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So invitations went out to the Tigers last week to come to Montana and hunt elk. The invitation is for two weeks, and the Tigers can come any time during the season, which runs from October 15 to November 15. Cookie Lavagetto of the Senators sent word that his pitcher Tex Clevenger wished he could hunt elk too, so Kochivar sent him an invitation, even though Washington beat the Yankees only seven times. A nonresident big-game license in Montana entitles the hunter to one elk, one deer, one mountain goat and one grizzly or one brown bear. There are plenty of deer right around the ranch, and Kochivar has arranged with rancher friends to take the players into wilder country if they have to go deeper for elk.
You might think that some faint signs of pity or mercy would show up in Kochivar's triumph, but no. He still chuckles joyously at word of Yankee catastrophes, and laughs outright as he says, "I'm glad I helped dispel the myth of Yankee invincibility." The only difference is that he has stopped sending telegrams every time a team defeats the Yankees. "The Yanks can win the rest of their games now," he says.
The pull of football comes from panoramas. It is for the sweeping runs and lofting downfield passes—or the hope of them—that the stands fill up on autumn days. But among the true followers of the game is many a man with an ardent and thoughtful devotion to its microscopic detail. Such is William J. Perkinson of Baltimore; through Sunday afternoons at Baltimore's Memorial Stadium last season he heard fellow Colt fanatics applaud the long passes of Quarterback John Unitas, likening them to guided missiles.
Not a bad simile at all thought Perkinson, an assistant managing editor of the Baltimore Evening Sun and a man of scientific bent. As a missile launcher, Unitas must have problems common to all rocket scientists, Perkinson reasoned, including the need to make allowances for Coriolis force.
As any college physics major but few college quarterbacks can explain, Coriolis force, named for the 19th century French mathematician who discovered it, is a measurable effect produced on a moving object by the rotation of the earth. Could this make the same forward pass thrown in one direction go farther than if thrown in the other, and if so how much? Bill Perkinson took his question to an official at the missile-making Martin Company. In due time back came answers which Unitas may want to consider the next time he takes to his launching pad.
Noting that the earth's west-to-east rotation would have little effect on football fields facing north and south, the scientific report concerned itself largely with what happens to a passer's accuracy as he changes throwing direction in such National Football League towns as Washington and Los Angeles, where the fields face east-west.
"In Los Angeles," the report said, "the deviation is 1.7 inches per hundred yards. That is, such a pass thrown eastward there under the same conditions as a pass thrown north or south in Baltimore would travel 1.7 inches farther. One thrown westward would travel 1.7 inches less.
"Hence, in Los Angeles a long pass timed for finger-tip reception as a receiver tries to outrun a defending back will be long or short by one-half to three-quarters of an inch compared to the same pass thrown under the same conditions in Baltimore. Compared with Baltimore, Washington, only 40 miles away, would give you a measurable but hardly significant plus or minus deviation for a 40-yard pass."
The conclusion that quarterbacks need range-finding adjustments for Los Angeles and Detroit was passed on to Unitas and Baltimore newspaper readers by Perkinson for what it is worth. Colt quarterbacks may rightfully ignore it, he suggests, but he'll be cheering nonetheless. Meanwhile, he's busy telling housewives that catsup comes out of a new bottle more easily if they rotate it counterclockwise while trying to pour. It's the Coriolis force again. You see, liquids flow from—but that's another story.