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Two general trends—structural and social—define the dramatic erosion of the foundation of that public arena for men, leading some men to their current malaise and confusion over the meaning of manhood. James Brown may have been right in that men made the boats, trains, cars, and electric lights.

But the dramatic structural shifts that have accompanied globalization mean that there are very few cars, boats, trains—and even toys—being made domestically any longer. In the past three decades, manufacturing jobs have been hardest hit as layoffs in the steel, automobile, and other brick-and-mortar industries downsized, outsourced, cut back, laid off, and closed.

Beer, Babes, and Balls: Masculinity and Sports Talk Radio

This decline in manufacturing has been precipitous—and permanent. Heather Boushey, in her chapter in this report, also captures the anxiety experienced by blue-collar men of all races who are losing the majority of jobs in this recession and almost all men who are seeing their wages fall. These job losses and wage cuts narrow the gender gap in pay not because women are getting ahead but rather because traditional male-dominated industries are suffering.

Or so it seems to a variety of different types of men who rail against our changing society. Both groups mourn the loss of the casual locker-room frivolity that marked the all-male workplace, and are afraid of, and angry about, sexual harassment guidelines, which they regard as the Politically Correct police. Most are white, and offer the same dire predictions—loss of camaraderie and casual cohesiveness—that whites feared 40 years ago about integration. Women, we might be told, are not qualified for the positions they seek; they are not strong enough, not tough enough, not [fill in the blank] enough to make the grade.

This defensive resistance lies close to the surface; a gentle scratch can elicit a furious response. While researching my recent book, Guyland, I happened on a Brooklyn bar that has been home to generations of firefighters and their pals. Until I happen to ask one guy about female firefighters.

The atmosphere turns menacing, and a defensive anger spills out of the guys near me. They were in their late twenties and early thirties. Then it was my turn to respond. I said I had one question about one word in the title of the show. Gender equality is felt to be a zero-sum game: If women win, men lose. And to hear them tell it, men are losing. Just flip on virtually any talk radio station in America and listen to the callers as they rail against a system that no longer favors them. Or tune into sports radio, the most gender-specific spot on your radio dial. As women race onto the athletic field in record numbers, some men run off into sports talk.

In , fewer than , high school girls played interscholastic sports, compared with 3. Sports talk radio often expresses the defensive male bonding that lies just below the surface of the easy camaraderie of that imagined locker room. I listen in the car and can let the maleness come out. Sometimes, this leads to some dizzying reversals of both conventional wisdom and common sense. Are feminists concerned about domestic violence? Women concerned about sexual assault? Women seek to protect their right to choose? Or how about women in the workplace campaigning against wage discrimination or sexual harassment?

This anti-feminist political agenda is best, and most simply, made by Harvard political scientist Harvey Mansfield, in an op-ed in The Wall Street Journal. They think only that people should be hired and promoted on merit, regardless of sex. Nor is it to be measured by comparing wages or representatives on corporate boards or legislative bodies. Rather, power is an interior experience, a sense of dynamic energy. As a result, they tend not to engage with policy initiatives designed to push women back.

They seek instead to combat their sense of emasculation not with impotent rage against feminized institutions, but rather by restoring their sense of power in reclaiming masculine myths. Other guys find that lost all-male Eden in cyberspace. These types of masculinists tend to rely on archaic notions of the essential, natural, and binary masculine and feminine.

These anti-feminists are not to be confused with those popular voices in minority communities—backed by many policy analysts—all of whom are engaged with the crisis facing many minority boys in school, which is both real and serious. Founded in by Bill McCartney, former football coach at the University of Colorado, Promise Keepers is an evangelical Christian movement that seeks to bring men back to Jesus.

While mostly white, they have a real presence of African Americans in leadership positions. Now I must reclaim that role. There can be no compromise here. The Million Man March was a formal and for some, troubling engagement with masculinist politics. In the 21st century, reconnecting men to family life is politicized terrain, filled with moral urgency, legalistic outrage, and social movements. With divorce so common, one arena in which fatherhood has become highly politicized is during and after divorce.

