The arcane sport of magazine collecting seems to be on the rise, according to a recent Wall Street Journal article; and back issues of Playboy rank among the most sought-after commodities. Our December 1953 premier issue, reports the Journal, now commands $50 to $100 in New York, and a leading Chicago firm currently charges $200 for a mint copy. An entire set will cost you 1300 clams. We suggest, therefore, that you hide the 75-cent issue you now hold and wait for the market to climb--but not before pausing to enjoy the uncommon combination of pleasures, fictional and factual, that make this issue a collector's item.
General Offices: Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts, drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents copyrighted (c) 1968 by HMH Publishing Co. Inc. All Rights Reserved. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the Publisher. Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semifiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover: Model Aino Korva, photography by Mario Casilli. Other photography by: Gene Anthony, P. 3; Bill Arsenault, P. 100; Peter Basch, P. 103; David Chan, P. 130; Glauco Cortini, P. 116, 117; Marvin Koner, P. 131; James Mahan, P. 3; Stan Malinowski, P. 3, 57; Larry Moyer, P. 73-76; Marvin Newman, P. 131; Pompeo Posar, P. 91, 103: Vern Smith, P. 3 (2), 45; Alexas Urba, P. 3 (3), 79, 115; Jerry Yulsman, P. 103 (2), Apparel P. 60-67 courtesy of Franklin Bober/Clinton Swan, Oleg Cassini, Georges Kaplan Furs, John Kloss, P. J. Boutique; Wigs P. 106-111 by Ital Hair, photographed at the Americana.
Playboy, August, 1968, Vol. 15, No. 8. Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co. Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., its Possessions, the Pan-American Union and Canada, $20 for three years, $15 for two years, $8 for one year, elsewhere add $4.60 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and Allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022. MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, MI 2-1000; Detroit, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, YU 2-7994; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
To the various stock exchanges across the country, add the New York Stash Market of the East Village, on the curb between First and Second Avenues on Fifth Street, which lists the prices of various blue-trip stocks and high-flyers. We quote from a release posted in an East Side bookshop:
"In the beginning was the TURN ON"--at least in the scripture according to Saint Timothy. After seven years of "grooving with God," Timothy Leary is finally willing to accept "the inexorable, unplanned for, troublesome, comically embarrassing, implausible, unstoppable tidal sweep toward sainthood"; and High Priest (New American Library), focused on 16 of his most memorable round trips, is his New Testament. In the jargon of mysticism ("shimmering play of vibrations") and in jarring modernisms ("there was no listing in the Yellow Pages for visionary messiah"), he attempts to describe breaking through the pull of the brain's gravity and orbiting out of his mind. But for all his efforts to articulate the ineffable ("Grasping marshmallow flesh-fluff erotic jumping rapture"), the most insightful passages in his head's bible deal with all-too-human, jolly-green-guru anecdotes: Leary struggling to keep a fellow traveler from invading his teenage daughter's pajama party; Allen Ginsberg, stripped naked, running up the phone bill with cosmic politics; Leary ruefully revealing that in the first two months of his Harvard experiments, seven women followed him home to declare their love ("Now she was all-woman receptive earth; tomorrow she would be reincarnated as a pretty graduate student. I retreated behind the couch."). Leary is candid about the occupational hazards of sainthood, frank about the horrors of bad trips and charitable about the harassment he's undergone. But when he attempts to write the autobiography of the cosmos, his prose often becomes guru-some; and when he sums up his divine election, in "murmuring giggling gooey" ecstasies, he not only fails to add to our insight into the psychedelic generation but lends credence to the charges that his League for Spiritual Discovery is not so much a religion as a vacation of the mind. The Ecstatic Adventure (Macmillan), a psychedelicatessen of a book edited by Ralph Metzner, also stresses the inability to put the consciousness-expanding experience into words; but that doesn't stop its 38 contributors from over 300 pages of trying. Swinger and bummer, Quaker and rabbi, prisoner and coed, architect and rock star--all are scornful of the rational mind's imposition of concepts on the flux of experience; but they themselves wordily impose tourist-guide cliché and mind-blown metaphor. According to Metzner, their accounts constitute "a bubbling, ecstatic, seemingly inexhaustible pool of images and ideas"; but when they come down for air, all they can do is gasp. A more persuasive case for psychedelics is inadvertently made by Donald B. Louria, president of the New York State Council on Drug Addiction, in The Drug Scene (McGraw-Hill). In his put-down, head-off, uptight study of "the abuse of drugs" (apparently they are never just "used"), Louria makes every effort to appear reasonable--conceding that the marijuana laws, for instance, are ludicrous--but it soon becomes apparent that he's beating a drugged horse. With appalling illogic and mindless prose, he advances arguments about the "potential dangers" of drugs that could apply almost as well to tooth paste, stoops to tabloid scares ("The drug has even been given to girls, sometimes without their knowledge ...") and indulges in dubious reasoning (after grimly relating the putative horrors of LSD, he adds, "Fortunately, the number of such cases which are adequately documented is at present still small"). Leary and the ecstatic adventurers may be dropouts or cop-outs; but it's clear that Louria and the consciousness-restraining establishment, in their grotesque misunderstanding of the younger generation's quest for a more purposeful future, are largely responsible for the regeneration gap.
