewhat wanting qualitatively. For another, last week, following the 20th fight, in which he gained a loudly-booed split decision over Rocky Halliday of Wilkes-Barre, Pa., Pete went to the office of the Portland Press-Herald and requested that a statement announcing his retirement be written. Said Pete: "I can't take the booing."
PGA officials posted the following notice on a telephone booth situated at the first tee of the Lakewood Country Club in an effort to maintain silence during last week's Cleveland Open: "Please do not drop money in while golfers are teeing off."
LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT
Since time immemorial, or at least for as long as the Washington State Fisheries Department has cared to count, 150 silver salmon have swum up Coal Creek, which flows on the outskirts of Seattle, to spawn. Since the last salmon passed that way, however, Interstate 405 has been built, and a 500-foot stretch of Coal Creek now goes through a culvert.
Fearing that the fish may refuse to enter the black mouth of the culvert this autumn—homing salmon don't travel at night—highway engineers have spent $3,000 rigging it with electric lights and elaborate controls so that the light inside can be adjusted to coincide with the time of day and weather conditions outside. Or, as one highway official rhapsodizes: "The illumination can be changed from the full brightness of a sunny day to romantic moonlight."
When the Orioles play at night in Baltimore, a tall, distinguished gentleman watches from a box seat. At 10 p.m. he gets up and leaves the ball park. Not at 9:59 p.m. Not at 10:01 p.m. There can be a no-hitter going, a record on the line, the possibility of a rally—no matter. At 10 p.m. he arises and departs.
The gentleman is Frank Cuccia, a Baltimore businessman who quite simply is of the opinion that ball games are unnecessarily prolonged and that two hours of baseball is enough. In the seven years that he has been standing up for what he believes in, Cuccia estimates he has seen four complete games—and had several hundred good nights' sleep.