My name is John, and I'm a critic.
I was born in October, 1958, one of the last babies born in the old Stanford hospital, right off El Camino by the shopping center. My mother recognized I was unusual at a very early age, my intense gaze evident within a few weeks. Mom wasn't working at the time, and I was an exceptionally curious infant, demanding attention, demanding to know, demanding to learn. Later in life Mom told my wife Cheryl that she was completely unprepared for the task of raising me.
I was precocious. Mom kept a folder of drawings I made as a child. One, she remembered distinctly, was a bowling alley with all ten pins in proper configuration titled "Championship Bowling", properly spelled, under which she wrote "John, age 3 1/2". My Dad was, among another things, a model railroader. He built me a train set when I was 3 or 4. I became fascinated with trains, and by age 6 I had essentially memorized the entire San Francisco to San Jose commuter schedule, maybe 50-60 trains and 25 stations. I could read and do arithmetic by age 5; the contemporary wisdom was to skip children into the next grade level. I joined second grade in November 1964. Later that year, I had my tonsils taken out, and during one day recovering at home, I completed over 100 pages of problems in the second grade math book, which I finished by April.
After my train fascination subsided, I began a 10-15 year love affair with baseball statistics. My friends and I played a dice baseball game called APBA incessantly, pitting major league teams against each other, while keeping meticulous statistics of the players. Like many American men, I know thousands of useless facts about baseball. The obsession with table baseball (APBA or Strat-O-Matic) compromised my studies, and it certainly didn't help with the opposite sex. We weren’t complete couch potatoes. My friends and I played sports day in and day out. Junior high school was a glorious and simple time for me, and by 10th grade I was playing basketball several hours a day.
I was always the youngest in my class, graduating at age 16 years, 8 months. I wish my parents hadn't skipped me. It was a lost opportunity to excel among my peers. I graduated as a B+ student, with a huge differential between my English and math SAT scores. I took a year off to get strong and try to play in college.
I played college basketball and graduated with a bachelor's degree in Electrical Engineering. Sounds great, but there were cracks in the armor. I loved to compete and do my best, but had no passion for engineering, only the math behind it. I developed drug and alcohol problems, and sabotaged my basketball to a significant extent. My coach once implied very directly that I was a loser. Over the years, I have confounded and disappointed bosses and girlfriends alike with a seeming indifference to love and responsibility. Drugs and alcohol were blamed for the most part, but through life I focused on a very few, impractical passions. Things like golf, basketball, statistics, music, and nature. I was never great at the practical stuff.
I barely passed college level English. My teacher, Ms. Owen, did not care for me. My grammar was terrible, and I never had a good idea to write about. But as college progressed, I was increasingly drawn to writing, volunteering to write the engineering papers that accompanied each experiment. Maybe it was a chip on my shoulder, seeing that flaw in my education that must be remedied. Daddy was a technical writer, after all. There was a growing desire to express myself accurately through the logic of language. By age 25 I was misspelling a word about once a year.
I struggled for years to find a productive outlet. A basketball book idea failed to get off the ground; I spent years chatting online while not playing househusband. Family friend John VanderBorght invited me to join GolfClubAtlas in September of 2003. He knew I loved analyzing golf courses, and thought I would enjoy meeting like-minded people. As a young man, I watched “Shell’s Wonderful World Of Golf” on TV. I played a couple of golf table games, including "Thinking Man's Golf", which featured a course of eighteen great American golf holes. I started playing golf at age 21, and was fascinated and motivated to play the best parks. I bought Golf Digest’s “100 Greatest Golf Courses, and Then Some”. I traveled to play good courses. Playing Royal Dornoch in 1998 and Bandon Dunes in 1999 enlightened me to the enhanced complexity of a firm, windy playing field.
In 2005, I made the simple observation that the enjoyment of golf shots correlates closely to the time it takes a ball to come to rest. Tom Doak liked the idea, and asked me to write an article for Links magazine. I am grateful to Tom; the experience gave me confidence that I had something to say. I began to think of myself as a writer.
Today I have two great projects to work on. The golf architecture book is on hold, since the iPod collection blog is so fun. Like baseball statistics, a pop music collection uses my big memory and satisfies a need to evaluate and categorize. Every song is rated. Most importantly, I am practicing the art of writing, reveling in the puzzle of stringing together the most logical and lyrical words.
Recently, a perceptive friend of mine noted my unusual traits: precocity, a computer-like retention of facts, the narrow focus on very few subjects, plus some limitations in my ability to read social cues. She suggested I might have Asperger's Syndrome, a mild version of autism. After resisting the idea for a few months, I read this sentence in the Mayo Clinic description of the affliction:
"Showing an intense obsession with one or two specific, narrow subjects, such as baseball statistics, train schedules, weather or snakes."
I also exhibit many other listed symptoms. I took an online Autism Spectrum Quotient test, and scored near that arbitrary line where those who score higher are typically identified as "Aspies". I read the book “Parallel Play" by Tim Page, a man with Asperger's Syndrome who struggled to find his place in society, but is now a recognized music critic and professor of musicology. His condition is more severe; he struggles with depression and anxiety, whereas I’ve learned to combat depression with physical exercise and menial tasks. Tim Page’s writing is beautiful, more refined and eloquent than I could hope for.
“With collected energy and obvious confidence and, yes, with a blinkered attitude toward life’s rich rewards, they go their own way, the way to which their own talents have directed them from childhood. Thus, the truth of the old adage is proved again: good and bad in every character are just two sides of the same coin.”
