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SPORTS Breath Takes A Holiday T HERE is a feeling here, maybe or maybe not shared by the clients, that too many of the essays in this space have been marked by a note of—well, churlishness. This is a dis¬ turbing thought, because it suggests that there are flaws in the disposition of the writer. In fact, the fault almost certainly lies in this quarter, for it does not seem reasonable that a me¬ dium as popular as television could really be as objectionable as it often seems to me. This, then, is an exercise in soul- searching. A need is felt to find some aspect of sports-on-television which may be applauded without reserva¬ tion. Only thus may a curmudgeon find salvation. By rare good fortune, just such an opportunity offers itself. Surely everyone who owns a television set must have seen and/or heard Jimmy Powers many times. This is inevitable, unless there are people who can af¬ ford to buy a set for the sheer pleas¬ ure of tuning everything out. Well, now for the applause. A great many people whose judgment I re¬ spect have declared a great many times in my hearing that in their opinion Jimmy Powers is the best commentator on fights that television has presented up to now. Invariably, the reason given for this opinion is the same: “He never says anything. He has the sense to keep his mouth shut and let you watch the fight.” There is a text for a sermon there, if only we could find it. Maybe the point is that when a viewer tunes in a sports event he does so because he wants to see the event, rather than to hear a golden voice describing it. Not long ago there was a fight card in some town where the commentator —somebody else, not Powers—babbled and chattered and gaggled intermi¬ nably, with the camera on him, of course. At long last, his audience heard him say, “Okay, Joe, any time you’re ready.” And with that the ring announcer, who had been waiting ob¬ sequiously, introduced the fighters and the bout went on. Powers does not make this mistake. He specializes in the deathlike hush. Once in a while he’ll say “Martinez in the black trunks, Casillo in the white.” Thoughtfully, he’ll add, “One minute to go in round three.” That’s about all, expect that between rounds when there’s no commercial he may read off a list of red-headed, left- handed, gray-eyed fighters who have appeared in the Garden since 1925. It is enormously restful. Of course, if the man who talks least is the best commentator, then it follows logically that the perfect commentator would be either a deaf mute or a dead man. But let’s reason no further on that line. That way lies chaos. 15