This was just and proper—league presidents are expected to send huffy telegrams—but not quite correct. Baseball may be serious business but it is also drama and legend (did not Casey Stengel once stand before a Brooklyn crowd, remove his cap and release a sparrow?). It is hard not to honor impassioned advocates, particularly ingenious ones, even if they do embarrass the constituted authorities. London cops detested the suffragettes for one of the very reasons (and Bragan might take note) that history remembers them: for chaining and padlocking themselves to the iron fences of Parliament and Buckingham Palace, thereby scandalizing all properly serious men.
FAIRWAYS AT 40 MPH
On the fairways of the Alvin (Texas) Country Club near Houston, the little Crosley automobile, which has never been much more than a modest pumpkin on the highways, has blossomed into a golden coach. Stripped down, painted up and tricked out with canopies and golf-bag racks, Crosleys make rakish and lively golf carts. They will carry four players, get up to 40 miles per hour if called on, climb hills easily and do 60 holes to the gallon.
The club now has 16 of them, all fashioned in his spare time by Eldon Brockman, the 53-year-old owner of an aircraft maintenance and storage business. Brockman built the first one for himself, and nearly all the others in answer to clamorous demands from other club members. Crosleys have become marks of prestige; it is almost better to go over the Alvin course in a Crosley nowadays than to arrive at the club in a Cadillac. "If you own one," says Brockman, "you can get a game with the best players at the club." The demand has made secondhand Crosleys scarce in the Houston area and has driven their price up from $75 to as much as $250.
Most people keep their Crosleys in the clubhouse garage, but there are a few who use them not only on the fairway, but on the highway between home and the club. One member built a special trailer and hooked it to the family car. Now, when he drives off for a golf date away from home, he takes not only his clubs but his Crosley too.
IN SUMMER'S AMBER
Thickened with light, the spaces of summer
hold sound like the sea.
A playing-field shout outlives the play;
an outboard motor is put up, its drone preserved,
as it were, in summer's amber.
Only at night are the sounds quick and falling:
the water breaking each time the jumping fish falls;
in the white barns, horses stamping
in their dreams' dark furlongs;
grooms sitting out under the elms
in canvas chairs, on tack boxes,