For other men, mostly white and middle class, the stroke of the pen finalizing divorce turns hordes of doting daddies into furious fathers who feel aggrieved by a process they believe denies them the access to their children to which they feel entitled. Society cannot afford to support mothers who choose not to work. In a recent study of 1, divorces in two California counties, for example, psychologist Eleanor Maccoby and law professor Robert Mnookin found that about 82 percent of mothers and 56 percent of fathers received the custody arrangement they wanted, while 6.

That mothers were more likely to act on their desires by filing for a specific request also indicates that men need to ask for more up front to avoid feeling bitter later. But one consequence of current custody arrangements is paternal withdrawal. This masculinizaton of irresponsibility is compounded by class and race.

Poorer communities desperately need child support programs to enable and assist fathers in staying connected. Men are deeply attached to a personal belief or meaning of being a fan of sports Nylund So they are even targeted when engaged in an activity through the radio where the listeners can easily multi-task. Sport is an activity invented by humankind with an intention to entertain and promote overall health. Beer is an addictive substance that has little to do with improving well-being. Today, it is a tradition to indulge in drinking beer while watching football games, for example, or to consume alcohol after participating in sports activities.

Beer commercials and sports have created a dangerous framework for cultural conditioning of substance abuse for young men in our society. The ruling bodies and the elderly in communities need to come together as one force to curb and finish this dangerous tradition. Nylund, D. Beer, babes, and balls: Masculinity and sports talk radio. Albany: State Univ.

Wenner, L. Sport, beer, and gender: Promotional culture and contemporary social life. New York: Peter Lang. My account. Beer Ads and Sports Shows. References Nylund, D. Stainback, R. Alcohol and sport.

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Friendly Letter Examples. Thank You Letter Examples. Analytical Essay Topics. Analytical Essay Examples. Cause and Effect Essay Topics. Cause and Effect Essay Examples. Mickey Mantle hit a home run today in the fourth inning and that was all the impetus the Yankees needed, but no game-win- ning home run ever wound up with such emphatic second-billing as Mantle's this afternoon. It was an exciting wallop but in the fourth inning only, because after that Larsen was the story today, and the dumbfounded Dodg- ers could wonder how this same guy who couldn't last out two innings in the second game, could master them so thoroughly to- day.

He did it with a tremendous assortment of pitches that seemed to have five forward speeds, including a slow one that ought to have been equipped with back-up lights. Larsen had them in hand all day. He used only 97 pitches, not an abnormally low number because 11 pitches an inning is about normal for a good day's work.

But he was the boss from the out- set. Only against Pee Wee Reese in the first inning, did he lapse to a three-ball count, and then he struck Reese out. No other Dodger was ever favored with more than two called balls by Um- pire Babe Pinelli. Behind him, his Yankee teammates made three spectacular field- ing plays to put Larsen in the-Hall of Fame. There was one in the second inning that calls for special description. In the fifth, Mickey Mantle ranged far back into left center to haul in Gill Hodges' long drive with a backhand shoetop grab that was a beaut. Little did Larsen, the Yankees, the Dodgers or anybody among the 64, in the stands suspect that when Jackie Robinson was robbed of a line drive hit in the second inning, the stage was being set for a Perfect Game, Robinson murdered the ball so hard that Third Baseman Andy Carey barely had time to fling his glove upward in a desperate at- tempt to get the ball.

He could only deflect it. By a half step, McDougald got Robinson at first base, and Larsen tonight can be grateful that it was not the younger, fleeter Robinson of a few years back but a heavy-legged, year- old Jackie. As the game wore on, Larsen lost the edge that gave him five strikeouts in the first four innings, and added only two in the last five. He had opened up by slipping called third strikes past both Gilliam and Reese in the first inning. Came the sixth, and he got Furillo and Campanella on pops, fanned Maglie. Gilliam, Reese and Snider were easy in the seventh.

