I have written to you many times before about our Baltimore heroes—the Orioles, Colts, Clippers and Bullets—in the hope that you would publish one of my biased letters. But you won't. Could it be bad breath? Athlete's foot? It is August, and the Baltimore Bays and Oakland Clippers are running away from their respective NPSL divisions by mountainous margins, yet you refuse to give soccer any more space than that of the breath-taking, spine-tingling sport of Ping-Pong. My magazine was open to the FOR THE RECORD page and a fly was standing on the gigantic space you reserved for soccer. I squashed him, but I had to borrow my friend's copy of SI, because the fly was spread all over the only soccer news in the issue. If you don't start printing articles on soccer, I am going to burn all my remaining issues of SI. Since my subscription runs through December 1968, I won't have any trouble keeping warm this year or next.
Kudos for the sparkling piece on Ted Williams (Going Fishing with The Kid, Aug. 21). John Underwood portrays Williams' warmth and effervescence far better than most of the "knights of the keyboard" ever managed to do.
For me, as, I suspect, for many, Ted Williams was baseball. If some task prevented my listening or viewing when the Red Sox were on radio or TV, my parents were charged to call me when Ted came to bat. Our family vacation trips peculiarly coincided with the arrival of the Red Sox in AL cities, where Williams' batting wizardry almost always rewarded. Greatest hitter ever? A hearty "amen" from this corner.
It comes as no great surprise that The Kid is as much a champion and sportsman in fishing as he was in baseball.
JOHN D. UNRUH JR.
Freeman, S. Dak.
TIME TO REFLECT
Thank you for your picturesque article, A Long Day in a Boy's World (Aug. 21). Though I am only a teen-ager, I have not embarked upon a day of adventure for quite some time. It seems that I, like most people, am just too busy in this jet age to take time off and enjoy the serenity of tranquil streams and rich green forests. When I was small I used to go to the Indiana Dunes and lose myself in the thick and stunning woods that only God could create, passing the time thinking about the earth-shaking problems of a little boy. Thanks for the memories.
Regarding your recent articles on the musk ox (The Golden Shmoo of the Barren Lands, July 17 and SCORECARD, July 24), it seems suitable to mention Marianne Moore's poem, The Arctic Ox (or Goat), on the subject of this friendly beast. Here is a random sample:
To wear the arctic fox
you have to kill it. Wear
qiviut—the underwool of the arctic ox—pulled off it like a sweater;
your coat is warm; your conscience, better....
It smells of water, nothing else,
and browses goat like on
hind legs. Its great distinction
is not egocentric scent
but that it is intelligent....
Lying in an exposed spot,
basking in the blizzard,
these ponderosos could dominate
the rare-hairs market in Kashan and yet
you could not have a choicer pet....
New York City