Deborah Kerr plays Prudence in Prudence and the Pill, superficially one of those marital comedies in which well-paid stars dress sublimely, trade witty retorts and keep their indiscretions discreet. Not this time. Sprinkled with improprieties certain to offend Mrs. Grundy, Prudence is all the more surprising because we hardly expect to find Deborah, David Niven and Dame Edith Evans plugging the new morality. The birth-control pills of the title are but a secondary issue, for the movie finally upholds tradition by endorsing family life and fecundity. Who's fecundating who is the question amusingly asked--and answered, too. Niven bounds from boudoir to boudoir as an English bounder inspired with mischievous ideas by his niece (pert Judy Geeson), a swinger who simplifies her own sex life by borrowing pills from her mother's supply and paying back in aspirin (slight technical lapse here: Aspirin tablets are about twice the size of the pill). Mom, of course, gets preggers, whereby Uncle David divines that he'd be free to join his mistress (very fetchingly played by Irina Demick) if wife Deborah were made pregnant as well--and he has reason to suspect that her handsome doctor (Keith Michell) will unwittingly cooperate. Thereafter, pills for every conceivable--or inconceivable--purpose are shuffled back and forth like handkerchiefs in a French farce. The expected cop-out never comes, or at least comes with an insouciant twist or two, praise be to director Fielder Cook and scenarist Hugh Millis for giving establishment movies another healthy push toward sexual maturity.
Usually, when an actor takes it into his head that he can sing, the results range from indifferent to catastrophic. Not so with Richard Harris. On A Tramp Shining (Dunhill), as he did in Camelot, he displays a voice that is sensitive, individualistic and on key. Harris also had the good sense to have Jim Webb, the bright new light in the music world, supply the songs and the arrangements. Webb's music is fresh, inventive and filled with the sadness of love gone awry. Didn't We, Name of My Sorrow, If You Must Leave My Life and the long MacArthur Park are the best of the nine songs--all of which show what a good actor can do with the proper vocal equipment.
In moving to Broadway from off-Broadway, Hair has lost its innocence, but it has gained a backbone. It is a very different show, and more exciting than the one we reviewed in the March issue. Author-lyricists Gerome Ragni and James Rado have scrapped their book (the weakest thing about the original), written hard-edged new lyrics to some new Galt Mac-Dermot songs (while keeping the best of the old ones) and turned the whole thing into a wild freak-out. Ragni still plays the spaghetti-haired goofy hippie, but whereas off-Broadway he was hammy, now he is funny. Rado now plays the hero, a reluctant draftee, and he is more convincing than the actor he replaced. Tom O'Horgan has completely restaged the show as if it were the Charge of the Light Brigade--often charging right through the audience. Hair is now so explosive, electric, dirty and outrageous that it makes everything else on Broadway seem like The Sound of Music. When was the last time you heard a Broadway hit tune called Sodomy, celebrating fellatio, cunnilingus and masturbation, or a little ditty titled Colored Spade, in which a Negro calls himself every name in the book? So what about that nude scene? At the end of the first act, the hippies stage a be-in, and under a huge billowing sheet remove their clothes, then in semilightness stand, briefly, facing the audience. The number of naked bodies varies from day to day, but there are always at least a couple for each taste. The gang strip is so quick and so dim that it seems like the only timid thing in the show. Otherwise, Hair is bold, adventurous and revolutionary. For those matinee ladies, it must be positively hair-raising. At the Biltmore, 261 West 47th Street.
