After a sweltering 100� day topped off by a late-afternoon cloudburst, thousands of crickets swarmed across center court at the Sul Ross Tennis Center in Waco, Texas during the first set of a match on the USTA men's satellite circuit between Robert Trogolo and Rolando Vazquez. As squashed crickets piled up on the court, the footing became so hazardous that the match had to be postponed until the next morning, when Trogolo completed a 6-3, 7-6 victory. Proving himself admirably resourceful at his craft, Art Newcomb, a public relations man for the sponsoring United States Tennis Association, came up with a way for operators of the host club to capitalize on the otherwise embarrassing occurrence. He suggested that they rename their facility the Sul Ross Tennis Center and Cricket Club.
An eagerly awaited plan by Environmental Protection Agency Administrator William D. Ruckelshaus to combat acid rain has reportedly been put off indefinitely because of opposition from other influential members of the Reagan Administration. The New York Times quoted unnamed EPA officials as saying that they expected some sort of action to be taken eventually, and one of them insisted, "We are not dead in the water." Considering the damage that acid rain is known to be doing to aquatic life in lakes in the Northeastern U.S. and Eastern Canada, that unintentionally ironic comment could, if Washington's foot-dragging continues, turn out to be a case of wishful thinking.
MULL IT OVER AND ANSWER SLOWLY
The Dumbest Question of the Week Award goes to the fellow on the public address system at Latonia Race Course in Florence, Ky., who, according to Variety, was interviewing a horseplayer who'd just won $10,000 in cash and a lifetime pass to the track in a drawing. The PA. man actually asked him, "What do you intend to do with the money?"
It happened on the Orioles' bus ride back to Baltimore after the fifth and final game of their World Series triumph over the Phillies, and it drew a big laugh from members of baseball's championship team. As the bus reached the Delaware line on Interstate 95, the driver announced on the intercom: "We have just left Pennsylvania, home of the world-champion Philadelphia..." There was a long pause before the driver finished the sentence: "... 76ers."
"HE SHOWED EVERYONE WHO WAS BOSS"
The great racehorse Kelso (right,) died last week at the age of 26 at Woodstock Farm near Chesapeake City, Md. Staff Writer Franz Lidz filed this appreciation:
Kelso passed his final days like an old pensioner hanging out with his pals in a park. He shared a pasture with three other thoroughbreds. He was buddies with another gelding. Sea Spirit, who won the New Jersey Futurity in 1961. They grazed in the paddock and ambled across the hillside, and for much of the year they stabled in the same barn. Kelly and Pete, the grooms called them.
Kelso was one of the finest athletes of the 1960s. The five-time Horse of the Year carried as much as 136 pounds yet ran farther and faster than any other thoroughbred of his generation. He ran everything from six furlongs to two miles and was never beaten at the latter distance, breaking the American two-mile record at age seven. He finished in the money 53 times in 63 races, and despite skipping the Triple Crown in 1960 because his trainer, Carl Hanford, decided to bring him along slowly, won $1,977,896. Only John Henry, Spectacular Bid, Trinycarol and Affirmed have won more.
In his heyday Kelso was the most pampered of equine creatures. He bedded down on soft sugarcane shavings. Allaire du Pont, his owner and breeder, had pure spring water flown in for him from Little Rock, Ark., and his admirers sent him personalized sugar cubes with his name on the wrapper. After his retirement busloads of fans used to come to the farm to see him. Five hundred letters a week were stuffed into his private mailbox. For a time he even inspired his own monthly newsletter.
In recent years Kelso would hang his head over the top rail of a fence at Woodstock and watch young horses run on the farm track. He still appeared fit enough to race, though like a boxer out of training, his weight had shifted mostly to his midriff. Actually, he looked a lot better than most retired boxers. His teeth were long, and his ribs and flanks were more dappled than the railbirds at Aqueduct or Belmont would have remembered, but his coat was still a rich dark bay, and his eyes were bright and alert.