If so, he
deserves a faithful description of the original performance. The equipment
needed is simple enough: one large picnic ground with groves of trees, one golf
club, one golf ball, one Dachshund, two bagpipers, one set of horseshoes, one
miniature railway train and two tandem bicycles. In the future, dress may be
left to the candidate's discretion, but for the first politathlon—or what
history may describe as the Des Plaines Politathlon—Stevenson wore a gray cord
jacket, cocoa brown pants, brown wing-tipped shoes, a blue button-down shirt
and blue and white linen tie.
It was a hot
afternoon and the humidity was ghastly, but Stevenson was beaming as he arrived
on the grounds and began shaking hands with some of a throng who had been
rounded up for the occasion by Illinois Democrats. It was at this point that
the Dachshund entered the proceedings. An admirer thrust it forward. Stevenson
immediately shook hands with it and said: "You ought to be sure he's
registered." The candidate moved, forthwith, to the putting green
(improvised over a miserably uneven stretch of grass) followed by photographers
and mobs of the faithful.
Stevenson put the
ball down 12 feet (henceforth to be known as The Candidate's Distance) from the
pin. The photographers insisted that the flag (which read WHITE HOUSE) be left
in the cup. "How," he asked, "can I sink it with the flag in?"
Nobody answered him. As it turned out this didn't matter—he putted seven times
and never got closer than a two-inch miss. However, when a friend asked:
"Want to shed your coat?" Stevenson said, "No, I'd rather not."
(In politathlons of the future, points will be deducted for removal of clothing
during the putting phase.) Said Chicago Politico Jake Arvey: "His short
game is bad. What he needs is the White House to get time to play."
Stevenson posed between two bagpipers, moved to a picnic table and ate a
popsicle. "You're tasting victory," cried a spectator. "Raspberry
flavored victory," said Adlai. He seated himself in the engine of the
miniature train and then—and only then—removed his tie, thus becoming, at least
in theory, more politically acceptable. Intent on a fast finish, he soon
hustled to the horseshoe pits, took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He
threw four horseshoes, missed each time and muttered, "Oh, hell!" after
the fourth. He threw a fifth and scored. A cheer rose from the crowd. Adlai
beamed. Two tandem bicycles were immediately wheeled forward. Stevenson climbed
on the front seat of one with Dr. Karl Meyer, head of Cook County Hospital,
behind him. Chicago's beefy Mayor Richard J. Daley and Jim O'Keefe, candidate
for attorney general, mounted the other.
The mayor's cycle
lurched erratically forward. Stevenson's cycle lurched after it. Both teams
pedaled wildly: the crowd, astounded by their ill-controlled fervor, scattered
for their lives and the racers, after 70 yards, disappeared whooping into a
grove of trees. Panting but unbruised, Adlai shook hands for another 10 minutes
and then mounted a bandstand, waved to the crowd and listened thoughtfully
while Mrs. Juanda Higgins, a receptionist at his law firm, made the following
statement: "I am chairman of our nature girls. My associates and I
believe...a great segment of voters can be reached outdoors through garden
parties, bird watching and tramps through the woods. We have recently organized
the Cook County Stevenson Star Gazers. We believe it's Stevenson by the
was over. Would it ever be repeated? One peripheral aspect of it would lead one
to believe so: 3,000 people paid $5 apiece—or a total of $15,000—to watch
Bear Bryant of
Texas A&M is a football coach and only incidentally a philosopher of
education. But addressing a group of Houston businessmen last week on the set
topic "Football and Athletics in the Development of Businessmen," Bear
found something fresh to say.
the same qualities needed for success in business are needed to make a success
of being a football player," he began. "I believe the lessons needed in
business are taught in football....
lessons are not taught at home in more than 5% of the homes. They are just hard
to teach your child.