I was in Philadelphia on business, and I found myself strongly attracted to a girl I met at a cocktail party. I would like to know if it's acceptable to write to her and ask for a date. If you don't consider a letter acceptable, tell me what would be a proper approach.--D. B., Scranton, Pennsylvania.
One of those anointed few over the age of 30 who can and do communicate with the nation's young is William Sloane Coffin, chaplain of Yale University. A leader for several years in the movement against the war in Vietnam, Coffin became even more prominent-- "notorious," some up-tight adults would say--when he was indicted by the Federal Government in January of this year on charges of conspiring to counsel young men to violate the draft laws. (Codefendants are Dr. Benjamin Spock, writer Mitchell Goodman, Harvard University graduate student Michael Ferber and Marcus Raskin, codirector of the Institute for Policy Studies in Washington.) The trial began in Boston as this issue went to press; whether the charges will stick remains to be seen, but the 43-year-old clergyman has, indeed, supported those who resist the draft, and he still does.
At the state unemployment office this morning, David met a woman in line who told him, after giving him the thorough once-over and then deploring the long wait and interminable California rain, that she had five beautiful daughters at home from whom he could just about take his pick if he liked. "You seem that good-natured and sensitive to me," she said, "and just look at the way you read those brilliant books. And then, strange as this sounds, sonny," and she looked around the room suspiciously and then stretched on her toes to speak into his ear, "I think it's high time they began seeing some men who aren't always so stupid and wild."
Thirty years ago, General Motors' head stylist, Harley Earl, unveiled the "Y-Job," a prosaically named but revolutionary harbinger--power-operated convertible top, extended front fenders, concealed headlights--of what GM had up its sleeve. Thus was born the dream car. Since then, the Motor City's blue-sky production lines have turned out idea autos in ever-increasing numbers; almost every Detroit make was represented in this year's auto shows either by some far-out vehicle boasting its name plate or--at the very least--by a highly modified, "futured-up" version of a current model. The "one-off" dream car can be an expensive proposition, but the car companies amortize its cost in a number of ways. Except for pretty girls, there is no surer method of drawing the crowds over to an auto-show display than to have a dream car as the exhibit's focal point. In many instances, the car is used by the company as a barometer with which to gauge reaction to contemplated changes. As Dodge General Manager Robert McCurry put it at the introduction of the Charger III: "This experimental vehicle is our way of showing the public some of the design and engineering concepts that we have developed. From the public we learn what it would like, or not like, to see in tomorrow's automobile." (Recent futuristic display items heralding assembly-line realities were the Mako Shark II, which bore many of the design characteristics of the current Corvette, and American Motors' "Ramble"-seated AMX, which wound up, sans rumble seat--but with almost all of its design intact--as the production model.) There is also the dream car's high-gloss glamor, some of which the makers hope will rub off on its more pedestrian bread-and-butter brethren. This is often accomplished by the simple and inexpensive expedient of transferring the dream car's name to one particular model or to a whole line of production autos. GM's Biscayne, Le Mans, LeSabre and Firebird; Ford's Mustang, Futura, Cougar and Monterey; and Chrysler's Dart, Newport and Adventurer are examples of Detroit's retain-the-name game. Conversely, American Motors' Tarpon--by some mysterious piscatorial machination of the consumer surveyor's craft--passed on most of its looks but wound up in the dealers' showrooms as the Marlin. Occasionally, automotive suppliers such as U.S. Steel, Borg-Warner, Bridgeport Brass and Dow Chemical get in on the dream-car act, coming up with advanced-styling vehicles to help pitch the use of their products in auto manufacture. Although Detroit continues to investigate alternative means of powering its vehicles--rotary-piston, gas-turbine, electric and even steam engines are being weighed as means of propulsion for the car of the future--it's obvious that what could wind up under the hood doesn't fascinate the show going public nearly as much as a way-out auto body. Which is why the daringly designed dream car is here to stay.