Robinson tapped out, Hodges lined out and Amoros flied out in the eighth. And now it was the ninth, and the big Scandinavian- American was going for the works with a calm that was exclusive with him. Furillo gave him a bit of a battle, fouled off four pitches, then flied mildly to Bauer. He got two quick strikes on Campanella, got him on a slow roller to Martin. Now it was the lefthanded Dale Mitchell, pinch-hitting for Mag- lie.

Ball one came in high. Larsen got a called strike. On the next pitch, Mitchell swung for strike two. Then the last pitch of the game. Mitchell started to swing, but didn't go through with it. But it made no difference because Umpire Pinelli was calling it Strike Number Three, and baseball history was being made.

Maglie himself was a magnificent figure out there all day, pitch- ing hitless ball and leaving the Yankees a perplexed gang, until suddenly with two out in the fourth, Mickey Mantle, with two called strikes against him, lashed the next pitch on a line into the right field seats to give the Yanks a lead. There was doubt about that Mantle homer because the ball was curving and would it stay fair?

It did. In their own half of the 22 Shirley Povich inning, the Dodgers had no such luck. Duke Snider's drive into the same seats had curved foul by a few feet. The disgusted Snider eventually took a third strike. The Dodgers were a luckless gang and Larsen a fortunate fel- low in the fifth. Like Mantle, Sandy Amoros lined one into the seats in right, and that one was a near-thing for the Yankees. By what seemed only inches, it curved foul, the umpires ruled.

Going into the sixth, Maglie was pitching a one-hitter Mantle's homer and being outpitched. The old guy lost some of his stuff in the sixth, though, and the Yankees came up with their other run. Carey led off with a single to center, and Larsen sacrificed him to second on a daring third-strike bunt. Hank Bauer got the run in with a single to left.

There might have been a close play at the plate had Amoros come up with the ball cleanly, but he didn't and Carey scored unmolested. Now there were Yanks still on first and third with only one out, but they could get no more.

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Hodges made a scintillating pickup of Mantle's smash, stepped on first and threw to home for a double play on Bauer who was trying to score. Bauer was trapped in a rundown and caught despite a low throw by Campanella that caused Robinson to fall into the dirt. But the Yankees weren't needing any more runs for Larsen to- day. The New York Post Corp. JL, but for Don Newcombe it was a lifetime. This was his longest voyage home and he wept all the way. He drove his Ford station wagon with his right hand and with his left he held a handkerchief to his face. He balled it into his fist or he rolled it between his fingers and always he stared straight ahead, almost unseeing, because there was a mist before his eyes and memories he cannot erase.

Only Newcombe knew the gnawing pain within him, the doubts, the anger, the confusion and frustration of the pitcher who was reached for two home runs by Yogi Berra and one by Elston How- ard, which beat the Dodgers yesterday. But it was more than the game and the Series that went with it, more than being KO'd by the Yankees twice within a week and five times in a career. It was so much more than the conviction that he had good stuff and threw hard and courageously.

It was a man being torn apart worse inwardly than he was on the field by forces beyond his control. It was a giant of a man, who needed the comforting of a child. His voice was so low, his father couldn't hear. What, indeed? What could Newcombe say or what could his father say? And what are they all saying today? That he doesn't win the big ones. It was all un- said and hanging heavy in the air like the load that's within Don. How do I stop them from thinking that?

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I didn't have the answers, but I had compassion. Roger Craig now takes over the mound. Twice he had to apply his brakes swiftly when his car came up on another too suddenly. As we entered the Holland Tunnel, Billy Martin was at bat for the Yankees in the seventh, with one ball called. The radio died under the river. Bill Skowron was at bat. The cars whizzed by on the Pulaski Skyway. The Jersey meadows were barren and wind whipped the bullrushes when Skowron smashed his home run.

Newcombe said, and Don merely nodded his head. When Ed Roebuck came in and the announcer said he was Brooklyn's fourth pitcher, Don still seemed impassive. The fingers of his left hand rubbed the handkerchief he held and what was in his mind he didn't say until we left the skyway. I said I didn't think so. When I came up in the third inning after Yogi hit the second one, he said to me : T hit a perfect pitch. You can strike Mantle out, but I don't know where you can throw the ball to get Berra out.

