good, too. One thing bothers me greatly, though. Who (or what) is B.J. and P.A.? M.B.C. was easy to guess, Michigan Broadcasting Company, but those other two, wow! I tried to match the initials to all of the Pattonites I know (which are about 15, 14 of which are girls) and failed to match them. Maybe you can answer this question in part II of the Clodyssey as an insert or a footnote, or just forget about it if you (sniff) just don't (choke) want to answer it for (sob) little "ole" me. Well, anyway, it was a great story so far, written by a lovely authoress. Affectionately yours, an admiring fan and teammate p.s. Sully, you shouldn't read other people's mail, but since you already did, I give you permission to rewrite this in F.F.

Ed. note: B.J. stands for "Bonie Joanie"; P.A. for Public Address; and M.B.C. for Mary Beth Ceresko.

...and here it is, Part II of the Clodyssey, anonymously written (by Joanne Scarborough).


After settling in our eighth floor rooms, we asked the desk clerk where the pool was. He assured us it was within walking distance. Directions as follows: "Walk out the back door to the end of the block. Turn left and go three more blocks. Then locate the stadium and walk one more block in that direction." Blithely our group set out and, sure enough, arrived at the pool 3 1/2 miles and 42 1/2 minutes later. The clerk had neglected to tell us the last block was all uphill! straight uphill! That wasn't a sidewalk, girls, it was a ladder. At the pool, we were loaded down with sailor hats, I.D. pins, and questionnaires which were never filled out. We wandered around the girls' locker room looking for the chance to acquire some Santa Clara sweatshirts (Ricky taught us that trick) but promptly gave up the idea when we saw the size of Donna DeVarona and Sharon Finneran. The Pitt pool soon seemed like a third home to us (after Patton and Fitzgerald, of course) for we spent most of our time there. We were looking forward to B.J.'s heat of the 1650. It seemed the Hawk missed the 1:00 o'clock scratch meeting and so he telephoned her time in. Thanks to the helpfulness of a certain coach from Riviera Club (who shall remain nameless--I mean name-less), B.J. found herself in fastest heat along with ex-teammate Lee Davis and the California terrors. The Hawk had sent in a time of 20:19 and, as Riviera's coach says, a 20:19 sounds like a 19:20 and, well...! Thanks to some quick talking (as usual) by the Hawk, B.J. was transferred to the first heat, escaping with minor injuries. (Cheer up, for as the Hawk says, it could've been a 20:17 and a 20:17 sounds like a 17:20 and, well...!) We three Pattonites then packed up our fins and snorkels and raced outside. B.J. and M.B.C. bombed out of the building just in time to see the Hawk and P.A. drive off without them. They were forced to risk their lives on the old bus which traveled between the hotel and the pool. Neither the Hawk nor P.A. seemed very apologetic but the former did lower himself enough to say, "Well, that's not so bad. At least I let you see us drive off, didn't I?" After this, we decided to boycott the Hawk and go see the town. The first stop was a drugstore for post cards and stamps. P.A., planning to buy some stamps from the machine on the counter, handed the salesgirl two quarters and asked for change. Change she got-- forty five pennies and one nickel. "#:&_?!!" Then we decided to take a trolley downtown. B.J. kept the entire waiting line at the stop outside in the rain while she asked the driver why they didn't pay when they got on (and never did get an answer). In Pittsburgh, people do everything backward. They pay when they get off the car. After the usual meandering around we came upon a sports shop and decided to distinguish ourselves (from the other tourists) by purchasing U. of Pitt sweatshirts. As it turned out we blended quite nicely with the 507 other tourists in Pitt sweatshirts so no-one


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