Big Mike

Private enterprise, says the true Tory, perished the day the government took over the post office, or anyway, when it invented the income tax. As for sport--football vanished when the forward pass came in, and baseball was ruined by the rabbit ball. And the grand old game of golf has never been the same since some dratted tinkerer invented the wedge. To make matters worse, sir, courses are getting so short and simple that tournament scores are outrageous.

Last week, as the wintering golf pros paused for breath before they swung north on the tournament trail that leads toward Augusta, Ga. and the Masters, the game's critics had plenty to carp about. No one was giving them more cause for concern than burly (5 ft. 11 in., 210 lbs.) Mike Souchak, an All-Southern end just four years out of Duke University and a relative newcomer to the grinding "grapefruit circuit."

String of Birdies. On the flat, sunbaked fairways of the Southwest, Big Mike was belting out astonishing scores. In the Texas Open, on San Antonio's municipal Brackenridge Park course, he shot two par holes, six birdies and an eagle for a record-breaking 27 on the back nine and turned in a total of 257 for 72 holes--27 under par and more than enough to win the tournament. The next week in the Houston Open, he won again with a 15-under-par 273.

In the face of such play, talk of short holes and trick clubs turns just a little sour. Souchak's scores would look good on a pitch-and-putt course. Even in the tournaments he has not won, his cards have kept him in contention with such seasoned campaigners as onetime Amateur Champion Gene Littler, Tommy Bolt and U.S. Open Champion Ed Furgol. With only four more tournaments to go, Mike has finished in the money often enough that, barring a complete collapse, he is almost certain to earn an invitation to the Masters.

The Long Ball. There is little danger of Mike's collapsing. He has the crowd-proof calm of a winner. Once he is on the tee, his green eyes settle into a squint, his rugged shoulders swivel through a couple of practice swings; then he steps up to belt the ball a country mile. Lately he has been trying so hard to substitute control for power that his drives sometimes roll out to a mere 300 yards. A perfectionist with his irons, Mike is one of those rare types, a long-ball hitter who can also handle approaches and putts with consummate ease.

Nothing seems to get under his skin, neither the gallery nor his own occasional lapses. Unlike the pros who expect the crowd to stop breathing while they shoot, he seems to thrive on noise. "I guess it's because I'm used to the noise of football crowds," he says. "Besides, when you have a lot of people watching, you naturally try harder."

A golfer ever since his high-school days, Mike needed the financial backing of a Durham, N.C. furniture man when he first struck out on the circuit. He was winning too little to take care of his motel bills. Now he figures he has a chance to win any tournament he enters--even the Masters. And he is paying his own way. He has long since proved that he can use his clubs to whack out a good bit more than the price of room and board.

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