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January 26, 1970
HEW Secretary Robert Finch made it to the Super Bowl and he found the Chiefs "very sharp—the only place I've seen better end-around plays was by some of the agencies in my own department." HEW, he says, has its own "Frantic Four—pollution, the pill, pesticides and the population explosion. The best thing for the population explosion we've found so far is a 24-hour schedule for athletic events on TV all year round."
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January 26, 1970

People

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HEW Secretary Robert Finch made it to the Super Bowl and he found the Chiefs "very sharp—the only place I've seen better end-around plays was by some of the agencies in my own department." HEW, he says, has its own "Frantic Four—pollution, the pill, pesticides and the population explosion. The best thing for the population explosion we've found so far is a 24-hour schedule for athletic events on TV all year round."

"I've one wheelchair up for sale, best and quickest offer will be accepted. The chair has never been raced and never been rallied." So says Graham Hill, who has rallied from his Watkins Glen smash (SI, Oct. 13 and Nov. 3, 1969) and is up and about on crutches. He does sit down when he goes out for pheasant, however—in a swivel chair mounted on a Land Rover.

In the photograph above of Ali MacGraw with All-America Forward Joe Cavanagh (right) and his brother Dave of the Harvard hockey team (yes, Harvard—never mind the Dartmouth jerseys), Ali is the one with teeth. She has been filming Love Story in Cambridge, Mass., from a script written by Erich Segal, who is a Harvard man rather miscellaneously famous as a classical scholar, the scenarist of Yellow Submarine and a 12-year veteran of the Boston Marathon. Fortunately, his ties with his alma mater remain firm, because the studio has had to borrow the entire Harvard hockey team. Ali's love in the film, Ryan O'Neal, is a member of same, and key scenes involve games with Dartmouth and Cornell—the Harvard squad impersonates both teams, hence the Dartmouth jerseys on the Cavanaghs. The hockey sequences took three days to shoot in Harvard's Watson Rink, and a fairly good time was had by all. No money, however. To preserve the team's amateur standing, the players had to work for hot soup and autographs of Ali MacGraw on their sticks or draft cards.

The Salmon and Trout Club in London has 260 members, but despite its sporty name and the fish motif on the club tie, angling is not the line that tests the group. Gout is. Formed by one Geoffrey Hebden, the club is a fellowship of gout sufferers, among whom are Sir Billy Butlin and the comic Harry Secombe. The name "Gout Club" seemed a trifle off-putting, so Salmon and Trout—Cockney rhyming slang for gout—was selected. One suspected sufferer who would be eligible for membership is Prince Philip, "but he hasn't honored us with his patronage," observed the club chairman.

Stan Musial is off on safari in Kenya and Nigeria, and he's been asking advice of Marlin Perkins of the St. Louis Zoo. "Marlin knows the unhunted area where we're going, and he told me lots of things that could help me hunting big game," Stan says meekly. "The only big game I've ever hunted was deer. I've been mostly a bird man—ducks, geese, quail." Years ago, when Musial first went hunting, he could have used some advice, too, according to Red Schoendienst. "The first time—it was so long ago he was driving a De Soto instead of a Cadillac—he showed up for a hunt in neatly pressed pants," Red says, the horror of the moment still clear in his mind. "He looked like he was ready to go to the Copacabana or El Morocco!"

In a new BBC documentary on the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, the Duke makes mention several times of sport. "I am a very, very poor golfer," he says. "I once shot a 75 about 14 years ago, but I am afraid that was the last good round, really good round, that I ever had." He recalled that his father's hobby had been shooting but that he had always preferred fox hunting and, when reminded that the royal family no longer hunted, he said, "Well, I saw my great-niece Anne last year and said to her, 'I know you ride very well and I'm so glad that you enjoy riding as much as I did.' But I said, 'Why don't you ever go fox hunting?' And she said two words—'Blood sports.' So I thought to myself, 'Oh, what a pity!' "

Transportation Secretary John Volpe has long been a big fitness man—as he says, "My body was given to me by the Dear Lord, and I try to take care of it." This he does, pedaling his electric bicycle, doing calisthenics, jogging, etc., and so does everyone around him. "We are all voluntarily getting into shape," says his special assistant, Barry Locke. "Some go regularly to the NASA gym, I've been lifting weights—each man sort of has his own bag." Now Volpe has an eye on the new transportation building. "He wants a running track, and at least a handball court on the roof," reports Locke. "He wants the idea of an artificial-type track explored, to see if it wouldn't be better and cheaper in the long run because of the so-called nonexistent maintenance." As any commuter can testify, nonexistent maintenance is a big thing in Volpe's field. Eventually we may all be jogging to work.

For the first time a New Zealand postage stamp will commemorate a horse. The New Zealand Trotting Conference proposed Cardigan Bay, in honor of the gelding's being the first harness horse to earn a million dollars in stake money, and former New Zealand Postmaster General William J. Scott, a racing fan, readily agreed. This week the stamp, with the 14-year-old pacer in full stride and in "natural colours against a mushroom background," will go on sale for 10 New Zealand cents—and Cardigan Bay himself will return home to begin his retirement, in accordance with the conditions of his sale five years ago to an American syndicate.

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