"The Old Cat-o'-Nine-Tails"

GOLF

It was no trial at all for well-bred Britons to keep a stiff upper lip all the way through Dunkirk, the Blitz and Suez. But through eight straight losses to the U.S. in the Walker Cup--now really, chaps, that was a bit much to ask. Englishmen take their golf seriously; after all, they practically invented the game. Actually, it was the Scots--but surely the Empire still stretches that far?

This year the British decided to go after the Walker Cup in earnest. They scheduled the matches for Ailsa, a 7,025-yd. course at Turnberry, Scotland, whose massive bunkers and cement-hard greens were sure to give U.S. golfers fits. Then they picked a team of strong young amateurs who could match the long-hitting Americans drive for drive. And, finally, they prayed for rain.

Last week, as the two-day Cup matches got under way. an icy wind roared off the Firth of Clyde, dumping rain and sleet on Ailsa. "I'd heard about this Scottish weather," complained one U.S. golfer, "but I never believed it before." The Americans blew skyhigh. U.S. Amateur Champion Labron Harris lost to Ireland's David Sheahan, one up. California's Richard Davies, the 1962 British Amateur champion, blew a three-hole lead to England's Mike Bonallak. When night finally fell, the upset-minded British took a 6-3 lead with them into the clubhouse bar. U.S. Team Captain Dick Tufts called a meeting. Said one player: "He really swung the old cat-o-nine-tails."

The sun finally broke through next day --and so did the penitent Americans. In the morning, U.S. golfers swept all four Scotch foursomes (in which the two men on each team take turns hitting the ball) and led by the score of 7-6. By midafternoon, they had added three straight singles victories. On the 16th green, two up over England's Mike Lunt, New Jersey's Bob Gardner, 41, was surveying a tricky, 4-ft. putt when Captain Tufts whispered in his ear. "Bob," he said, "this is the one we need." Gardner calmly stepped up, sank the putt--and with it the British hope for a Walker Cup upset.

TRACK & FIELD

"Let Them Try"

"Frankly, I don't understand all the fuss about this meet," said New Zealand's Peter Snell, 24, on the eve of the California Relays at Modesto, Calif. Lounging beside a motel pool, arm in arm with his bride of two weeks, the world's fastest miler (3 min. 54.4 sec.) hardly looked like a man facing the sternest test of his career. He dismissed his chief competitor, the U.S.'s Jim Beatty, a 3-min. 56.3-sec. miler, with a scornful shrug: "This Beatty doesn't hold any decent record at all." He snorted at the suggestion that Beatty's teammates from the Los Angeles Track Club might try to box him in during the crucial run to the tape. "Let them try," said Snell. "Maybe it will make me run better."

Long before Starter Tom Moore raised his gun, sportswriters were calling the race "the Miracle Mile." "If all the 'Miracle Miles' were laid end to end," protested one old track hand, "they'd reach straight to heaven." But superlatives could be forgiven. Besides Snell and Beatty, the eight-man field included three other sub-4-min. milers: California's Jim Grelle (3 min. 56.7 sec.), and Bobby Seaman (3 min. 58 sec.), Marine Lieut. Gary Weisiger (3 min. 58.1 sec.). Each had a plan for winning: beat Snell. "If we don't beat this guy on his honeymoon," said Weisiger, "we'll never beat him."

The Modesto track was lightning-fast as the runners took their marks. Rangy (5 ft. 10 1/2in., 171 Ibs.) Peter Snell, relaxed and smiling, was in lane No. 1; little (5 ft. 51 in., 128 Ibs.) Jim Beatty, tense and drawn, was in lane No. 2. The others were strung out across the track. Bang! At the gun, California's George Jessup pounced in front. Beatty was second, Weisiger third, Grelle fourth, Snell a distant sixth. Nobody expected Jessup to be around for long. Sure enough, midway through the second lap, Beatty leaped into the lead.

Now the battle began. On the third lap, Gary Weisiger sprinted up, grimly fought off Beatty and Grelle. "Go, Gary, go!" fans screamed. They looked for Snell: there he was, lengthening his stride now, slipping past exhausted Jim Beatty --but still 10 yds. behind the leaders. Into the last turn the runners pattered, straining for speed. Grelle began to fade. Could Weisiger hold on? Could Snell catch him? In an instant that nobody who saw it will ever forget, Snell turned on his incredible kick. The impact on the field was the same as if he had kicked them all squarely in the shins. Hrrrooommm! He flashed past Grelle and Weisiger and drew away--5 yds., then 10, then 15. At the finish line, coasting now, he was 20 yds. in front. Officials announced the time: 3 min. 54.9 sec.--the fastest mile ever run in the U.S., the third fastest in history.

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