Slinging Arrows by Wayne Mardle (Ebury Press 2021)

 

There does come a point when every darts player is forced to confront his or her intake and for me that point came in Vegas – where else? – during the summer of 2004. I’d reached the final of the PDC’s third Las Vegas Desert Classic, a huge event at the Vegas MGM Grand.

Remember when Tyson fought Holyfield in 1997? Same place. Some aspects of my own experience at the MGM were similar – for instance, the huge LED screens above the stage, which had once flashed with the rotating names MIKE TYSON and EVANDER HOLYFIELD, were still there, and were now reading PHIL TAYLOR and WAYNE MARDLE. (It’s quite something seeing your name up in lights like that, and it’s hard not to feel empowered. I remember seeing the stage and thinking: ‘Right, I’m going to maul him. I’m going to absolutely maul him.’) Unfortunately that’s where the similarities end, mainly because while Tyson famously left the ring having torn something off, namely a not insignificant portion of Holyfield’s right ear, I staggered onto the stage after tying one on.

By that I mean I was pissed. I wasn’t paralytic, but equally I hadn’t been to bed for two nights. I was competing against the world’s best player, in a major final, live on Sky Sports, and I hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours because I’d been knocking back champagne, vodka and mojitos, and gambling like a fiend.

The game was due to start at midday, but I’d taken up residence at one of the hotel bars at 6am. I remember when I’d first arrived at this little bar in the middle of the casino – a bar no bigger than ten feet wide, with a little opening for the barman and a handful of poker consoles on top – I’d said to the barman: ‘Are you open?’

And he’d gone: ‘We’re always open.’

It was music to my ears. By that point I’d already been drinking for so long that I’d convinced myself I was sobering up, even though of course I wasn’t sobering up at all and was, in fact, becoming progressively more drunk. The reality of the situation was not something that troubled me when I ordered a vodka and cranberry. Then another. Then several more.

I was having a great time as the clock ticked closer and closer to midday. 

Somewhere in the blur of it all Sharapova won the Wimbledon final, beating Serena Williams, and I’d had a bet on that outcome so I was jumping around the place like a lunatic. And of course by this point the darts fans were all wandering in, and I was there in my Hawaiian shirt so even in Vegas I wasn’t exactly blending in, meaning that the fans were all coming over for photos and autographs.

The barman was watching all this happen – and bear in mind I’d been there two or three hours by that point, and he’d been serving me for the duration, so there was no doubt about it: I was drunk. The barman went: ‘I have to ask, who are you?”

“I said: ‘Well, there’s darts on, isn’t there?’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘I know that.’ And then this look of absolute horror crossed his face. ‘Hold on,’ he went. ‘Are you playing?’

‘Yep, I’m in the final.’

He looked me up and down, paused a moment and replied: ‘Can I bet on the other guy?’

‘Yes, you can!’ I declared triumphantly and, with that, I staggered off to face my fate. I turned back, and he was just kind of staring at me, with the most subtle shake of his head. You know the head-shake: the type you’d usually only get from a disapproving parent. And at that point I remember thinking: ‘Wayne, there’s a very slight possibility you might have overdone it.’

This came into focus (and for me, it was pretty much the only thing in focus) when I got downstairs to the practice room and found Phil, already practising. Safe to say, Phil hadn’t exactly been on the piss during his time in Vegas, and the only refreshment he had in front of him was a small portion of fruit. He looked me up and down and said: ‘What the FUCK has happened to you?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, attempting to gloss over the fact that I probably looked like I’d just been dragged away from a brawl outside a tiki bar. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine!’ (If someone tells you they’re fine once, they might be – if they feel the need to tell you twice, they’re not fine at all and are almost certainly pissed.)

I asked Phil what he’d been up to in Sin City and he told me matter-of-factly that he hadn’t left his hotel room in the last seven days. ‘I’m here to play, and win, then go home,’ he said, adding that in his entire time there he’d only left his room to eat and play darts.

I looked at him standing there, all ready to lift another trophy, and I said: ‘Phil, I think you might win this.’

Which, of course, is exactly what happened, although strangely he only beat me 6–4 in sets (and I actually won more legs than him), and it was a pretty close game considering I was off my face on Vegas! As for my trusty barman, who’d been such a friend when he was pouring out those vodka and cranberries, and such a stern parent when I’d staggered off to meet my defeat … Well, despite his claim that he was always open, I didn’t see him again the next day, or the day after that. I like to think he did go and place that bet on Phil winning; that he pocketed the cash and jacked in his job on the spot. At least one of us would have been lucky that day.

The Crafty Cockney by Deryk Brown (Futura 1985)

 

Darts Apprentice

Alec Williams was passing a classroom one day when he discovered that Bristow was inside, throwing darts. He saw one dart clip a boy’s ear and was, naturally, horrified. He shouted out that this was highly dangerous. ‘Oh, no, sir,’ came the reply in a chorus. ‘Eric wouldn’t hit anyone unless he meant to. ’

Bristow learned his darts from his father. George used to play, perhaps twice a week, about the time he got married, usually at the Londesborough public house in Stoke Newington. During the years that followed he played little. He did not have the money to go regularly into pubs. George’s interest was not seriously fired until his son showed an aptitude for the game. For two years, from nine to 11, Bristow simply threw darts at the board. After that, he suddenly became good.

Even then, as he threw he would cock his little finger like a man eating lobster at Buckingham Palace — this style, later to become famous, is natural and not affected. Bristow had a natural stance and a natural throw, too, with no apparent effort involved. (This does not mean, of course, that he did not put a vast amount of work into his game.) As soon as he was tall enough, he began to lean towards the board, another characteristic which was to stay with him. There is a school of thought which believes that darts players should not lean because they cannot achieve perfect balance and control if they do. ‘You’ll never make a darts player like that,’ George once told his son in the early days within hearing of half a pub. Bristow leaned towards the board and popped in another dart.

As we have seen, from the age of nine Bristow had both a five-foot snooker table and a dartboard at home as a shift in the often-changing household created a little more For a while he played both games against George but the snooker petered out. The snooker matches were not sufficiently momentous for either father or son to remember who won. Darts took over as Bristow began thousands of hours of practice. If there was something unappealing on television — a love story or some soap opera — Pam would be left to watch it on her own. She would be expected to arrive with a plate heaped with sandwiches from time to time as the darts score mounted. For Pam Bristow, the suffragettes had fought in vain.

The male Bristows would often play 1,001-up, which many darts buffs argue is the best form of all. Certainly, it is the best format for an aspiring champion to play: it enables him to get into the groove of high scoring better than the shorter 501-up, which is tailored for‘ television. And, in theory at least, the Bristow even played a million-and-one as well. They would set out on that long trail, add up their total in lots of 10,001, and eventually lose track of their score, this being before the days of calculators and home computers. Bristow maintains that he and George could, in fact, have got through a game of a million-and-one in 24 hours or so. That is unlikely, although it is I surprising how quickly these marathons go.

By the time he was 13, Bristow was becoming quite proficient at darts. He had tried football, cricket, golf, boxing, swimming and cards, plus one or two more pursuits. He could, for instance, play chess and dominoes. But it seemed as though he would be best at darts. Occasionally he could score 140 which is two darts in the small treble 20 bed, and another dart in the single 20. Very occasionally, at 12, he would score 180, which is all three darts in the treble 20 bed. In darts, they get quite excited about that.