I never thought I'd see the day when my lover's quarrel with American culture would lead me to quote Shirley Temple. Bugs Bunny, maybe, Marshall McLuhan or Mary Poppins, perhaps. But not Shirley Temple, whom McCall's magazine hailed last year as the "uniquely winsome little girl who dimpled and danced her way across the Depression-weary scene" of the Thirties.
"A guy in a blanket panhandles on the corner with a sign, It's Debbie's birthday--Help me get her high," Shel reports, recalling his Hashbury highlights. "The other night, some guys sneak into the zoo, shoot a buffalo, drag it out, and the Diggers have meat for their free food line. A beaded girl takes me home, makes 'like' to me and never speaks a word. An old man on a soapbox: 'You've tried pot, you've tried LSD--now how about giving Jesus Christ a chance?' And everyone talks about the 'death of the hippies' and they stage a hippie funeral and some people who were just sitting in doorways getting stoned march to the park carrying a giant coffin, and they set it on fire and do a dance around it and everybody says, 'Well, the hippie thing is dead.' And then they all go back to Haight Street and sit back in the doorways and start getting stoned again. And the funeral is over, but the corpse is still grooving."
To innocents, from abroad and elsewhere, Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse looks like the main street in a prosperous, dull Swiss city. Its jewelry, watch and fur stores compare favorably with those on New York's Fifth Avenue and London's Old Bond Street. But that's where the comparison ends. Bahnhofstrasse is the world's third largest financial center, after Wall Street and the City in London. One square meter of ground is now worth over $9000. Behind the dignified, Victorian façades of the dark-gray bank buildings, several billion dollars' worth of assets, and of mysteries, are hidden. It might be easier to get hold of atomic secrets at the Pentagon than to ferret out the secrets inside a Swiss bank.
Twenty-year-old Gale Olson has lived in more places than most people her age get a chance to visit. At various times in her life, Gale, who was born in Oklahoma, has resided in Alabama, Germany, Kentucky, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New Zealand and, currently, California. Says Gale, "My dad was an Army career officer and every time we were just getting used to a new place, it was time to move again." Her father, Major Theodore Olson (Ret.), fought in World War Two, Korea and Vietnam and accumulated a drawerful of medals. The Olsons, who now live in Costa Mesa, are a large, closely knit family. "Having six brothers and three sisters really teaches you a lot about sharing things, materially and emotionally," Gale says. Our August Playmate hopes one day to raise a family almost as large, but that won't come about until she first fully satisfies her penchant for adventure. "Last year I decided to become an astronaut, so I called the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in Houston to find out qualification requirements." Gale spent enough time being briefed on the phone by NASA officials to acquire four pages of notes. "So far, things are turning out fine for me," she reports. "NASA prefers prospective female astronauts to have a strong background in mathematics, my strongest subject." Miss Olson, who's attended Orange Coast Junior College in Costa Mesa, plans to continue her studies this fall at the University of Colorado. The brown-haired beauty is almost as fascinated by inner space as she is by the outer variety. "When I was in high school, I started to keep a daily 'ego book'--I'd write down things that bothered me and why. It's a good way to get pettiness out of your system. Lately, I've been jotting down dreams I've had; someday I'm going to write a book based on those dreams." A model (36-22-35) of American femininity, Gale (who delivered talks on girl scouting over German television) stays in shape by practicing ballet and exercising, and plans to study Tahitian dancing next year. At the moment, however, she feels that at least one of her dreams has come true. "I think every girl who has the figure for it wishes she could be a Playmate, and I'm no exception," she observes. "All I can say is that I was lucky!" Lucky Gale, lucky readers.
This Summer, we aver, the warm-weather word to the wise is "supershirt," a luxurious long-sleeved shirt for evening that's cooler than going the tie route--or sporting a turtleneck and blazer--and eminently more stylish. Designed to be worn outside slacks, with no jacket (it takes on added fashion dimension when coupled with a pair of formal trousers), supershirt is available in lightweight materials, including satin or voile, as well as heftier fabrics--cotton Jacquard, for example--that can be worn year round, as the temperature dictates. The black-light-show gentleman above has brightened his after-dark fashion image--and switched on his body-painted companion--with a satin supershirt that features ruffles on front placket and cuffs, plus a stand-up collar, by Anthony Calardo for Clotheshorse, $25, worn over worsted and mohair formal trousers with extension waistband and satin side stripe, by After Six, $45.
