Word: pated
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...lashed in the winning goal. In Manhattan next night, Les Canadiens brought their local color along. While winning again and clinching first place, they engaged in Madison Square Garden's liveliest hockey riot in many a year (partial score: three misconduct penalties, an obstreperous fan's bald pate creased...
When the Kramer-Schroeder team was announced, Melbourne papers gleefully predicted that Walter Pate, the bright-eyed little Wall Street lawyer who has captained U.S. Davis Cuppers for twelve years, had made a mistake. Frank Parker, nationally ranked the second best singles player of the six Americans who made the trip, complained angrily because he wasn't chosen. At 1:30 p.m. that afternoon, when Schroeder strode out before 14,500 fans in Kooyong Stadium on a slippery grass court, the pressure was on him. He was to meet Jack Bromwich, Australia's big gun, in the opening...
Rush, Rest and Win. Captain Pate, who squatted beside the water buckets with a grin frozen on his face, had gambled on Schroeder, the money player. At first, it looked as if he had guessed wrong. Ambidextrous Bromwich, not quite as spry as of old, was nevertheless steady; Schroeder flubbed the simplest shots and lost the first set, 3-6. Then Schroeder, who plays with his mouth open, his tongue out and blowing ferociously, began to use his best weapon-a net game. He rushed the net at every chance, smashing beautifully and volleying down the lines with superb accuracy...
Glowed Captain Pate, who had won his gamble: "I've always said Kramer and Schroeder at their peak are the best doubles team in the world. They very nearly reached that peak today." Ted Schroeder was now free to go back to Glendale, Calif, to sell refrigerators, a job he stuck to most of last summer when other U.S. tennis stars were playing tournaments. Said he: "A fellow's got to quit this tennis sometime and get down to business...
...special Mary Lou Williams composition, "Lovely Lummox," the bespectacled Mr. Hall stood behind the microphone between the piano and the trumpet, his pate and fingernails vying for prominence in the brilliance of the spot light, and while the drummer's arms wildly flailed a quivering tropical tom tom, delivered himself of chorus after chorus of crying, impassioned music. He hits the notes on the edge, punching them out hoarsely and exuberantly, soaring up and down in a rapid shuffle rhythm; but the old majestic grandeur, characteristic of those of his profession who were trained where the Mississippi spills into...