People who were amused by the bestselling phonograph record, The First Family, should have fun with a new board game called "The Kennedys," created by Alfred Harrison and Jack Winter of the Harvard Lampoon. Marketed by mail by Harrison and Winter Inc., 45 W. 18th St., New York City, the game is subtitled "The Game of Intra-Family Power Struggle." There are six pieces—called Jack, Jackie, Bobby, Teddy, Caroline and John Jr.—and the idea is to "strive to triumph over your relatives in the contest to take over the country." Players are allowed to go to a "conference room" to make deals. A player wins when he has amassed a certain number of cards ("Popular Support," "Personal Image," etc.). The money used to swing deals has Joe Kennedy's picture on it. The box cover of the game shows all the Kennedys carved into Mount Rushmore. The price is $4.25 ($4.50 west of the Mississippi).
"The game has lots of strategy," says Jack Winter. "It's like chess or bridge, and the complexity of a game depends upon the complexity of the minds of the players involved. It's all in good fun. Actually I'm a very ardent Kennedy supporter."
Mt. Commonwealth, in Boston, was 29,000 feet smaller than the world's tallest mountain, 3,400 feet smaller than the tallest mountain in Massachusetts, and was torn down and removed completely a week ago Sunday night. In its brief four-day existence, Mt. Commonwealth displayed a summit 28 feet high, a rope tow servicing a ski slope 100 feet long and 22 feet wide, nine of the world's finest skiers, a ski race and no snow whatsoever.
The mountain was a pipe and plywood structure in Commonwealth Armory. The slope was a bristling carpet of plastic blocks that looked like bathtub back brushes. The race was a whimsical affair, originally titled The World's First Professional Indoor Slalom Championship, which could be taken as seriously as the Henley Regatta if the crews were rowing up your bathtub.
Still, a crowd of 2,200 paid spectators, more curious than knowing, came to watch, and Ted Dutton, the new president of the International Professional Ski Racers Association, dryly informed them over the public-address system, "The mountain has a vertical drop of 4,000 feet; we were fortunate in getting six inches of fresh powder just this afternoon." There was no response. Dutton cleared his throat and tried again, "The course is somewhat more arduous than snow. One has to bore holes to set the slalom poles." The crowd picked its teeth.
The skiing itself was unforgettable. Tony Spiss slid down the back brushes, skidded across wet paint on the runout, and demolished a table loaded with glasses left over from the press party the night before. "The wet paint," Spiss said, "it is very fast." Stein Eriksen waxed his skis with soap and turned in the fastest first run of the evening.
The temperature at the summit, seven feet below the ceiling of the crowded armory, was 87�. "Hot?" said Karl Burtscher, his bald head gleaming. "Ach! It's Honolulu!" The warmer it got, the harder it was to hold an edge on the back brushes. Sitzmarks—loosened blocks—began to appear. Gatekeepers dutifully stapled them back into the plywood, but after four runs eight of the nine competitors had been disqualified. If there are nine horses in a race, and eight of them drop dead on the track, the event tends to lose its significance.
The racers—just about the best skiers in the world—were beginning to look like Ray Robinson tap dancing in a saloon. For IPSRA, finally on its feet after two staggering years, it would have been damaging indeed, but Ted Dutton wisely interceded. "This kind of thing has never been done before," he explained. "Who knew what would happen? Now we know. This isn't racing." The racers themselves agreed, and voted to divide the prize money equally.
The next stop on the IPSRA tour will be at Aspen, Colo., on January 5 and 6. The event will be out of doors.