Newcombe said. The way Collins hits me, too, I don't understand it. I don't know about Slaughter, but why did he take Collins out the way he hits me? Newcombe said, and Don nodded. All the way, nobody had recognized the car's riders, but a block from Clinton St. He bowed from the waist and Mr. Newcombe waved back at him. In the little parlor, the TV set was still on the game, but Newk's mother was in the kitchen. Newk went to the refrigerator for two quarts of beer and poured a glass for his dad, himself and me.

If it happened, it happened," she said. No hits at all," Don's brother said. I'm biting my nails. Look at them. She asked when I was coming home. It always happens to me in the first two innings or the last. How do you take things like that? We wouldn't be here with- out you. I had told New- combe I'd go home with him. I sensed he didn't want me coming with him all the way, at least not this day. I told my wife what's the use keeping you awake. She said for me to go in the other room, but I tossed and turned. It wasn't today's game.

It was this other business I wanted to beat, but dammit, I can't get away from it. My sympathy was with this tormented man, who would give his soul to prove the big ones are like the little ones. There were five boys on the corner four Negro and one white and they recognized Newcombe as he drove off.

Before Babe Didrikson Zaharias entered the hospital with new complications in- her continuing struggle with cancer, she and her husband George received Joan Flynn Drey spool at their Tampa, Florida home. This is the story of that visit, a warm and moving picture of the great woman athlete's happy marriage,, and of her quiet and courageous battle with the illness which so unexpectedly struck her down in her prime.

Yes- terday we went to St. Pete to the Ladies' PGA. Babe presented the prizes. When she walked up on the green, they all applauded for the longest time, the kind of applause that makes goose pimples and Babe had 'em. A similar black box was at his wife's bed- side.

When she awakened, she would call him. The kitchen was big, airy, bright ; full of copper and knotty pine and electric appliances. A round, Lazy Susan breakfast table was placed by a bay window that looked out on a patio and green lawn sloping into a small lake. To the right, a brassie shot away, was the Tampa Golf and Country Club which the Zahariases once owned but sold when the Babe became ill. We were in the hospital ever since and just got back a couple of weeks ago. His poised ingratiating 28 Babe and George 29 manner and the easy fluidity of his speech seemed in strange con- trast to his ponderous size and cauliflower ears.

Must have been 17 18 years ago, I said to her, 'What's the matter with that other kind of dishes? Babe put sticks there marking it. A guest room and bath opened off the back of the kitchen, and to the side was a double garage with two Cadillacs in it. One of them had a sleeping bed fixed up in back for the Babe to stretch out on, since sitting for too long a time is painful for her.

In the thickly carpeted living room, softly lit shelves were filled with silver trophies of all shapes and sizes. Over the fireplace was a portrait of the Babe, painted in The face was young, eager, intense. Her light brown hair was brushed back in a boyish bob and she was wearing a sleeveless jersey. To the right of the mantel, in what appeared to be a place of honor, a glass-enclosed shadow box held a red satin, heart-shaped candy box cover, decked in ribbons and roses and set on blacld velvet.

The door to the master bedroom was closed. There was' still no sound from it. George Zaharias walked quietly, speaking low if at all. In the den, letters to be answered were piled on the desk. A guitar stood idly in the corner. More trophies lined the wall and were scattered unceremoniously on any available space. There were the Olympic championship medals she won in , one for the meter hurdles, the other for the javelin throw. Zaharias opened a guest book. I asked Dr. Robert M. That's where the money goes.

Just the other day, Babe said, 'Honey, I wish I could help you write these people and thank them. She thinks of everything. Zaharias opened a closet door. Dozens of pairs of gold shoes, size 8B, were neatly stacked in boxes on an upper shelf. Babe and George 31 She can sew like a demon and makes dresses and drapes and every- thing. If I say I like her hair or a new dress, they might be little things to other people, but to Babe they're great things.

