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Lions v. Wildcats. He went to a conference, cleaned up his mail, made some notes for his monthly TV report, that night went home to dinner, made his telecast and then went to the airport for a flight to Tampa. At take-off time, the governor was missing. A staffer found him in the baggage room, chinning with the porters. In flight, he worked on state papers, read a chapter in a book on Southern economic problems. Next day he made two speeches, talked to some old people basking in the sun and to some Democratic leaders at the hotel. He left without paying his bill, remembered, rushed back to do so. (Once he forgot three suits in a Chicago hotel. Says his wife: "Since he only had four, we didn't know what in heaven's name he was going to do.") He finally left Tampa for a 100-mile drive to Ocala, where he was to meet his wife and daughters Jane and Mary Call at a football game. "Boy," said the governor nervously, "if we don't get there by halftime, Jane will have my hide." He got there, but it hardly mattered. Moppets swarmed over him so that he could not see the field. He treated each with courtly courtesy, autographing crackerjack boxes, raincoats and match folders. He was glad when he heard that the game, between Tallahassee's Leon High School Lions and the Ocala Wildcats, ended in a tie, 13-13. "Well," said the governor, "that's one consolation. No one can be mad because I rooted for the wrong team."
Next day he drove to Gainesville, where he conferred with University of Florida officials on the chance, which he had discussed in New York, that a nuclear-energy plant might be located in their town. Then he went to a press conference with editors of Florida weeklies. "Governor," said one, "do you think we are becoming top-heavy with tourism?" The governor answered gravely: "Not so long as we keep the rest of our house in order." The Leisured Masses. A cold snap in the northern states got Florida's tourist season off to an early start this year, for what may be its biggest season ever—and it looked as if Florida's tourism might take a lot of balancing. Miami Beach, the Riviera of the leisured masses, will draw 2,000,000 of Florida's 5,000,000 annual tourists to its 378 hotels, 2,100 apartment houses and 415 swimming pools.
Miami Beach was already in full yak.
The Cadillacs nuzzled each other along the gaudy length of Collins Avenue. Women in sun-top dresses stretched beside swimming pools, contemplating headlines that happily proclaimed: ARCTIC BLASTS RIP COUNTRY. Flamboyant young New Yorkers leafed through stock-market reports.
A lot of men were in town for a Gerber Baby Foods convention.