The Southern Israelite. (Augusta, Ga.) 1925-1986, August 19, 1966, Image 4

The Southern Israelite., August 19, 1966, Image 4

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Newspaper Page TextPare Fear THE SOUTHERN ISRAELITE Friday, August 19, 1966 THL SOUTHERN ISRAELITE Published weekly by Southern Newspaper Enterprises, 390 Court- land St, N. E., Atlanta, Georgia 30303, TR. 6-8249, TR. 6-8240. Sec ond class postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia. Yearly subscription five dollars. The Southern Israelite invites literary contributions and correspondence but is not to be considered as sharing the views expressed by writers. DEADLINE is 5 P.M. FRIDAY, but material received earlier will have a much better chance of publication. Adolph Rosenberg, Editor and Publisher Kathleen Nease, Jeanne Loeb, Joseph Redlich Vida Goldgar, Harry Rose, Betty Meyer, Kathy Wood Georgia Press Association ......... 7 Arts Features NATIONAL NEWSPAPER nnnnaaiaaa Jewish Telegraphic Agency World Press The Man With Spade In Hand May Want To Bury You There came to Houston this past Monday a gentleman who represented the John Birch Society. He spoke before 100 to 150 persons at $1.50 per head. His topic was one which was calculated to arouse the Jewish community of Houston to thunder out against this type of subject matter. The announce ment, which was sent out via the postal route, caused some of our community a bit of concern. They wondered if this voice from Birch headquarters was going to address a multitude and whether the diatribe would get wide publicity. He came, he spoke, had a moment before the TV camera on two news spots, received much more space in the morning paper than his address called for—and is now gone to other communities, to again repeat his diatribes, his false accusations and his innuendoes. But that is democracy in action—and he has his right to be heard. The Anti-Defamation League needs no defense. It has been one of the major organizations speaking up for democratic action, against the offenders of democratic principles. It has been a stalwart in the fight to achieve a better society under law and a greater opportunity for all American citizens to enjoy the fruits of our democratic system. Ocasionally they step upon the sensitive corns of certain individuals and organi zations. These myopic individuals and organizations have gone overboard in their attempts to persuade the general public that our presidents have sold out to the communists; that our judges are pinkishly incompetent; that our ministers are representing the enemy; that the country is going too fast and too far in trying to make the constitution an instrument of American citizenship—not the tool of a choice few. This is the purpose of the ADL. This is the organization which the John Birch Society finds ready at all times to call a spade a spade—even if in the hands of this “patriotic and ex emplary” organization. If one doesn’t watch out one can be buried with a spade. —JEWISH HERALD—VOICE, Houston, Texas The Long Hot Summer Hundreds of Atlanta Journal readers last week gasped when they read an article by Sports Columnist Furman Bisher on the subject of a popular Jewish athlete. Bisher seemed to use such snide implications to indicate Koufax’ Jewishness several readers were on the verge of cancelling Journal sub scriptions, having advertisers put pressure on the paper to stop, once and for all, the columnist’s nasty innuenduous kind of comment, which seemed so blatantly the gentlemen’s agree ment type of anti-semitism prevalent in such athletic social circles as yacht clubs, country clubs and the like. This is not the first offense, several of the readers assured the TSI editor, who never has time to monitor sports columns himself. A high ANI official said it was all in fun, that Bisher was reported to have Jewish origins. But these hardly can have value unless they temper a person’s character in the direction of under standing and wisdom. Have they done so for Bisher? You, gentle reader, can be the judge. The TSI editor thinks they did not. Bisher in attacking the shrines of celebritism is indeed indicting his own integrity for no group of writers is as re sponsible for the athletic essay — shrines or otherwise as the hullabalooing sports columnist. For Bisher to belong to a craft which launches the inflated reputations of ascending stars and then smugly to take pot shots at the ones which rise high enough and come close to him seems a bit of self-hatred we certainly cannot admire. Anyways, on these pages we present the controversial column, the reply from Golden, the reply to the reply by Bisher and then Golden’s reply to the reply to the reply. And this should wrap the matter up. —ADOLPH ROSENBERG JEWISH CALENDAR •ROSII HASIIANA •SIMHAS TORAH September 15-16, October 7, Friday Thursday and Friday •HANUKA •YOM KIPPUR December 