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Sitting at the bar in one of Newport's wharf restaurants, I suddenly noticed a familiar mustachioed figure from the world of sports.

. . .

"You must be Mark Spitz," I gasped out. "Who else but Mark Spitz would be drinking milk in a sophisticated Newport bar?"

"Try the Cowsills," he suggested.

"But you're only one person," I protested. "You can't be the Cowsills."

. . .