Word: pinnings
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...Berkeley. Did Ronnie want to be a writer? All right-someone at Berkeley promised him a job as sportswriter on the Berkeley Gazette. Was he interested in advertising? Fine. Alumni among the admen would be glad to get Ronnie a job in an agency. And for more immediate pin-money needs, Berkeley offered the maximum student grants-in-aid and top priority for writing jobs at the university's proposed million-dollar TV station. Along with everything else, of course, he would get an education-even a degree...
...southern fringe of Raleigh, N.C., stands the Windmill. Its dragon-green neon arms whirl day and night, its sexy carhops skip out in black slacks to take orders on the big, asphalt parking space, its gigantic jukebox, hitched up to outdoor amplifiers, drenches the area with blare: Pin Ball Boogie, maybe, or Jo Stafford's plangent yearning for someone to Make Love to Me -and always plenty of hillbilly...
...Snead is sensationally good when he is good-and when he is bad he is horrid. He is never dull. He plays a gamboling, gambling game that hypnotizes the spectators. He rarely plays it safe. Unlike the cautious Hogan, Snead likes to take chances. He usually aims at the pin. Says he: "You play 'em for the money, or you play 'em safe. That's why you win and why you lose." This week Snead faced perhaps the biggest test of his career in the U.S. Open...
...become a classic of a kind. His first shot hooked into the rough and left him with a sandy lie. Instead of playing a cautious game, Sam took a custom-made 2½ wood from his bag and aimed a daring shot right at the pin. He flubbed it; the ball landed in a fairway bunker. Trying desperately for the green, he slashed an iron shot that landed on an overhanging lip above a sandtrap, rolled back toward the sand and hung precariously in long grass. On his fourth shot, with one foot in the trap and one out, Snead...
...every morning and dutifully back to her brandy-swigging guardian, Aunt Morgen, every night. She has the looks and manners of a mouse, the brains of a flea and a fondness for cocoa ("Miserable puny stuff," snorts Aunt Morgen, "fit for kittens and unwashed boys"). Backaches and migraine headaches pin Elizabeth to her bed every so often, and Aunt Morgen is solicitous until she finds the girl sneaking out of the house in the small hours. Accused of a secret romance or worse, Elizabeth draws a blank and claims to know nothing of her nocturnal jaunts. What worries Elizabeth...