-- Hans Asperger
I have a robust circle of friends, but I tend to alienate others with a severe sense of justice and need for “the truth”, tangible evidence to support one’s views. But good social grace does not require the undiminished truth. It requires pleasant interaction. I struggle with that. I look for friends able to quickly dispense with pleasantries and begin serious discussion. People are often guarded and nervous in my presence, feeling their every thought and action is under intense scrutiny. It’s not the case, but that’s not the point.
Golf is mathematical, explainable in terms of distance and trajectory, friction and elasticity. Analyzing golf is intoxicating, but the individualistic nature of playing the game does not suit me well. My ego has limitations, and has trouble handling the responsibility of defeating a competitor. It’s hard to beat somebody I don’t know. I’ve learned how to handle competition reasonably well, knowing I’ll be shaky over the first few short putts. I felt much more comfortable playing basketball with known teammates, where I could hide within the team structure and unselfishly help to create that synergy which maximizes the team’s talents. I miss basketball so much.
"It seems that for success in science and art," he wrote, "a dash of autism is essential."
-- Hans Asperger
My new self-knowledge is a double-edged sword. I’ve always had this powerful memory, which manifests itself in middle age by an increasing capability to synthesize that data into new ideas. I have lots of stories to tell, which means lots of things to write about. It’s great to feel the precocious child within reemerge. At the same time, I’m struggling with arrogance, believing my worldview is clearer than my fellow man. I’ve been very impatient and intolerant lately.
If I had a nickel for every time somebody said “glass half empty”. Friends have referred to me as their “most miserable friend.” I’m just wired that way, not programmed to take things lightly.
I am programmed to categorize, analyze, and evaluate. Music, sports, and a woman’s physique are my favorites, but a good golf course makes a worthy subject as well. A complex, living entity, a golf course should reside comfortably upon its natural setting. It should be beautiful and enjoyable to walk. A good golf course demands a variety of shots, while offering the player visual cues to prompt the imagination. I like to imagine the ideal shot beforehand, execute and note the result, judging my level of execution against the result. I pay attention to my playing partner’s shots and results as well. My experience playing the West Links at North Berwick was sublime in this regard. The resulting position of my ball, measured against my execution of the desired shot, was magic that day. How perfect it all seemed.
When evaluating a golf course, it helps if a host is not overbearing, and allows his guest to interpret and play the golf course without guidance. When I host a guest, I try to only answer questions, though there are times when guidance should be given, such as “aim way right” on the tee shot on #4 at Stone Eagle.
“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize that only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau’s, who is, in this critic’s opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau’s soon, hungry for more.”
-- Anton Ego, in “Ratatouille”
Negative criticism can be delivered in a sensitive fashion. At a minimum, a thoughtful explanation should accompany any critique. A nice way to criticize is to use a positive example. We can identify our enjoyment of the sloped putting surfaces at one course to suggest a criticism of a subject course’s flat or dull greens. It is essential to be kind and diplomatic when publicly evaluating golf courses, since these are major business ventures, and negative publicity can damage a club’s reputation.
Asking access to desired courses to further my education now feels too intrusive. Besides, I know what I like. I used to ask a favor every now and then. Last year I asked a longtime friend and GCA member for a favor, which could not be granted, and I felt pretty sheepish and stupid afterwards. No more access requests from me. I have great places to play, and good friends that augment my personal “rotation”.
However, I love to analyze great golf courses, and gladly accept invitations when possible. It’s nice to feel wanted and appreciated. I’m competitive about course analysis, too. I’ll match my ability to analyze architecture with anyone here, except those who build courses for a living. My need to analyze, coupled with a mathematical education and ample experience playing different courses, gives me confidence that I excel at course analysis. Most veteran GolfClubAtlas members are great course analysts, with a few years of experience, have their “degree” in course analysis, and do an excellent job analyzing courses.
I’m fortunate to be a member of a couple of very nice golf clubs, and I’ve spent the last few years existing in upper echelons of society. In recent months I’m struggling with that lofty position. I didn’t earn my way into the club, unless living below your means counts. I don’t agree with the worldview of an overwhelming majority of golf club members. I don’t like the way the American meritocracy is currently structured, and I don’t fit in well. But I am grateful to those friends I have made, many through GolfClubAtlas, who understand me and want to play the game respectfully, while sharing all that is worth knowing.
“It is a bit embarrassing to have been concerned with the human problem all one’s life and find at the end that one has no more to offer by way of advice than ‘Try and be a little kinder.’”
-- Aldous Huxley (near the end of his life)
Just a couple weeks before the 2000 Open Championship, Tiger Woods came to Pumpkin Ridge and conducted a golfing clinic, an hour long session after a short ceremony to commemorate his 1993 U.S. Amateur championship. During the friendly chat, Tiger told a story about his early fascination with golf. His father would put him in a high chair, in the garage where Dad hit balls into a net. Tiger would intently follow each shot from the mat into the net, while his mother stood and fed Tiger a spoonful of food after each shot. This is how Kultida Woods fed Tiger when he was 10-12 months old.
Later in the session, Tiger showed how to hit the ball in a low, boring trajectory, by maintaining wrist supination through the hitting zone. After a few consecutive tight draws, with no shot rising more than 20 feet off the ground, he turned to the crowd with a wry smile and said, “How do you think that’ll work at St. Andrews?”