"There is a good case," Mr. Knights writes, "for fighting the next Cup challenge at the model level. The challenging designer and Olin Stephens would carry their own hulls into the tank at Hobo-ken (a neutral tank would be fairer but we must follow the spirit of the existing conditions), various up and down runs would be made, followed by some of the new rough water and turning tests. Water flow past fin and hull would be observed by the immaculately uniformed New York Yacht Club Cup Committee from underwater windows. The party would then adjourn to the wind tunnel for further assessment of drag and lift past sails and rig. As a sop to tradition, statistics (height, weight, biceps, chest measurement, maximum number of situps, etc.) of each of the crewmen who would have sailed in the real yacht had it been built would be fed into a simple computer and a crew factor added to the data already collated.
"Finally the sums would be done and the winner chosen.... Think of what would be saved if the America's Cup was held this way.... All this wealth could then be diverted to truly sporting aspects of yachting."
In Australia, Melbourne Cup Day, the first Tuesday in November, is the Antipodes' equivalent of our Fourth of July. No one works, and normally the courts close. But this year Judge Roland Leckie, who was in the process of charging the jury in one of Australia's biggest criminal trials, decided to continue on race day. Five minutes before post time he announced there would be a break. Dressed in his purple-and-crimson robes and wearing his white wig, he retired to his chambers to listen to the cup broadcast; the jury started a pool on the race in the jury room; and the barristers and the accused—four men charged with attempting a $1 million forgery—tuned in on transistor radios.
A horse named Red Handed won—but nobody moved for a mistrial.