One of my good friends likes to refer to me as “internet famous.” He’ll say things like, “Hey, since you’re internet famous, do you know anyone with an extra U.S. Open ticket?” What he means is that I have a Twitter account with more than 18 followers, which I think was the number he reached before he deleted his account, which he never tweeted from. Nevertheless, one of the things about being internet famous is that people know things about you—they eventually get a sense of who you are and what you’re about.
So it will come as no surprise to anyone within my small circle of internet notoriety that I received numerous messages after Justin Thomas’s victory this Sunday at the RBC Heritage, the 16th win of his career on the PGA Tour—a decade-long journey that includes two major championships (which some might deem illegitimate), a Players Championship (widely regarded as legitimate), and over a dozen other incidental victories.
For those unfamiliar with my perspective, I am not a fan of Justin Thomas. In fact, I am quite the opposite, what you might call a “hater,” to use the vernacular of the internet. I find him smug and off-putting, self-satisfied, yet still miserable—intolerable in the truest sense of the word.
As the internet’s foremost "JT hater", I do have to make one thing perfectly clear. I think he’s an extremely talented golfer.
Thomas's iron swing is among the best of his generation. His reputation as a shot-shaper is well-earned. However, one of the reasons why I dislike the guy is how little he’s gotten out of so much talent.
A player with JT's ability should contend and win a lot more on the PGA Tour than he has. He has the ability to do so, and it would be asinine for me to pretend he doesn’t, just because I don’t like him.
But the reasons I don’t like him have very little to do with his game, and more to do with how he conducts himself as a player and a person.
Let’s zoom in on the 15th green at Harbour Town: Justin Thomas drains a 25-foot birdie putt to take the lead late on Sunday. Watch his face closely as the putt drops.
JT!!
— PGA TOUR (@PGATOUR) April 20, 2025
A birdie with three to play gives @JustinThomas34 a one-shot lead @RBC_Heritage.
CBS pic.twitter.com/E0PU9HhFtC
Almost everything that frustrates me about Justin Thomas is visible here. He immediately searches for the camera, putting on his “battle face” as if he’s staring down an opponent—only, his rivals aren’t even nearby. This look isn’t one of malice; it’s pure grievance.
If you’ve followed Justin Thomas long enough, you see it: his passion is unique on the PGA Tour. It’s not the exuberant joy of Rory, Phil, or Jordan Spieth. Nor is it the fierce intensity of Jon Rahm, Brooks Koepka, or Tiger Woods. For Justin Thomas, passion takes the form of grievance—a need to believe he’s wronged, even in victory. Missed putts bring wounded disbelief. Errant shots are treated like personal affronts. Even small misfortunes, like a bad lie or a bird call in his backswing, seem to confirm the world is out to get him.
He’s far from the only golfer who reacts to adversity, but Justin Thomas stands out in his apparent compulsion to recast himself as a victim, particularly at his highest moments.
For Justin Thomas, good fortune alone never seems sufficient. There’s an urge to find the lens, to show a “victory” over the ghost of every bad break he’s ever had. A PGA Tour win after a three-year drought? It’s treated as overcoming a grand injustice, not as a pure moment of joy.
Despite my reputation, I admit—I don’t truly hate Justin Thomas. In truth, I pity him. Golf is brutally difficult. Even the best only win on rare occasions. Even as one of the top 20 players of his generation, Justin Thomas finds himself in droughts and frustration. Brief moments of triumph are quickly replaced by new grievances or on-course irritations—the cycle continues. As more victories (and perceived slights) accumulate on his record, his motivation seems ever tied to this sense of grievance, not joy.
In all likelihood, he’ll eventually notch win number 17. And what Justin Thomas and I will still share, as we have for all his first 16, is the sense that neither of us will extract an ounce of real joy from it.
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