Two summers ago, thousands of animal lovers around the world zeroed in on the Office of Naval Operations at the Pentagon with a barrage of letters that rocked the Navy down to its bilges. The source of the public ire was a widely circulated newspaper report that the Navy was recruiting porpoises--those ever-smiling, lovable cousins of the whale--as seagoing kamikaze pilots: living, swimming bombs trained to attack enemy submarines and blow themselves to pieces in the process.
You wake up much earlier than usual. Some new sound has disturbed you, or perhaps it's the color of the light through strange curtains. There's the smell of fresh coffee: and from next door, someone's washbasin gives a chug-chug of greeting. A strange city awaits you. At least that's how it happened to me in Paris in 1946. I was a schoolboy, allowed to travel to the hard-eyed city only because a friend of my father's had promised to meet me at the station and look after me. During one hour in the Gare du Nord, I met more tarts, black marketeers, military cops, deserters and assorted criminals than I did for the next six months. The man due to meet me--a French officer--had been ordered to another part of France at a few hours' notice and never did turn up. So for two fantastic weeks, I lived in a flea-bitten little hotel near the station (I didn't speak enough French to take a taxi or Metro anywhere) and got myself involved with all sorts of crooks. One gang was selling U. S. Army PX supplies, and a group of deserters operated from the hotel, living precariously by selling blankets stolen from the War Graves Commission. Each morning, I woke up wondering what new places, faces and excitement the day would bring; and still today, I reach each new town with the same tense uncertainty.
The long-legged blonde on the chrome motor scooter seemed to have a fever. As she blurred into the fog on the coastal highway, Bill Majors drove his Volkswagen bus into the back end of a produce truck. The little bus quivered and buckled slightly, hopped ahead when the truck made a stalling stop. In the shadowed storage area behind Bill, the sky-blue refrigerator he was hauling fell over backward and made an angry sound.
When Emperor Frederick II wished to send a message of great importance to the Pope, he sent for the only man he could fully trust, a true and noble knight named Justin, and charged him with this mission. The knight, swearing to do this duty, nevertheless looked troubled, and the emperor asked him the cause of his concern. Justin replied that he had, within the past month, married a beautiful lady named Rosamond. Indeed, she was lovely, with a body like a young birch and breasts like new apples and hair shining gold. Justin then admitted to the emperor that he would not be easy in spirit leaving his lovely lady unprotected for a whole year.
Judging from the current crop of novels and movies, communal baths and showers are fast becoming the most popular diversions for sexual aquabats. But for Carroll Baker, playing the wealthy American bride of Jean Sorel (seen here as her showermate in a new Italian-French production called Honeymoon), water sports are only a splashy prelude to a neat plot reversal that makes her wish she had brought something more lethal into the shower than a bar of soap and a giggle. The film--which Playboy herewith exclusively previews--is Carroll's second Continental production awaiting shipment to the States. Baby Doll Baker, whose image and fortune have been "Made in Hollywood," has had precious little to do with the West Coast dream makers recently. Her current European stint is, in part, the result of a nonmeeting of minds with Paramount and producer Joe Levine. Carroll's screen charisma, developed in 18 Stateside films--including The Carpetbaggers and Levine's Harlow--proves perfect for the sex-cum-suspense of a Honeymoon that, happily, forsakes the traditional Niagara Falls for more revealing cascades.
