It has been said that deeds, not words, shall thunder, but in the case of Emil Zatopek the apothegm may not apply. Zatopek became famous when he won three gold medals in the 1952 Olympics (in the 5,000 and 10,000 meters and the marathon), but in recent years he has made even more noteworthy strides by speaking out against the repressive regime of his native Czechoslovakia. Last week Zatopek's thundering (among other things he was pictured with a poster heralding a new "Soviet invention"—tanks serving as roller skates "for trips to Central Europe") finally became intolerable to the Czech government, and he was expelled from the Communist party because he "lacked understanding of the fundamental problems of the development of our socialist society, and the need to defend it on the basis of the principles of Marxism-Leninism and proletarian internationalism."
Three Men On A Horse, the 1935 comedy, was revived in New York last month. It involves, as ancients will recall, three horse-players who always lose and a writer of greeting card verse who picks winners but doesn't bet; so the former decide to kidnap the latter, but the latter can only dope horses on a bus and—well, never mind. During the curtain call Actor Jack Gilford has been telling the audience the name of a real horse running on a New York track. Gilford is no horse-player, a fact reflected in his choices to date—three winners in 16 tries.
Shortly before the surgery on his severely injured legs, Graham Hill was feeling chipper enough to vigorously wave his arms as he described his accident at Watkins Glen (SI, Oct. 13). On the day of the operation London papers reported that he busied himself until the last minute shaving and carefully trimming his mustache. As his wife Bette explains, "He would never want to come out of that operation thinking he looked scruffy." He came out of it feeling scruffy, however. The damage to Hill's knees was extensive. He will be in hip-to-toe casts for five to seven weeks, and he has been in such pain that morphine has been insufficient—he has been receiving regular injections of heroin. Nevertheless, he is sitting up in bed, surrounded by fruit, flowers and golf books. "I expect they'll make me do a lot of bicycling when the casts come off," he says, "but I'm really looking forward to getting back on a golf course." Hill learned golf between races on the New Zealand-Australia circuit two years ago, teaching himself from Jack Nicklaus' My 55 Ways to Lower Your Golf Score. He was fighting his way down to 100 at the time of his accident.
"It's really neat," says Don Meredith. "It's a fun game that changes every day!" They may be surprised on Wall Street to learn that Dallas' ex-quarterback is talking about stockbroking, which he got into when he dropped football. "I had been under the protective umbrella of the Cowboys for so long that I didn't learn to appreciate it," says Meredith. "Now that the check doesn't come in anymore I'm scraping around to pay this and that off. I'm working 12 hours a day, up at 5:45 every morning, at the office by 7 and home whenever I get through. If I had worked this hard for Tom Landry, there's no telling what I could have done."
November 3, 1969
The new president of France is being fairly businesslike about conducting the traditional shoots at Rambouillet. M. Pompidou did observe protocol recently by inviting the diplomatic corps to the first pheasant hunt of the season, but he loaded his guests into a police bus in the morning and kept them hard at it until 4, skipping lunch. General de Gaulle used to be more formal, serving a breakfast of coffee and croissants, after which his guests made their way to Rambouillet in their own chauffeur-driven cars, if they had them, or in cars provided by de Gaulle, if they did not. The general's shoot ended at noon, and the cars, in order of protocol, returned to the chateau where guests changed for lunch, which was served precisely at 1 o'clock. Some speculate that the difference in procedure is due to the fact that Pompidou is himself a hunter—de Gaulle was not, owing to bad eyesight. His participation was limited, an observer recalls, "to appearing for the last couple of beats, usually peering from behind the guest of honor of the day, a performance that put many a man off-balance."
Pearl Bailey is an old buddy of Gil Hodges' and a mad Met fan. During the season she was given tickets to a number of games, and after the Series she returned the favor in kind by inviting 76 Met folks—players, wives, children, front-office men, trainers el al.—to Hello Dolly! and after the performance she hauled some of them up onstage. Naturally this was enjoyed by Yogi Berra, Ron Swoboda, Tug McGraw, Bud Harrelson and Hodges—they are used to being onstage. But the surprise was M. Donald Grant, the Mets' chairman of the board. Grant is 65, but Pearl announced firmly that now that he was up there he had to do something, so he did—-a very respectable soft-shoe. "He was just like an old song-and-dance man," one member of the audience says. "Very light on his feet. Before they finished she even had him doing the strut." Pearl did? After that Series, what else would the man be doing?