Word: baldingly
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...about this. I could never for an instant imagine myself performing the feats of these uniformed supermen; yet thinking about Sunday's heroes does offer relief from mundane cares. When I fall asleep, however, I begin to dream middle-aged dreams. I dream that I am old, egg-bald Y.A. Tittle in high-top shoes, running a bootleg into the end zone on my weary legs. Or I dream of being Sonny Jurgensen, proudly puffing out my potbelly as if it were a chest, fading back and letting go with the most accurate arm in the game. And when...
Afterward, while the spectator fleet blared horns and shot flares into the darkening sky, the Intrepid crew gleefully doused Picker's bald head with champagne. Tradition also dictated that they heave him in the drink-which they did with dispatch, thus producing the memorable sight of the two skippers treading water and shaking hands. Yet the end of the 21st cup defense was only a beginning. What used to be a private competition between the U.S. and its English-speaking cousins (Canada, Britain, Australia) is becoming an event of Olympian proportions. As of last week, a tentative line...
...black enlisted men in ten and half as many officers now wear Afro style haircuts though most whites object to them. "I had an Afro cut," Air Force Sgt. Herbert Harrison of Trenton, N.J., complained bitterly. "But I went through hell wearing it. So I shaved my head bald...
...BALD SOPRANO had a strangely stale effect, though the famed "Bobby Watson" segment and the opening interchange between Mr. and Mrs. Martin should, independently, justify even the most traditional revival of this play. What follows these two paradigms of verbal obfuscation is a dreary series of games which the Smiths play with their think-alike symbolic coordinates, the Martins. The caperings of Mary, the maid, seemed to contribute nothing to the action, but Victoria Fraser's quickness in that part relieved an artistic sore in the play which was repeatedly aggravated by Jim Lynch's performance as the visiting Fire...
...found, in short, not much fire in The Bald Soprano, and I began to notice trivial things like the close atmosphere in the poorly ventilated basement room in which the plays were presented. I wondered how Mr. Smith could be reading an obituary of Bobby Watson in the Times Literary Supplement. My mind was wandering from the focus hit in the first play when Jack, surrounded by swarming relatives, screamed: "Words, what crimes are committed in your name...