Last year, the London Times described Moshe Safdie as "one of the most brilliant architects in the world, the rightful heir to Le Corbusier." The recipient of this extravagant accolade is the designer of Habitat--Expo 67's sprawling show place of city housing somewhat reminiscent of American pueblo cliff dwellings. Just 30 years old, Israeli-born Safdie went to Canada in 1954 and a year later enrolled at Montreal's McGill University, where he conceived the idea of a modular housing system that led eventually to Habitat. A cellular construction of concrete blocks, fabricated on the spot and hoisted into a complex configuration on a steel-framed "hill," Habitat gives each apartment what Safdie calls "the essentials of a complete environment"--privacy, fresh air, sunlight, garden, identity and choice. Each unit is angled to get some sun every day; each roof is someone else's garden; and the interior design--size, shape and even location of rooms--is almost infinitely flexible. A balanced community, he believes, must combine the functions of living, industry, commerce, entertainment and art in one integrated organism; Safdie's ideal city fully exploits this three-dimensional concept--upper levels for living, lower levels for artistic and commercial enterprises and the bottom for factories, garages and mass transportation. Many of these progressive features are incorporated in his current projects--all of them along Habitat's lines but, because of mass-production techniques, at a fraction of its cost. He has designed a major housing development for low- and moderate-income groups to be constructed in San Juan, Puerto Rico; he has been commissioned to create a waterfront community development in New York City; and he is one of three architects designing an avant-garde demonstration housing project in Washington, D. C. If these visionary prototypes for future cities continue to proliferate, Le Corbusier's heir apparent seems destined to leave behind him a protean architectural legacy of his own.
Unlike most semiobscure actors, Dustin Hoffman didn't turn handsprings when the prospect of recognition and success, in the form of an offer from Mike Nichols to star in The Graduate, was dangled before him. "As soon as I read the part," he says, "I knew it was wrong for me. What Nichols needed was an all-American boy." Which is something the 30-year-old Hoffman--dark, middle-sized, with a face definitely not of the Tab Hunter type--is not. But he went to Hollywood, anyway, stumbled through screen tests so disastrous that he fled back to New York the next day--and got the part, because his scrambled reactions and frazzled confusion were exactly what Nichols wanted. His near flawless performance as the scholar-track hero whose four years in college had netted him a severe case of generation-gap trauma earned Hoffman an Oscar nomination. Unconvinced of his prospects even by the $20,000 he got for the film, however, he started collecting unemployment insurance within weeks after completing shooting--a move typical of the staggering lack of confidence that has characterized him throughout his career. Dustin put in two years at the Pasadena Playhouse after dropping out of college and eventually landed in New York, where he became an attendant at the Psychiatric Institute ("I loved it, but I had to leave. All the patients were beating me at Scrabble."). After that came a series of off-Broadway character roles and his first movie part: a walk-on in The Tiger Makes Out that wound up on the cutting-room floor, but not before Mike Nichols saw rushes of it. Currently completing Midnight Cowboy--a film in which he plays a crippled con man--and cast as the title lead in Murray Schisgal's upcoming play Jimmy Shine, Hoffman still tends to dismiss his achievements. "It's like playing poker and getting a royal flush--you win the pot, but that doesn't mean you wind up the big winner." Most critics are betting the hands he's played so far are only the beginning of a long hot streak.
In October, the American Broadcasting Company will embark on its most ambitious video venture to date--televising 42 hours of Olympic competition from Mexico City to the U. S., most of it live, all of it in color. The man most responsible for ABC-TV's presence in Mexico this fall is Roone Arledge, 37, who was recently named president of ABC Sports and who in April celebrated his seventh anniversary as producer and creator of ABC's Wide World of Sports. "Our Summer Olympic coverage," says Arledge, "will be the biggest remote telecast ever attempted. Over 300 ABC staffers and 45 color cameras will be on hand to record the action." The televising of sports hasn't always been so spectacular. "When I left NBC to join ABC Sports in 1960," the Columbia University graduate recalls, "friends warned me I'd soon hate it. The procedure then for televising a baseball game, for example, was to take three cameras to the ball park, period." The inventive Arledge changed all that. He's championed the use of such innovations as slow motion and instant color replays, split-screen techniques and hand-held color cameras--making it often more rewarding to watch an event on TV than in person. Arledge has videoed 96 sports emanating from 29 nations, but he has no trouble remembering his most dramatic telecast. "The 1963 U. S.-U. S. S. R. track meet took place in Russia at a tense historic moment--Averell Harriman was negotiating the nuclear-test-ban treaty, and he and Khrushchev had come to see Valery Brumel try for a new world's high-jump record. When Brumel breezed over seven feet, the stadium went berserk. I looked at Khrushchev and Harriman and they were jumping up and down and hugging each other. Those two men were deciding the fate of the world, yet one man jumping over a pole was able to overcome all their differences. I guess that's precisely why I'm so drawn to sports." This contagious enthusiasm also explains why millions are tuned in to Arledge's athletic odysseys.