8-15 September 24, Saturday •8UCCOT Thursday - Thursday September 29-30 •HOLIDAY BEGINS Thursday and Friday •SHEMINI ATZERET October 6, Thursday SUNDOWN PREVIOUS DAY The Long and Short of a Columnist Furman Bisher in the Ailania Journal THE SHRINE OF KOUFAX This isn’t going to be easy to write and avoid sacrilege. What I mean is, the more I see of Sandy Koufax, and the way the world falls at his feet . . . well, I just can’t help but keep wondering. Know what I mean? If you don’t, I can’t explain it in any more detail. Tell you what. Make a guess and write me a letter, and the prize-winning letter wins a year’s subscription “to The Southern Israelite and a weekend on Lake Lanier with Harry Golden. I’ve just returned from watching Koufax autograph books. Not the Bible. He wrote one entitled, “Sandy Koufax.” Catchy title? Well, what did you expect him to call it, “Whitey Ford,” “Dean Chance,” “Walter Johnson,” “Tracy Stallard?” I’ve been to a few book-autographing sessions before. Better yet, use the testimony of Ed Elson, who has been a book merchant since Horatio Alger came out in paperbacks. He has put on a few of these parties before and been to a few before, but he never saw one like the one he saw Monday, when Koufax was the attraction. Koufax’s appearance as author-pitcher had been adequately ad vertised. Viking Press, thinking in the interest of its faithful readers, had supplied the area with a considerable supply of books. You see, the proper procedure on these occasions is to go to the book store, buy a copy of the book and the author will sign his name and some little nice, intimate note like, “I’ll never forget the night of June 14. Wow!” or, “Your old friend.” —NOT THE ’BASEBALL CROWD’ When Ed Elson opened his book store at Lenox Square Monday, he found money stuffed under the door. “Have Mr. Koufax sign a book for me and I’ll pick it up later,” said a note. People had been lined up outside the since 8:30. A professor, his wife and daughter had driven up from Miami. A boy struggled into the place with a cast on his leg. Old ladies rolled in in wheel chairs. By the time Sandy rolled in, the line was stretched all the way down the block. It looked like a pilgrimage to Lourdes. The appeal of this man is fantastic. He is no longer a baseball curiosity. People in general turn to get a glimpse at the man as they would a three-headed calf, or the Dionne quintuplets. It is not because he wins 26 gameST or strikes out 382 batters. It is something more than that, something that almost approaches saint hood. You know this from the crowd that is there. It is not the usual “baseball crowd.” There is a glaring absence of the group between 15 and 25 years of age. Mostly they are older, women of advanced age, and children. And many married women, most of them with their children. Sometimes you wonder who brought whom, the children ar the mothers. —THE EMBARRASSED IDOL One of the man’s strong attractions is that he remains a bachelor. Not just an average, everyday, ordinary bachelor. He is a darkly handsome bachelor, dark hair, dark eyebrows, clean, sharp features. Any mother’s daughter who brings him home shall be blessed forever. On top of all this is the parceling. Some baseball players dress as if they’re campaigning for “Bum of the Month.” You’d have to tie them down to put a dress suit and white shirt on them. Koufax is the immaculate dresser. His taste is conservative in color but expensive in cost. Wherever you see him, he Is the best- groomed man in the building. This is not something the average woman overlooks. Now, above all this, there are the manners. There is a trace of shyness about Koufax, except when he’s pitching. In the mob scene, he is embarrassed to have caused it. He seems to find it unreal that he should be such a walking case of excitement. Give Dick Stuart the same chance and he might be shy, too, but I’ve got the hunch that “66” would live it big and large and take command of his groveling mob. I don’t necessarily like to see a great man apologize for being great, but it is nice to see one capable of public humility. —AUTHOR! AUTHOR! Meanwhile, back at Elson’s Book Store, the mob was orderly. Little boys, pretty redheads, mothers in tight pants, grandmothers, one lady buying a book for seven nuns, fathers, ex-umpires and cripples. People who had an inclination to talk were asked to move on. In one hour, Koufax didn’t have a chance to handle half the business. Ed Elson was wondering about the cutoff. Usually, this is a situation peculiar only to golf tournaments. He was afraid of physical violence. Two little boys somehow sneaked by the watchful eye of attend ants and almost reached the signing parlor in the rear, where they were held up by a policeman. “Can’t we just look without buying a book?” asked one. "We don’t have $5.15,” said the other. The officer, a kind fellow, stepped aside to give