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Articles by Peter Carry
AN UGLY AFFAIR IN MINNEAPOLIS
He had been wheeled out of Minnesota's Williams Arena on a long stretcher, bleeding and numb. At the university hospital he had spent an hour in the emergency room, where they patched him up as well as possible, then admitted him for the night. Now, on the day after the riot, only hours after he had become the victim of what the governor of Ohio called a "public mugging," Luke Witte was a mess. His right eye was completely covered with a white patch. His left ear was swollen and colored purple.
A HAPPY PAIR OF HAIRY SPORTS
Tuffy Truesdell, who says he was the last middleweight wrestling champion of the United States and the first man ever to go into the water to wrestle alligators for a living, took the martini from his wife, who was mixing them in the seat behind him, and sipped from it. As befits a man of patience and serenity, one who has traveled the breadth of the land for years, Tuffy drives at a leisurely pace.
DOING IT BY THE NUMBERS
Meet Maxim (Bud) Goode, resident of Studio City, state of California, continent of North America, planet Earth—a Hollywood press agent loose in a Twilight Zone of numbers. In defiance of all oddsmakers he says Miami will beat Minnesota in the Super Bowl by nine—count 'em nine—points. Don't scoff. Goode (it is pronounced goody) correctly predicted the winner in 75% of last year's NFL games.
TEXAS BY AN EYELASH
All week long in Texas the people had said the Hogs ain't nuthin' but groceries and that on Saturday, in the thundering zoo of Fayetteville, the No. I Longhorns would eat—to quote the most horrendous pun ever thought of by some Lone Star wit—"Hog meat with Worster-Speyrer sauce." This is not exactly what Darrell Royal's team dined on up there in those maddening Ozark hills, of course.
MEET THE NEW CHAMP!
If you listened closely around George Foreman's hotel in Kingston, Jamaica before last Monday night you would have sensed that something powerful and vaguely eerie was in the air, something other than the everyday tropical musk. It was a feeling that was spoken of by Foreman's more intimate associates, and the feeling had to do with something Foreman understood about how to fight Joe Frazier and how that knowledge was going to rearrange heavyweight boxing for the next few years.
A TIME TO BLESS THE BEASTS AND FRESHMEN
Let's see now. We've torn up and voted down the Olympic Games. We've turned the World Series over to a House of David softball team and watched the Dallas Cowboys finally win a big one. We've hit the moon, let women become people, paid the milk prices and put all the nasty words and bare bosoms we could find into the movies. So what else is there? Or, as sneering Buffalo Bob used to exhort members of the peanut gallery on the Howdy Doody show, "HEY, KIDS, WHAT TIME IS IT??????" It is Get UCLA Time.
DERAILING THE LAKER EXPRESS
Over the past 2½ months it seemed almost as if the sun were setting on the Milwaukee Bucks. As the long shadow of the Los Angeles Lakers' steady winning streak lengthened until it reached 33 games, the Bucks were undeniably left behind—once proud world champions, now by comparison tarnished and brooding giants. But along came Sunday and perhaps the most widely watched basketball game in NBA history, and there they were: glowing once more with the torrid satisfaction they take from their successes.
June 12, 1972 Issue Viewer
THE DAY RIGGER MORTIS SET OUT Pennsylvania killed an oarlock, but only the opposition paid the penalty.
Digging In At Crooked Creek: The MLB players go on strike for the first time
Along about the middle of spring training the world champion Pittsburgh Pirates locked themselves in their clubhouse at Bradenton, Fla. to vote on a proposal that would authorize action against baseball's owners unless certain moneys were forthcoming to sweeten an already fat pension plan. The Pirate meeting lasted about an hour.
AFTER SHOW BIZ, SLOW BIZ
The tallest building for 15 miles around, Ashland College's Clayton Hall interrupts the smooth undulations of the northern Ohio countryside with its sharp-edged abruptness. A modern nine-story men's dormitory, it stands wide but very thin, almost a mere facade. Late on a Wednesday afternoon last January, Clayton's bland exterior of red brick and gray concrete was suddenly masked by a brilliant cascade of gold and purple, the school's colors.
'YOU KNOW ME, AL.' 'RIGHT, FRANK, AND I HATE TO DO IT.'
It was a game made not so much in heaven as in an emerald corner of hell; the coaches mean and hungry, the combatants bred on asphalt playgrounds and nurtured in the slinky, scar-tissue ways of the sport. All of the Irish gags were trotted out. The game should be played behind barbed wire somewhere in the shadows of Ulster. Sean O'Casey would throw up the first ball. Everyone would wear green, and how was the closed-circuit crowd in Belfast taking it, anyway?
End of the Glorious Ordeal
Henry Aaron's ordeal ended at 9:07 p.m. Monday. It ended in a carnival atmosphere that would have been more congenial to the man he surpassed as baseball's alltime home-run champion. But it ended.
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