She can sit in a room with old people and make them feel young. She does things for them, plays music for them, entertains them. With her, everything jells to- gether. His tanned, strong-featured face came aglow. He settled himself in one of the captain's chairs at the round table. I had taken up golf two years before, and I was pretty good. Then I came back to town and picked up the pairings in the paper, and I was paired with Babe.

I had never met her. I had wrestled once in Beaumont, Texas, when she was a kid I'm five years older than she is but I had heard about this little kid who was the fastest thing on two legs and could throw baseballs and swim and dive like nobody you ever seen, and who was a legend being built up in , and of course in she blossomed out as a star of the Olympics which proved all the things that you heard about her. I was kind of scared. A photog- rapher out there said, 'Do you mind taking a picture together? Put your arms around her.

I was embarrassed at doing those things to a girl I just met, but Babe looked at me and smiled. His faraway 32 Joan Flynn Dreyspool expression seemed to indicate he was thinking of the time itself when he met the girl who has been his wife for nearly 18 years. They seemed to sense something. It seemed like electricity was popping everywhere. I wanted to walk close to her. After three or four holes, compli- ments were flying right and left to each other.

I didn't have no wrestling match that night, so I asked her for a date to dinner. She said, 'Sure, I got to call my mother, just to tell her I'm going out. Babe used to take her mother to Cali- fornia every year. She used to love the flowers. She's a great dancer, and we just fit together like a glove; close-up, easy, quiet dancin'. I took her everywhere where I knew my pals were. I wanted to show her off, see. I told them. The neighbors came in, and Babe played the harmonica for them real good.

They all wanted to know when she was coming back. Sometimes Babe would come by the apartment without letting me know. If I wasn't there, she'd leave me little notes, signed 'Romance'!


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I wish I had those little notes now," he sighed nostalgically. Still no sound, and it was nearingnoon. Leo Durocher was best man, and Joe Medwick was there. Babe and I went to Australia on our honeymoon. She played many exhibi- Babe and George 33 tions over there and drew tremendous crowds. I wrestled about 18 times over there, but Babe didn't like me to wrestle. All my matches were blood and thunder, like we call it in our business, and Babe was afraid I'd get hurt. She used to get headaches if she watched me.

I retired from wrestling that year.


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Besides, my legs were bad. I had torn the cartilage in both knees. Zaharias went to it eagerly. Then the whole house came alive. Eddie, the Zaharias' year- old helper, a bandana over the pincurls in her blonde hair, started brewing some hot liquid mixture, and Bebe, a frisky black minia- ture poodle which had been playing in the yard, scratched at the door to come in.

She went yapping at Zaharias' heels into the bedroom. Moments later, the Babe's voice, brighter, stronger, came over the intercom. We'll need some fresh bread. The intercom buzzed again. I'd like to meet her. Twenty-two years had passed since her portrait had been painted, but her pillowed head looked much the same.

Her brown hair was longer, softer. Time and laughter had etched lines around her eyes, but the same spark, the intensity and alertness burned in them still. Only her body, thinner, frailer, was more dormant. At our entrance, Bebe, the poodle, jumped on the bed, a black fluff snuggled protectively against her mistress' red silk pajamas.

She raised her knees under the coverlet, providing a back 34 Joan Flynn Dreyspool brace for the dog and propped her in front of her like a live doll. Then apologetically, "I'm sorry I slept so late, but I had a rough night. My legs ache. They don't hurt, but they ache. There's a lot of sincerity and sweetness in his eyes. I don't know what I would have done without him. They were pretty good. We auto- graphed them to each other. Meanwhile Eddie brought her breakfast in on a tray and while the Babe ate her sandwich Zaharias showed the picture, an old- fashioned daguerreotype of her parents, a handsome couple; the father, black haired, strong jawed, mustached ; the mother, blonde, pretty, gentle looking.

