I met a man with an ability for restoring a feeling of decency to a general public with immeasurable and developing imbalances in riches.
Kenney himself had appreciated a brief, intriguing vocation as an expert tennis player — he'd even played a copies coordinate on ice with Fred Perry — however he was pushing 60 and had since a long time ago deserted whatever hobby he'd had in distinction and fortune. He ran his tennis camp less as a plant for future champions than as a remedy to American realism — furthermore to the thought that a man could be without a moment's delay effective and self-centered.
Jack Kenney's ambush on teenager American disparity started at breakfast the first morning. The ringer crashed early, and the children all took off of their old recolored lofts, scratched their crisp mosquito chomps, and creeped to the eating lobby. On every table were little boxes of, sufficiently cereal for every child to have one crate, yet insufficient that everybody could have the brand of grain he needed. There were Froot Loops and Cheerios, additionally more than a couple of boxes of the destructive dull grain stuff expended enthusiastically just by old individuals experiencing clogging.
On the second morning, when the breakfast ringer crashed, a frantic footrace followed. Kids sprung from their bunks and shot from lodges in the New Hampshire woods to the feasting lobby. The victors got the Froot Loops, the washouts a purgative.