Vehemently opposed to any change is the 300-pound president of the Lawn Tennis Association of Australia, Charles Edwards. Edwards has proved to be a formidable barrier, and not just because of his size. "What we need over here," he says, "are the Yanks. They will fill the stands for us just like they did in 1958. People know it will be a real good fight when the Yanks are playing, so they turn out to watch. They're bored with easy matches, like Spain. Why should Wimbledon introduce open tennis when their tournament is an automatic sellout? The only time to change is when you're in trouble."
Well, Mr. Edwards, we Yanks are in trouble. And it sounds to us like you are, too.
ON THE BEACH
There is a man in Miami who has a jug filled with 300 sets of false teeth, the majority of which have been found along the shore at Miami Beach in the past year and a half. Matthew Comito, an instructor in dental technology, adds around two dozen sets of teeth to his collection each month. On a holiday weekend, he says, as many as five or six dentures are washed ashore. He believes some are lost overboard by members of fishing parties; others are jarred loose from swimmers' mouths by waves. Most of Comito's dentures probably were lost in the Keys and carried north by the surf. Ones lost off Miami, he says, should turn up in Fort Lauderdale or West Palm Beach. Although Comito would like to return the false teeth to their owners and has even gone so far as to hold a public showing of them, he has never been able to match man and molar. He suggests that people investing in dentures have their names or perhaps their social security numbers engraved on the plates.
On a recent Sunday morning in a Milwaukee hotel room Bart Starr, Carroll Dale and various other Green Bay Packers gathered for church services with a new NFL personality, Dr. Ira Eshleman, a retired minister who calls himself the sports world's chaplain. Dr. Eshleman, who prefers the name "Doc," has been traveling the pro-football circuit all year. He decided on this self-appointed mission, he says, because "often visiting teams cannot get to church on the day of a game. I knew players like Don Shinnick and Raymond Berry of the Colts, Buddy Dial of the Cowboys and Bill Glass of the Browns had organized such chapel services for their teams. But I also, knew that coaches worked hard to get their men in the right frame of mind for a game, and I wasn't sure they would let me speak to them just before they played." But the coaches do.
Doc has been accepted by people like Green Bay's Vince Lombardi and Detroit's Joe Schmidt. Schmidt, in fact, asked him to lead prayers of thanks in the Lion locker room after the team beat the Giants last month. Everyone knelt down and, the minister says, "when I had finished, I got a most unusual tribute—all the players applauded."
He conducts his services wearing a red Bombay blazer and white turtleneck. "I think it helps me to communicate with the players," he says. So far he has handed out more than 200 Bibles to those players and coaches who have asked for them. He receives no pay for his ministry and will have spent $5,000 on travel and Bibles by the end of the season.
So popular is Doc that he cannot fill all the requests for his services. When the Packers first asked him to speak to them before the playoff game in Milwaukee he had to tell them that he would accommodate them, but only if the Colts, to whom he had pledged himself on the same day, were not their foes. Maybe the Colts should have sought Doc's help the previous week, when they played Los Angeles.
FOLLOWING THE LINE
The Loyola of Chicago-Colorado State basketball game received heavy play with bookmakers across the country. One widely circulated tout sheet featured the game as its Wednesday Night Special, and another, which sells each week for $2, advised that Loyola "should be able to take this one on speed and shooting alone."