We had a good time. My dad was a sailor," she boasted, "that's why I've always like sea stories. He carved a boat and put it in a bottle. I have it in the other room. Zaharias grinned, "That's the promoter in me. But Babe taught me everything I know about business.

Babe and George 35 "You did. There were three or four tournaments a year, but they'd come months apart. I was working most of the time, playing exhibitions, but we wanted this tour. We had to have players. We felt if we could get out and help some young players, we'd get them to play good so we could have competition. Then they got good. She defended herself. You tell them what they should be doing so they can play a little better, like they're going to have to play good now to keep the tour good.

All they need is sponsors. But money has never moved Babe much. She likes to play in tournaments. She likes the crowds, the competition. I haven't even read my book since it's been out. Her auto- biography, This Life I've Led, was published last fall. I can't sit long enough to write a letter.

I'd have to write it standing up. There were so many things to say. They have encouraged me. She leaned back on the pillow and moved a heating pad closer to her chest. You go through it and you fight and you fight and you hope and you pray, then something worse hits you like this last one, cancer of the sacrum. It's going to make it tough for me to come back. That's probably why we have Babe with us today, because she has prepared her body and taken such good care of it.

I like his competitive spirit. I think he's the finest competitor the world has ever known in sports. He plays to win, but to be able to play like he wanted to play, he had to lose a lot of friends. Undaunted, she continued. I don't say Ben's the greatest golfer in the world or the greatest swinger of a golf club, but nobody ever worked like him. It was the toughest game I ever tackled. Those early sports I did when I was a kid never made much impression on me.

I just happened to fall into it. Of course, I was quite happy every time I won. I was like that in school, a com- petitor. I wanted to get the best marks. My mother encouraged us all in sports. So did my father. They gave us every opportunity they could and never stopped us from doing anything. It wasn't very good golf," she said critically. She lit a cigarette and sipped her coffee. Babe and George 37 "I started playing golf October 7, and stayed with it I worked 18 hours a day.

I couldn't wait for daylight to- come. I used to be dressed and have my breakfast so I'd be ready when that daylight came, then I'd go out to the practice fairway. My ambition was to get below men's par. Everyone has some little thing that makes them hit better. You can learn to play golf with the worst form in the world that's what's so great about golf but you'll find most champions do have a very good golf swing. Mostly it's not looking at the ball and having too fast a backswing. You've got to have your backswing nice and slow to get the same rhythm all the time; then after you've learned to swing, you create a speed that gets faster and faster.

If you don't, your body will weave. A lot of people claim they never hit the ball the same way twice in a row. They either loosen up or soften up, but if you keep your eyes on the ball, your body will stay in position and you'll have the same firmness all the time. Then if you follow through with the hit, you'll get yourself a fine shot. They have nothing to lose so they play to win.

Well, I'd get an opponent, and they'd pull everything out they could at me, so I'd have to spurt to build my- self up to where I could go ahead and win. Sometimes I'd put forth effort that I didn't have. I've always thought and I guess it's been the bad thing in my sports career that I tried not to kill anybody real bad.

I never wanted to get beat, yet I never wanted to beat the 38 Joan Flynn Dreyspool youngsters or anybody who wanted to be in the game. She could have been a very good golfer. I had this girl five down in the first five holes. She said, "Babe, you got me beat already. Why don't you help me on my game? I feel as though it's for those people who are interested enough to write me and encourage me. When I went back and played and worked so hard after my can- cer operation in '53, 1 hoped I would encourage other cancer patients that they weren't through or physically handicapped, and I still hope I'll be able to prove it ; that if you have the wish or sufficient desire, you'll be able to come out of it.

When Zaharias noticed his wife's voice was beginning to weaken he brought her a sedative and water. Babe took it, self-consciously. You should see all the stuff they've got in there for rne to take. They don't retire because they're through. They retire because they're just tired of it. They get tired of putting on their shoes. I did, too, when I got to feeling bad. I don't feel that way now. I'd just love to get my shoes on once again. In a magnificent setting of sunshine and native laughter, Sal, in sinister fashion, mowed down ten Yankees on strikes and pitched Brooklyn's National League champions to a victory over the American League's New Yorkers in the opening game of the World Series.

