A pretty young cellist, identified on her sweatshirt as "Frank Furter," started things off by walloping a solid single past a guy who plays viola and identified himself as "What's On Second."

Next, Samuel Rubin, president of the league, singled and later moved to third, where he was held up by his dog Phillipe, the third-base coach. Then everybody sang Happy Birthday to Mrs. Rubin, with Leopold Stokowslci, 85, conducting. It was Softball of the Absurd, as presented in Manhattan's Central Park by the male (Wolf's Gang) and the female (Beethoven's Bunnies) members of Stoky's American Symphony Orchestra. Observed the maestro, who played guest of honor: "It certainly brings out a different side of their personalities from what I see in Carnegie Hall."

In his days as presidential press aide, he thought it unfair to blame the Administration for digging a credibility gap, and now that he is publisher of Long Island's tabloid Newsday, Bill Moyers, 32, thinks the same thing. The nation's newspapers, he told the Illinois Bankers Association, share equal blame for any gap because of all the conflicting interpretations and plain bad reporting. Said Bill: "I learned at the White House that what's happening often depends upon who is looking, and that of all the great myths of American journalism, objectivity is the greatest."

His first plane, built in 1929, was an endearing spit-and-string monoplane called "the Doodlebug," and his most recent is the F-4 Phantom II, the Mach 2 workhorse of the Viet Nam air war.

Along the way, James S. McDonnell (TIME cover, March 31) drove his McDonnell Corp. from a one-room operation into a $1 billion-a-year giant involved in nearly everything that flies. When the National Aeronautic Association awarded "Mr. Mac" its Collier

Trophy last week for "leadership and perseverance in advancing aeronautics and astronautics," the citation could be faulted only for understatement.

"I grew up being precocious and brash and conceited," says Britain's latest acting sensation, David Hemmings, 25 (BlowUp, Camelot), "and I thought that the only way to live was to live selfishly." Ah, but that was before Hollywood's newest starlet sensation, Gayle Hunnicutt, 23, came along to make a shambles of what David calls "my inner defenses." Not that it was a blitz, mind you. In February, they flew to Las Vegas with marriage on their minds, then had a tiff and David buzzed off to Turkey to film Charge of the Light Brigade. That was the last charge, apparently, for he soon desolately wired her to follow--and now from Ankara comes word that the sensational couple will be married, just as soon as Gayle gets over the mumps.

Incongruous as a lemonade stand in Death Valley and just as refreshing, a wee minipark opened on East 53rd Street in Manhattan amidst the jam-packed office buildings, hotels and stores. Donated to the city just for the joy of it by CBS Board Chairman William S. Paley, 65, it is only 42 ft. wide and 100 ft. deep, yet Paley Park offers pooped passers-by a respite at little white tables and chairs in a setting of geraniums, honey locust trees, and a 20-ft. waterfall whose roar all but drowns out the yowl of city traffic. Paley opened his $1,000,000 oasis, last occupied by the Stork Club, with no ceremony other than allowing his mother, Mrs. Samuel Paley, to push the button that started the waterfall. "You should have seen her face," he reported happily.

Lyon was leading Sochaux, 2-1, with three minutes to play in the French soccer championships, when a Lyon player thwunked the ball toward the sidelines. Up it sailed, completely out of the playing area and--zut alors!--landed smack in the presidential box. A pandemonium of plenipotentiaries was averted when Charles de Gaulle, 76, whipped the ball back toward the field, as thousands cheered. "It was good. It was good. I had a fine time," said le grand Charles later, presenting the winner's cup to Lyon and bussing each team captain on both cheeks.

They threw $50,000 parties for 1,000 guests, lived in a $250,000 house near Dallas, had three ranches with Black Angus cattle, drove His and Her Cadillacs, and proudly showed visitors a photo signed: "As ever, Lyndon B. Johnson." The tab for all this, starting in 1962, came to more than $3,000,000. But why not? Though Ernest Medders, 57, was only a $50-a-week mechanic's helper, barely able to feed his wife Margaret and ten children, he told folks that he was about to inherit an oilfield worth $500 million. So everybody lent him money: bankers, merchants, even a religious order called the Poor Sisters of St. Francis, which went for $1,900,000. It all came to an end, alas, two months ago, when the money ran out and the Medderses admitted that there was no inheritance; the U.S. Supreme Court had dismissed their claim in 1965--along with those of 3,000 others. In bankruptcy proceedings, Margaret tearfully explained that they wanted to live like Texans, and had borrowed "because we didn't have any money."

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