The Ball Game

Once the charity ball was a stately affair where the rich paid a large admission' fee for the privilege of dancing sedately with each other for the sake of the poor or the worthy. In many U.S. cities--San Francisco, Boston, Chicago, Baltimore, Dallas--it still is. But in Manhattan, charity balls have proliferated into a bustling industry where worthy charities engage in cutthroat competition, good intentions clash with social ambitions, and publicity agents prowl.

This year's calendar is clogged with more than 100 charity balls--triple the number five years ago--that will gross about $45 million. Every charity worthy of its name--and some not so worthy--aspires to have its own ball, does its best to capture top-ranking socialites for its committee. The socialites themselves, overwhelmed in the crush, resort to selling one another tickets ($50 or $100 each) on the basis of "I'll come to your ball if you come to mine."

The Gimmicks. Charity balls are no longer given by individual dowagers; they no longer have the great old halls or the coveys of servants of yesteryear. Instead, ball committees seek commercial sponsors, who think the attendant publicity well worth the price. Among this year's: the Bourbon Institute for the Bourbon Ball, Coty, Inc. and Harry Winston, Inc. for the Hope Ball. Even here the competition is heavy. Said one executive of Pepsi-Cola: "Last week there were nine charities in here looking for sponsorship. Pepsi does its fair share for charity, but there are limits."

Such competition has spawned a group of promoters who specialize in organizing balls for a fee (some $14 million of the $45 million raised by charity balls last year went for "operating expenses"). Each has his own gimmick, and is cattily critical of his competitors. For the New York Times's Nan Robertson, one promoter ticked off one colleague's: "He plays the Russian bit. He always has somebody doing the squat dance or auctioning off a painting by a 90-year-old grand duchess." Struck by sudden inspiration, one promoter saved a recent ball (for Society Girl Gregg Dodge's pet charity, Girls Town of Mt. Plymouth, Fla.) by billing it as a Twist party, and some of the most distinguished names in the Social Register happily rushed to the Four Seasons restaurant to gyrate uninhibitedly for a clean cause. No charity ball can afford to be without a celebrity or two; the Polonaise Ball had Polish-born Pianist Artur Rubinsiein, who also serves as honorary chairman of the charity itself (for Polish World War II refugees now living in the U.S.), and other celebrators ranged from Elsa Maxwell to Douglas Fairbanks.

Merit Badges. Charities would obviously be better off if donors just sent their checks straight on to the Boys Club or whatever. But there is not much excitement in that. Explains Count Lanfranco Rasponi, a fortyish Italian bachelor whose title gives him an extra cachet as a society adviser and ball arranger: "Life at home as such is becoming extinct in certain circles. The dinner is generally catered, one always sees the same waiters and often the same menu. People are finding that they have more fun at balls."

But drawing-room boredom is not the only reason for the burgeoning ball business. The fact is that there are a lot of new-line, new-money families who want to get close to the old-line, old-money families--and the charity ball has become the best opportunity. Says Socialite Robin Lynn: "The old Four Hundred has been enlarged to the 4,000,000, all scratching to get in--and in what?"

In what? In the papers, for one thing. There is many a well-to-do matron who will gladly contribute as much as $10,000 to a charity (plus a program ad for her husband's business) for the privilege of being on the ball committee. This entitles an eager beaveress to be photographed for the society pages with an established society leader at a fashionable restaurant, and may even lead to a mention in a gossip column. The earnest climber who accumulates enough of such credits, like an Eagle Scout with a sash of merit badges, obtains recognition among her peers.

To the Needy. Ironically, more and more of the socialites are beginning to stay away from the charity balls that they invented; they lend their names and sometimes buy tickets, but they don't show. Says TV Veteran Maggi McNellis, wife of Art Gallery Owner Clyde Newhouse, and herself one of the busiest charity ball patrons: "When you get there, you look at your program. Then you look around the room for the people listed and you don't see them. I've been on ball committees and haven't gone myself." Says Party Arranger Elsa Maxwell: "The charity ball is a place where the climbers can see each other."

Last week both the old rich and the new rich were on hand for the Police Athletic League ball at the Sheraton-East. Such recognized society names as Mrs. Winthrop W. Aldrich, Mrs. Michael Phipps and Mrs. John R. Fell made an appearance, but most went home early, leaving the glamorous matrons with such first-name tags as Dee-Dee and Gri-Gri to dance the Twist. The proceeds (at $50 a ticket) amounted to $15,000; everybody had a grand time, and any stranger could tell that the ballgoers were glad to have a Police Athletic League in need of charity.

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