It was incredibly fantastic to see the rejuvenated old codger, rescued from the scrap heap and bought with a few old bottle caps and worn out spikes, add another chapter to his already rich saga. In eight days he has hurled a no-hitter, pitched the game that moved the Brooks out in front of Milwaukee in the pennant race and tamed the hated Yanks in this World Series. Throwing tantalizing curves that clipped corners with scissors precision, the 39 year old master of control recovered from a first inning jolt when Mickey Mantle smashed a foot two run homer.

It was a beautiful job and his Dodgers mates showed their ap- preciation. This was especially true of Gil Hodges, a goat of the World Series with the Yanks when he went hitless in 21 official at bats. The powerful Hodges sent a screaming drive into the left field seats with two on in the third inning to seal the fate of New York starter Whitey Ford, and give the olive skinned Maglie the working margin he needed. That made the count and Sal never looked back. Gil whiffed three times and never got a piece of a hit.

I'm humiliated. The first strike was called on twenty-one Yankees and the third on quite a number. Pesky Billy Martin, who always has been a thorn in Brooklyn's side, slammed a home run on Sal's first serve in the fourth and was one of the few Yanks who didn't succumb on three strikes. The brash and bellicose Billy would not even admit that Maglie was weaving magic.

His sharp nose was searching for something more sinister, like saliva or pine tar. Billy twice called for the ball. So did several others. Sal long has been charged with using the spitter in fact, the accusation origi- nated here along the banks of the Gowanus. But that was when Maglie wore the livery of the Giants and was an enemy. Maglie went to his mouth with his pitching hand invariably in key situations without picking up the resin bag, as the rule requires.

When he fanned Mantle after Hank Bauer and Enos "Country" Slaughter had singled back to back in the third, the finger went to the lip. That was a big pitch. Clem Labine already was warming up and Sal, for precious moments, was hanging on the ropes. But Mantle didn't even lift his bat. Slaughter punched out three singles and Bauer two. In all, the Yanks got nine blows plus four walks.

They had men on base every inning but two. But the Barber didn't weaken, he just bore down a little harder, shaved the corners a little finer, and kept the power hitters from getting a toehold. Sinister Sal Mows 'Em Down 41 As for Ford, it can only be said that this so-called cemetery for southpaws claimed another headstone today. Whitey didn't have a thing. He yielded six hits in his three inn- ings of toil. These included two homers and a double.

Jack Robin- son touched off the Flatbush fireworks with a four bagger off a fast ball to start the second. Hodges also hit a high fast ball. Of all the reserves he threw into the breach, only Turley served any warning. Bullet Bob pitched the Brooks' last at bats and he did it with finesse. The burly righthander fanned Hodges, broke Carl Furillo's bat at the handle when he grounded out to short and then whiffed Roy Campanella. Maybe Stengel started the wrong pitcher.

Full text of "Radio Mirror (May-Oct )"

Despite the Turley flash, the Yankees were a pretty miserable outfit in the dressing room. Even Stengel, who normally can toss off a defeat without break- ing stride, was glum. Both are right- handers and both big fellows.

Newcombe has a fabulous record, Larsen is The game will be played here before another sellout crowd, but the distinguished guests will be absent. The President did a fine job tossing out the first ball and he didn't have to wait long for the action. It was almost as if he had whispered to Mantle to clout him a home run as they shook hands before the game. The President personally greeted not only the players, but baseball officials and the umpires.

Mantle's blow followed Slaughter's single in the first inning with one away. His was the hardest driven of the four homers, clearing the right field screen and landing deep in a parking lot on Bedford Avenue. The Brooks tied it up in the second which Robinson, a money player always, opened with a homer into the left field stands. Hodges dropped a fly in front of Mantle and the Mick took it on the bounce rather than try for the catch. Furillo doubled into left center and Hodges romped home. The pressure was taken off a'play at the plate when Mantle missed the rebound off the wall.