Word: hoops
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...getting harder and harder to keep score on how many times Nikita Khrushchev had rattled his war rockets. One Kremlinologist got the count up to nearly 150 times in the past five years-and that was before last week's big flurry. Cock-a-hoop over his cosmonauts, a little miffed perhaps that the rest of the world was not giving him what he regarded as his due, and possibly feeling a little frustrated over the West's stubborn resistance on Berlin. Nikita Khrushchev was in a real rocket-banging tantrum...
...Kennedy felt confident that he could look Khrushchev squarely in the eye and effectively warn him that despite recent reverses, neither the President nor the U.S. could safe ly be pushed around. There were some who argued the necessity of the exercise: the Communists are pretty cock-a-hoop these days, sure that they can toy with the nuclear talks, conquer Laos, wreck the U.N., and maybe start something in Berlin...
Unfortunately, Mr. Storrer's valiant efforts are over balanced by Mr. Gilbert's somewhat witless book. Of all the G and S satires, Patience is undoubtedly the most dated and least funny. The poetry of the pre-Raphaelite aesthetics is about as current as the hula-hoop. And, with only a few notable exceptions, the frenetic efforts of this year's troupe simply cannot disguise Bab's droning...
...since 1939, when a Harvard lad wearing skirts won the Wellesley College hoop-rolling contest, had the tweedy, well-heeled people of Wellesley, Mass. (pop. 26,071), been so riled up. Tempers boiled; upstanding citizens denounced one another in public meetings, over TV and in newspaper ads. The issue: a proposal to put sodium fluoride in Wellesley's drinking water. In the upshot, the generally well-off and well-educated citizenry of Wellesley voted down the proposal emphatically. along with two neighboring towns, Brookline and Andover...
...himself. The instant his opponent lets his weight fall on the wrong foot, Robertson takes a giant step and starts to move like a sports car slamming into gear. Crouched over the ball, his left arm thrust out as a shield, Robertson maneuvers through the melee under the hoop until, in one blurred motion, he rises from the floor to hang alone in mid-air like a puppet on a string. At last he shoots-a precise, gentle release of the ball that is cocked behind his right ear, a final flick of his fingers. The mark of Robertson...