Matt Gaffney - Gridlock: Crossword Puzzles and the Mad Geniuses Who Create Them

Matt Gaffney

Dedicated to:

Henry Hook

Merl Reagle

Mike Shenk

Jordan Lasher (1946-1995)

Jack Luzzatto (1909-1991)

A.J. Santora (1919-2005)

a young man's inspirations

The world outlined in this book-people who write and edit crossword puzzles-is a small one, just a few hundred people in size. Everyone pretty much knows everyone else; there are some rivalries, but actual strife is rare. Many of the people mentioned herein are professional colleagues of mine, and I have direct business dealings with several of them, usually mentioned where relevant in the text. The majority of my crossword work these days, however, falls outside the realm of professional puzzle writers and editors.

As Will Rogers did, I like almost everyone I meet, in both crosswords and in general life, and have no axes to grind with anyone mentioned in this book. The opinions I express here are as genuine and uninfluenced by financial considerations and personal relationships as I can make them.

I'd like to thank and acknowledge the following people:

For their assistance in various aspects of writing this book: Eric Albert, Chris Begley, Eric Berlin, Jon Delfin, Tyler Hinman, Henry Hook, Mark Hsu, Frank Longo, Stan Newman, Rich Norris, Trip Payne, Ellen Ripstein, and Byron Walden.

For getting me hooked on puzzles as a kid, my sister Rebecca Gaffney.

For editing the manuscript with elan, John Oakes and Lukas Volger at Thunder's Mouth Press.

For selling the book, my literary agent Janet Rosen at Sheree Bykofsky Associates, and Sheree herself.

For answering many questions with patience and clarity, two special notes of thanks to Will Shortz and Peter Gordon.

Sudoku 1, crosswords 0. Not good.

Sudoku 2, crosswords 0. Sheesh.

Sudoku 3, crosswords 0. Painful.

Two bubbly, chattering teenaged girls sitting side by side, solving sudoku together from an oversized book. Sudoku 5, crosswords 0. This is really discouraging.

I'm riding an Amtrak train headed to Stamford, Connecticut, for the 29th annual American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, the largest such contest in the country, and making my way to the cafe car. As I negotiate the swaying aisles, I'm counting the number of passengers solving sudoku and the number solving crosswords. As a professional cruciverbalist, I'm depressed by the results: my beloved crossword puzzles are getting totally shut out so far. The two teenaged girls I found especially galling-even the cool kids in high school are solving sudoku now. I certainly don't remember them solving crosswords when I was in high school.

A few rows later, I pass an enormously obese man solving sudoku from a newspaper and am ashamed to find the words "you fat bastard" passing through my brain. Sudoku 6, crosswords 0.

Finally, that rarest of birds emerges into view: there on my right, a blond-haired guy with glasses is solving a crossword puzzle. Yes! From GAMES Magazine no less, which means it must be a highbrow puzzle. For a moment my faith in the common man is restored: this sudoku thing is just a fad, and the good of American crossword puzzle we all know and love will reassert its dominance in the nation's cultural heart any day now. Take that, high school girls!

But then my heart sinks, as I realize that this isn't the "common man" at all-it's Dave Tuller, a well-known crossword constructor who's finished in the top 15 at the tournament each of the past three years he's competed, including two 4th place results. Sigh. The only people solving crosswords over sudoku on this train are the die-hards, practicing en route to this weekend's battleground.

I know Dave he's the only other well-known crossword constructor besides me who lives in the DC area-so I say hi and suggest we ride up together. I move my stuff and we begin catching up-he's buying a house, hasn't solved many puzzles in the past year, is hoping to return to top 10 placement in the tournament after what he labels his "disappointing" 13th-place finish (out of 467 entrants) the previous year. Busy with a new job, he says, "I hadn't solved a single crossword all year before last year's tournament."

"Is that literally true?" I ask. "Not a single one?"

"Well, I solved a few variety puzzles, but I can't remember an actual crossword. I can't guarantee that the number is zero-it may be modulo one or two."

Tuller has a Ph.D. in mathematics from the University of Colorado, and I vow to look up later what "modulo" means. He's just turned thirty and looks like tennis champ Boris Becker, and carries the slightly haughty demeanor of an ultra-bright math junkie who generally assumes his audience knows words like "modulo," even if they don't. Most people at the crossword tournament probably will, though; somewhat counterintuitively, math-based professionals are wellrepresented among top crossword constructors and solvers.

Our train hits a typical Amtrak delay in Philadelphia. "This train's engine has experienced a malfunction and needs to be fixed," the conductor squawks through an earpiercing announcement on P.A. equipment that looks Soviet-manufactured. "We're expecting a fifteen to twenty minute delay." In fact, the train won't leave for another hour.

"Play some hangman?" I ask Tuller.

"Sure," he agrees.

I get out a pad and pen. We decide on the sixth miss being gallows time and using only six-, seven-, or eight-letter words, since allowing shorter ones makes the game too hard, a simple word like FOX being borderline unguessable with five wrong letters or fewer.

I choose first, and mark six blank spaces, having chosen in my mind the word ZEPHYR (definition: a gentle breeze).

"A," Tuller guesses, earning himself a head.

"N" he says, and I gleefully draw a torso.

He hits with his next two guesses, R and E, but even so, I'm feeling good. He's probably going to burn a couple of body parts on vowels with his next two, and probably get hung soon thereafter, since Z, P, H, and Y are all high-scoring Scrabble letters he's unlikely to toss out there. I'm mentally congratulating myself on word choice when Tuller shrugs and announces:

"Z

Unreal. "You know it?" I ask.

"ZEPHYR," he condescends, like I even needed to ask. "Pretty typical hangman word. My turn."

As we rot in Philadelphia's 30th Street Station, the passengers around us yammer and eat and flip open laptops and somewhere, I suppose, Amtrak engineers are busy fixing that pesky engine. I don't notice the activity, though-I'm 100 percent focused on puzzling out Tuller's word, which he's marked out at six spaces, since I'm irked not only that he got ZEPHYR, but that he insinuated it was a hackneyed choice on my part.