"I like running in these big meets," he says, "and I'm glad to help with the pace. But it doesn't seem quite like running the mile. These pacing races are...well, I'd just rather be known as a miler."
Clamor on Cape Cod
For the last six years or so, in an effort to publicize the delights of fishing along its storied shores, the State of Massachusetts has engraved a handsome silver Revere bowl, known as the Governor's Trophy, with the name of the man or woman who wins its annual Striped Bass Derby. In order to display the trophy permanently at the State House it also presents the lucky fisherman with a duplicate bowl to keep for life. Last week as a result, a governor of Massachusetts (in this case Governor Christian Herter) found himself reduced, for the first time in recorded history, to a state of deep political embarrassment by a sea worm.
It mattered not that the worm in question had been dead for a matter of five months—ever since one John Julius Glogg, a vacationing telephone lineman boss from Huntington, L.I., put it on a hook, cast it into the surf near North Truro, and caught a 59 impound striper with it. The time lag, in fact, made things worse. For a fortnight ago at a ceremonial dinner in Boston, Massachusetts formally presented the Governor's Trophy to the wrong man.
John Julius Glogg was not pleased to learn that the Derby had been won by Wallace Pinkham of Vineyard Haven, Mass., with a fish which scaled only 55 pounds, 9� ounces. Glogg had paid his $1 fee to enter the Bass Derby, before landing his sea-going monster, had weighed it before witnesses at Fowler's Tru-Haven Tackle Shop in North Truro and had gone to the trouble of having it stuffed afterward. Its picture had been printed in newspapers all over the U.S., and it had won him a $200 defense bond from the Province-town Chamber of Commerce and a pin from
Field & Stream
magazine. But he wanted the trophy too—so much so that he sat down last week, wrote an indignant telegram to Governor Herter, and slapped down $5.32 to have it sent. This moved the state to an explanation—but one which simply heated the coals of controversy. Len Bigelow, general representative of the Department of Commerce, protested that he had not found out about Glogg's fish until the Governor's Trophy had been engraved with Pinkham's name. This admission that the state had known of Glogg's feat before the award, maddened Glogg's supporters.
"Everybody in the whole U.S. knows that John Julius Glogg caught a bigger striper than Pinkham!" bawled Arthur C. Patrick, a member of the Provincetown Chamber of Commerce. "My God, there were pictures of Glogg's fish in every newspaper in the country. You'd think that Bigelow fellow up in Boston would have seen it." Bigelow announced that he had sent out a letter asking for entries on Dec. 7 and had received no reply. "What letter?" replied the Provincetown hearties. "We never got any letter—we sent the record of Glogg's fish to Boston in September." They gathered at the local Western Union office forthwith for an indignation meeting, and a letter-of-protest drafting bee.
At the weekend that was how matters stood—and just what the state could do, beyond awarding a second trophy, was difficult to foresee. But if the governor's ears burned and if his political influence waned on Cape Cod, he had at least one thing for which to be thankful—the clamor over Glogg's fish drowned, at least temporarily, the moans of one Frank Mularczyk, a New Bedford loomfixer, who caught a 66-pound 4-ounce bass on June 4, but was ineligible for the trophy because he had neglected to register before landing it.
Golf made tough
When the U.S. Golf Association not long ago chose the Olympic Club, in San Francisco, as the site of the June 16-18 1955 Open, the 825 golfing members took it as a stoutly deserved compliment. Nobody knew better than they how sharply their 6,433-yard Lake Course could test and bedevil a man. They could hardly wait to see the Sneads and Hogans come to grief over the same problems club members had been battling for years.
But it was not to be. The club pro and several of its top amateurs decided the Lake Course needed a face lifting to enchant the visiting specialists. Even the fact that Byron Nelson in his heyday, leading the field by seven strokes, had been able to carve only one stroke off par in four rounds was immaterial. The layout needed modernizing and change, the officials decreed.