Judge — September 1932 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

Judge JUDGING t#® SPORTS FOREIGN runner, A\ bisuncea down the stretch by an unsung homebred, gives him “the shoulder,” and gaspingly breasts the tape as 80,000 boos rend the SunKist ski A runner on the » rounding third the baseman “the then pounds the plate to be met smashing punch from the catcher’s fist; result, a triple fracture of the jaw. A tennis shoe changed when the match is at set point, and a nerve strung challenger cracks, a year’s high hopes and the Davis cup go glim- mering away into a sea of controversy. Maybe it is the heat, but one does get awfully fed up with it all. And so, because happy memories are always the sweetest, and also, because these pages are primarily for the spreading of amusement and frolic, I hand you a few souvenirs in lighter vein as an antidote to the increasing seriousness of all sports, Let us call the place Ashton-Under- Lyme, England. The time is some years back come next Shrove Tuesday. On this day each year the natives there indulge themselves in a community football game. Goal posts are stuck in two villages, some eight miles apart and all hands spend a busy day kicking the ball up hill and down dale, with frequent time out whenever the spheroid lands near a pub. MERGING from the Crown and Feathers, the vacationing mayor of one of our Midwest cities, saw the ball come floating down the street, wrapped around in a rosy haze of Bass’ Ale. Entering into the spirit of the thing he took a running kick at it. and crash! right through the wind- shield of the Lord of the Manor's Rolls Royce she went! Score another victory for International goodwill and amity. Then there was that time in Barcelona, Spain. <A local promoter was bucking the bull fights by putting ona series of boxing bouts each Friday in the Casino. One of the Spalla boys from Italy was due to go on with a local woodchop- The Spanish fan al- cushion to any athletic event with him. The seats in the arenas are of stone. esides, they make dandy iles when handled in the Dazzy Vance manner. Came the sixth round. The gallery birds started in to chuck their cushions as per schedule. The woodchopper was taking plenty and developed a strange fondness for snuggling down on the cushions, with which the ring was filled by this time. In the seventh, a well aimed floater knocked the ref- eree’s gold ticker from his breast pocket, and the fight was immedi- ately stopped whilst the three occu- pants of the ring got down on all fours and hunted for the main spring. As I remember the fight ended there and the boys went back to their bull fighting. And perhaps you remember that steeplechase at Enghien, Paris. Par- frement, the greatest French jockey ever, was thrown at the water jump. Hastily remounting, he grabbed his horse, so he thought, and rode on to (Page 23, please) of rcomicbooks.com