"The game of football is like that," said the Pope. "You win and you lose."
BRIDE AND VROOM
When officials of the 24-hour City of Buenos Aires automobile race recently moved up the date of the event two weeks, driver Carlos Costes found himself in trouble. The race was to start at 3:15 p.m. on the same day he was supposed to be married. To alter the wedding plans would have involved endless red tape and, no small matter, disappointed his fianc�e, Mar�a de Carmen Calvo.
However, race rules stipulated that pilot and copilot could spell each other for periods up to three hours, and that was all Carlos needed. At precisely 8:20 p.m., five hours after the race started in the Municipal Autodrome, copilot Mario van Diest took over the Fiat from Costes, who was driven to his parents' home, 7.8 miles away through evening rush-hour traffic, in 10 minutes flat. He changed out of his racing gear into tails and was driven to the church. The ceremony over, a dozen in the wedding party rushed to his parents' home. There the bride and groom cut the cake. Carlos toasted Mar�a with a glass of champagne, changed back into his racing suit and made the return dash to the track. He took over from Van Diest at 11:15 p.m., rive minutes before the deadline.
The groom finished 13th in a field of 73 the next day, but the Fiat came out in excellent condition. Carlos put Mar�a in it and drove 250 miles to an Atlantic resort for a one-week honeymoon.
A fellow who easily outhit Clemente, Yaz and the other stars down in Florida was not brought north by any major league team. His name is Jack Wernz. Played in 40 games down there, had 119 hits in 160 at bats for a .744 batting average. Among the hits were 37 doubles, eight triples, 27 homers. Knows where the strike zone is, too; didn't fan once all spring. Wernz is 77 years old, played for the Three-Quarter Century Softball Club Inc. in St. Petersburg.
A Miami advertising agency made a film recently to promote a new General Electric product, a homing device designed to aid in the rescue of fliers downed at sea. Two Fort Lauderdale men, Don Allen and Ted Drum, were hired to pose as pilots in a life raft. They were towed out into the Atlantic and set adrift. A helicopter with photographers hovered overhead recording the "sea rescue," and a cabin cruiser stood nearby. By late afternoon the helicopter was running low on gas. "They told us they would be back as soon as they refueled," Allen says. "But while they were gone the boat lost sight of us." The Gulf Stream pushed the raft northward. When the helicopter returned, it could not find the men, either. The Coast Guard was alerted. Aided by two airplanes and another cruiser, it searched fruitlessly for the raft. Seven hours later Allen and Drum were washed up on Pompano Beach after having rowed most of the way to shore.
As for that homing device that was supposed to aid in the search—well, the admen hadn't bothered to put one on board.