them a glance. “Gee,” said one boy to the other, “he looks like just a nice Yiddish boy.” A blonde mother pushed a brood of kids ahead of her, then turned back for one last look. If it had been Sodom or Gomorrah, she’d have turned to a block of salt. A quiet, conservative man named Ed Linn, of Boston Linns, put the book together. He is nothing more than marvelous at this kind of work. But he, too, is shy. This kind of crowd would have sent Ed Linn running in fright, but on the other hand, this was the kind of day he should have shared. Not that any of these people came out to cheer the excellent writing, or to scout the subjects and the predicates. But for one hour, Ed Linn could have witnessed a deification no other writer ever achieved in Atlanta before. Not Hemingway, not Lewis, not Michener, not Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. But Koufax. LETTERS The Carolina Israelite Harry Golden, Editor Editor, Atlanta Journal Atlanta, Georgia Dear Sir, Furman Bisher has seen fit to offer me as a “prize” in a let ter-writing contest he's conduct ing. He did not consult me. (Aug. 9) And this is no ordinary contest either like, say, “Name at least two football coaches who won libel suits in recent years?” No, Bisher’s contest solicits letters to guess what there is about Sandy Koufax that makes Bisher mad — and cute. Says Bisher: “I can’t explain it in any more detail . . . make a guess and write me a letter ..." That could be a valuable list of names to someone or some peo ple. Eh? And yet Bisher had me guess ing, too. What indeed is there about Sandy Koufax that arouses such disgust in the Bisher breast. And by gad, I’ve got it—Arthri tis, that’s what it is. What else can it possibly be except the chronic arthritis in Sandy’s arm? But Bisher has no business making me part of his Orwellian crusade: “I hate Sandy Koufax because . . . he’s got arthritis— in the left arm yet.” Sincerely, Harry Golden , * * * * Aug. 11, 1966 Dear Harry, Hate Sandy Koufax!^ My God, how any man can read that column and get hate out of it is beyond me. Sandy was rather pleased, he said. Of course he knows me and perhaps understands me a bit better. But hate-—from you, of all peo ple. This indeed astounds and disheartens me. This is something I’D have expected of a Klans- man .... Anyway, my best wishes to you, Furman Bisher The Atlanta Journal Atlanta, Georgia 30302 * * * * * August 12, 1966 Mr. Furman Bisher The Atlanta Journal Atlanta, Georgia Dear Furman, I appreciate your letter. You ex tend the hand of fellowship and that is enough. It indicates clear ly that you were unaware of the subtle undertones of at least gen teel anti-Semitism, and thus I am proved wrong. To acknow ledge a mistake in this instance, is indeed a high-hearted pleas ure. There had been several previ ous pieces, particularly your col umn on the Sandy Koufax-Yom Kippur-syndrome which I’d like you to re-read and see if you do not yourself acknowledge the pos sibility of at least a misreading. Sensitivity? Even oversensitiv ity? Of course! But this is not unique. I remember as a boy the Irish, with far less provocation (no slaughter of six million), beat up a poor vaudeville actor who was doing his “B’gorra” act with red nose, can of beer, and the whole Maggie-and-Jiggs bit. Forty-five years later they elect ed a president—Only in Amer ica! What concerned me particular ly is that it is Atlanta. I guess a man can see a bit better from a distance. The city Sherman burned is on the way probably of becoming the most noble urban community of America’s mid- 1960’s. I hope nothing happens to morrow to mar this observation but it is a story that needs to be told—and by a genius. I think the rest of your Kou fax column w'as excellent. I mean the “author” bit. But at least Sandy is not as far out as Rube Marquard singing duets with Blossom Seeley in the old Palace. I ran errands for the fellows in the clubhouse in the days of Mathewson, Doyle, Snodgrgs, Otis Crandall, etc. During the sum mer vacation I delivered the pretzels to the Stevens establish ment at the Polo Grounds. For this you got a quarter, but the privilege of remaining in the park. At 11 a. m., and for the next three hours I just wander ed around and got to know the men when they came out for practice. The Yankees played there too in those days and I got to see Ty Cobb play. A forbidd ing sort of a fellow but what a man! Years latef I delivered a lec ture on Cobb at Columbia. I said if this fellow had entered bank ing he would have been the No. 1; if he had entered politics, he would have gone to the White House; and so-on-and-so-on, and that’s the way I analyzed him after watching his every move. I never took my eyes off him. Joe DiMaggio had something of that, and Willie Mays comes a bit closer, but Ty Cobb was like Caruso, everybody is just “anoth er” Caruso. Years later when I (Continued on page 8)