The Press: My Son the Sportswriter

The questions that troubled the typewriters of Washington were fraught, as they liked to say, with significance. Was Cuba a nest of Red missiles—or wasn't it? Had De Gaulle's intransigence undermined NATO? Could Pierre Salinger walk 50 miles? In their cogitation chambers, capital columnists pondered such weighty problems. All but one of the columnists, that is. He climbed into his car one day last week and headed for spring training in Fort Lauderdale. Fla. He bore the improbable name of Shirley Povich and an even more improbable distinction. He not only writes sports...

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