Judge — March 19, 1932 — page 8: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

UDGING ey talk about the courage of Dempsey, the ice-cooled nerves of Bobby Jones, the amazing stamina of Gene Venzke, the fortitude of Barry Wood and Albie Booth. Haw! Did you ever stop to consider what a guy old Gus H. Fan is? What a guy is correct! He has courage, nerve, stamina and fortitude; in brief, he has everything your greatest sports h liner can boast, everything except a box-office value. Moreover, he has a tremendous ca- pacity for punishment. Not only can he take it, but he loves it. He is the Battling Nelson of his sphere. To him suffering, privation, and unalloyed wretchedness are notes of lyrical joy, if they but point the way to a stadium or an arena, or any place where a sports show is in progress. What I mean to say is, that old Gus, the missus, and the kids subject them- selves to as much physical torture in attending a sports show as the prin- cipals, a circumstance which indicates that old Gus and his tribe are not very bright. They get none of the glory, and it costs them dough. I was tempted to select an All- American team of sports saps, but the field is too large. Inevitably, some deserving candidate would have to be JUDGE THE By Joe Williams left off. In a world where this peculiar form of dementia ranges from badmin- ton to roque, with stop-overs for curl- ing, volley ball and weight ing, it would be both futile and unfair to at- tempt an all-star classification. Off-hand, I should say that the ficlds most fertile in the cultivation of pop-eyed sports fiends are golf, football, and prize fighting. And yet, I am not sure but that there are oth- ers where the loam is equally as rich and the just as There are gray beards, for in- stance, who travel across the country each winter to watch other gray- beards pitch horse 2G! shoes in the St. Petersburg tournaments, many of them making the pilgrimage in clat- tery flivvers, and arriving physically exhausted—the eager, willing sacrifice of the true believer. Until the winter Olympic Games started at Lake Placid, bob-sledding as a competitive sport, was virtually unknown in America. Through a series of spectacular accidents, which brought no good to the German entries but plenty of publicity to the event, bob-sledding became widely heralded and discussed. Overnight the picturesque little vil- lage in the Adiron- dacks took on the as- pect of a boom town. Special trains dis- gorged thousands of visitors. Some of them were snow ~ chasers— an odd cult which rev- els in zero'weather and ice-trimmed mustach- ios. Others were reg- ulars in that vast mo- ronic army, the mor- bidly curious. 6 The bob run was nine miles from town, a circuitous gulley a mile and a half lon shed into the frozen face of Mt. Von Hovenberg. By foot it was some five miles to the top, where the bobbers shoved off. Along the Is, small wooden stands had been erected. From these it was possible to catch a fleeting glimpse of the sleds as they went whizzing past, like blurred shadows a: linen sheet. In a moment of extreme insanity I decided to climb to the top. It was a gorgeous ¢ nd the old W ms’ spirit of adventure was blazing. A sharp, clear sun sifted through the skies with a chaste coldness to caress the snowy bosom of the mountain, Somehow, the effect suggested the amorous technic of Miss Joyce. ELL, let that pass. Anyway, from the top I got an entirely new picture of my friend, old Gus H. Fan. Or maybe it was just a new set- ting. There he was, skidding, falling, and sloshing through the snow, mile after mile, puffing and panting, head- ing for no place in particular, just climbing, a helpless, happy victim of bob-sled fever. I ask you to try to picture 15,000 people in raccoon coats, ski suits, sweaters, and what-not, an overwhelm- ing horde miscellancously accoutred, scrambling madly up a mount side, intent upon seeing something that could not possibly be seen—and then I ask you to join me in that fetching little ditty called: “Some call it sport, but I call it madness.” Of course, I should not have been surprised, or even impressed, by this phenomenon. After all, it was only old Gus in his long (Page 29, please) comicbooks.com