Marvin (The Manager) Greenberg, Sandler's adviser and traveling companion, is not. "I think it's an atrocious game," said The Manager. "As a spectator, I'm standin', sweatin', strainin'. Can't yell. Can't scream. Can't needle the umpire. Can't hustle a bet. Can't get any action. It's no game for the spectator. No. They wall you off. And the players are gentlemen! They call attention to double bounces and say, 'Nice shot.' Who needs it? I don't and Stevie don't. If he's smart he will stay where he belongs—in Brooklyn, playing one-wall on Avenue P playground."
FOR THE FIRST PINT
At 61, Oliver Jones of Birmingham is reputedly the oldest Rugby player in England. When he recently scored a try (roughly equivalent to a touchdown) to help the Old Edwardian Exiles defeat the Birmingham University Wanderers, there was some question of whether or not it was his first since 1924. As it turned out it wasn't; Jones had scored one as recently as 1947. Evidently, the confusion arose because he had, memorably, scored two in 1924.
"But I'm not claiming 1924 as my vintage year," Jones, a retired company director, told the Daily Mail. "That was 1932, when I had become fairly established following a successful tour of America. This I had undertaken to mend a broken heart and to give my father an opportunity of reconsidering his attitude toward me."
Jones was then asked why he continues to play. "For two very good reasons," he said. "First, I was inclined to get cold watching, and I can't think of anything else one can do on a Saturday. I did join a mountaineering club. But you can't go mountaineering in Birmingham. It was a dead loss. Second, I play for the supreme ecstasy of that first pint."
Jones, who was referring to the tradition of repairing to licensed premises after the game, was asked what is wrong with the last pint.
"My dear fellow," he replied, "the last one has no significance whatsoever. By that time the feeling of satisfaction has been lost."
When Stamford played Anson in a Texas high school game the other day the referee walked off two consecutive "five-yard" offside penalties against Anson. Instead of signaling an automatic first down, he bemusedly called for a measurement. A good thing, too. Stamford was a foot shy of a first down.
Virginia City, Nev. (pop. 500) is situated in the desert on a mountainside 6,500 feet above sea level and 20 miles from the nearest body of water, a small lake. It is obvious that such a godforsaken burg could stand a saloon or two (although not necessarily 15), but a yacht club! Yes, Virginia, there is a Virginia City Yacht Club. It was founded in certain of the town's better-class saloons, where Bob Richards, editor of the Virginia City Territorial Enterprise, told about an out-of-stale subscriber who had written to ask if Virginia City had a yacht club. Barroom discussions are frequently of more than ordinary vision and scope, and the upshot of these colloquies was the decision that Virginia City was the perfect spot for a yacht club.