Scorecard

"A cute trick," said Tournament Chairman Walter A. Peek, who ruled that the scores would stand, on the basis that the pros forfeited a chance to gain points as well as lose them. "Someone moved the stake I had set out to mark the position for the cup. We'll never know who. Maybe they got a good laugh."

No one else laughed. Ken Venturi (who had led the field but lost to Texan Miller Barber) said, "The rules said there'd be no gimme putts. It was unfair to those who played out the hole and lost points." Said Bob Rosburg, "If the boys don't want to play by the rules, they should be kicked out."

We quite agree. For good or bad, Wykagyl's mystery hole played the same for all.

MY SON THE GLUTTON

The games started with a good, stiff shot of Cachaca, a fiery sugar-cane alcohol that whets the appetite. Then the 42 contestants sat down, in came the platters of chicken, oxtail, rice, macaroni, salad—and they were off and eating in the Comil�es, Brazil's new national event for those who think big.

Comil�es means national eating contest, and last week's finals at S�o Paulo's Ibirapuera Stadium turned into a gymkhana of gluttony. The local gastronomist club found sponsors to provide the food, plus mineral water and beer, and proceeds went to three Brazilian orphanages. (Among the backers was North America's Alka-Seltzer, which insists relief is just a swallow away.) There was only one division—heavyweight, naturally—and the keenly trained stars ate steadily for the regulation 2� hours. Small talk across the dinner table was outlawed (it is too distracting), and eight inspectors kept things moving. Brazilian TV cameras followed every loaded forkful amid the hurried activities of five cooks, eight waiters and three doctors-in-waiting.

A proud tradition was at steak, er, stake. Winner Eduardo Montefusco, a 222-pounder, munched his way through 23.8 pounds of food. It was short of his club record last year—he was 264 then—but "I kept thinking about the dinner I was going to after the contest," he said. Runner-up Daylton Batti, 193.6 pounds, showed the 1,000 spectators a lot of early stomach but faltered and finished a couple of platters of macaroni off the pace.

The main objective of the contest, explained Club President Dirceu Datti, is to "point out the value to good health of rational and sane eating habits." A noble purpose, and let's have none of that nonsense about carrying the winner off the field on our shoulders.

ANYONE GOT A ROW MAP?
The five oarsmen of Havana's Olimpicuba Club didn't show up at the international rowing regatta in Switzerland last week. Sorry to miss the contest, they ruefully cabled officials from Belgrade, 650 miles away. But, caramba! They had thought for sure that Lucerne was in Yugoslavia.

THE LONE STRANGER