Running: The Autobiography Read online

  What Barry did was clever. He saturated the market by putting on so many tournaments. Then, once you’d filled the calendar up if you had someone come up and say, I want to put a snooker event on, he’d go: ‘There isn’t much room, when d’you want it?’ and they’d say: ‘Well, I’d like it there’, and he’d go: ‘Well, we’d have to get rid of that tournament to put your tournament in so it will cost you money.’ Basic supply and demand. Good business. You create the demand, and that’s what Barry did. So when, say, the Chinese came along and said, we’d like another tournament Barry would be in a position to say, it’s going to cost you. And it’s worked. Now we’ve got five tournaments in China, one in Australia, three majors over here, one in Ireland. So in the few years he’s been back in snooker, he’s definitely been going in the right direction.

  Although we exchanged words about his new regime – and, as he says, I’ve driven him mad plenty of times – I’ve always basically got on with Barry. Even our disagreement over the new contract was a misunderstanding. If I’d sat down with him just after the World Championship in 2012 I’d probably have been playing through 2012–13. The way I understood the contract was different from how Barry later explained it to me. The way I read it I thought, well, if you’re going to get a ban for missing four tournaments I’m bound to fall short and that isn’t going to be good for me. But I hadn’t understood that was four tournaments a year; I thought it was rolling on and on.

  But Barry told me the slate was clean every year. That had been the main sticking point for me. There was also the point about restricting your trade; you had to sign a contract that said you weren’t allowed to play in any other televised event without clearance from World Snooker. In a way it is a restriction of trade, but the bottom line is that Barry’s not going to stop you playing in an event unless it clashes with his event. And he’s right in a way to put that clause in because he’s trying to build a tour and he doesn’t want me going off with, say, Stephen Hendry and putting on a rival tournament when his is on. What he did say is, come and talk to me about it, and when there’s a gap in the calendar of course you can go and play Stephen Hendry in a one-off match, or whatever you want to do.

  Barry has taken the maxi prize away. That’s a bit of a bummer. There used to be £167,000 at Sheffield for the maximum – £147,000 plus 20 grand for the biggest break. He got rid of that because he said they were too easy to get. I said, you’re having a laugh, there’s only me and Hendry who have made them with any regularity, so it ain’t that easy. I’ve had 11, Stephen’s had 11 and John Higgins has had seven. I’ve had three at the World Championship, Stephen’s had two. The first maxi at the World Championship was made by Cliff Thorburn in 1983. Nobody could believe that such a level of perfection was possible when it happened. Mind you, it took Cliff about a week to make his!

  All in all, Barry’s done brilliantly for snooker. If I was coming into the sport now I’d be buzzing. If I was 18 or 19, I’d think I’ve got another 15 to 20 years in which to earn good money. And the cash is coming back into the game. Next year the winner of the World Championship gets £300,000, the winner of the UK gets £150,000. Sure, we’re not talking Premier League football figures, but we never were.

  Although it was terrible for the sport when we were down to eight tournaments a year, it did give me plenty of time to focus on the running. In a way it was a perfect mix – eight events a year (six ranking events and two invitation events – the Masters and the Premier League), and I had my sponsorship, and my running, so I was happily occupied.

  I was running in cross-country races every weekend and they became more important to me than the snooker. Obviously it was great to get to semi-finals and finals, but there was a downside – I’d have to miss the races. Unconsciously I was thinking, well it’s not that bad if I get beaten at this stage, I’ve got a few points on the board, I ain’t disgraced myself, and I’m going to be back home for the cross-country Saturday morning. Running was taking me over.

  It had become an addiction, but it was my best addiction yet by far. It’s a continual high – one of those you can just repeat and repeat. I’m not talking about jogging, I’m talking about running. Jogging is hard, but running is easy. Running is as easy as brushing your teeth. When you watch runners doing 10 kilometres in 27 minutes that isn’t hard; it’s harder for the fella doing it in 54 minutes because he’s using every muscle. When you’re jogging it’s a slog; you’re using your shoulders, your hips, you’re struggling to get your knees in front. When you’re running, everything just flows. You get in such a rhythm, it’s like a dance. Your body’s not moving, your head’s not moving, your shoulders aren’t rolling. Your hips are coming through, your feet are off the ground a lot longer. You go past a set of lamp-posts and you’re thinking, I’m covering this ground really fast. You’re just listening to your breath, your heart and your footsteps, and maybe a few birds twittering away. It’s beautiful.

  I never listen to music while I run because I want to hear myself and the world as I run.

  These days it feels more of a struggle. I’m running, but not like I was five or six years ago. If I go out for a run now and do three and a half miles it’s an effort because I’m still trying to go at the pace I used to go at but I can’t sustain it, so I have to stop two or three times. But I always think I’d rather stop two or three times and be running than jog and never stop. I feel like I’m wasting my time when I jog. But for me to get that feeling of running at a nice pace I have to put in the work. You have to get out and do your eight- or nine-mile run on a Sunday; you need to be doing 35 to 40 miles a week. Hopefully, by the time you read this I’ll have put in the hours and I’ll be flying again.

  5

  COMEBACK KID

  ‘Forest 50 mins, about seven miles with John. Speed sessions 10 × 30 seconds with 30-second recovery. Five minutes recovery. Then 12 × 30 seconds. Felt good. Proper fit.’

  It was winter 2011, and I was getting more and more run down. Not sleeping, miserable with the family situation, depressed and exhausted. In December 2011, I beat Ding Junhui 7-1 in the final of the Premier League. I’d not had any success in the ranking events for a couple of years, but this was the tenth time I’d won the Premier League, the seventh in eight years, and I felt in pretty good nick. I got home Sunday night and on Tuesday drove to Sheffield for a PTC event starting on the Wednesday.

  I got beaten 4-2 in the first round. The fella played well, no excuses. I didn’t play badly but I just felt I didn’t have any energy. I went back to the hotel and there was me, Gay Robbie (who’s not gay but is very camp) and my friend from Scotland, Charlie, and Patsy Fagin, who won the UK Championship in 1979. I’d asked Patsy to come down to help me with my game.

  We’d spent a day on the practice table, and the next day I went downstairs for breakfast and I felt terrible – achy, drained, no energy. I phoned up Mum and Dad and said, I need to come home. I was going to stay in Sheffield for a few days then go straight to the UK Championship, which was in York, but I thought, I can’t do this; I don’t feel right. I couldn’t eat, my stomach felt terrible. But I didn’t think I could drive back. It was a three-hour journey, and if I got caught in traffic I’d be done for.

  So I decided to leave my car in Sheffield and get the train home, and Dad went, well, you can’t leave your car there, and I said, well, I can’t get home, I won’t make it, I don’t fancy my chances. But as I walked out of the hotel, I saw the car there and thought, sod it, put the bag in the boot and drove home. I got to Peterborough, about an hour and 20 minutes from home, and I was done. I was driving down the hard shoulder, and I knew that I was about to fall asleep or have an accident, so I put a bit of speed on and just went for it.

  I drove straight to Mum’s house in Chigwell, lay on her settee and didn’t eat anything for three or four days except clear soup. Then I spent a few days at my own house and felt a bit better, and I went to the UK Championship. I beat Steve Davis in the first round, and Judd Trump beat me in
the second, but I was playing pretty well. I hadn’t yet had a quarter-final in a major event for a couple of years, but I thought, you know what, you’re playing well enough for a breakthrough.

  I was so knackered, though. Wherever I was I’d just fall asleep. I’d go down the club to practise and just fall asleep on the settee. I had no energy. I thought, when I’ve got the energy I’ll play, but I hardly ever did have. I’d get to my feet, play for 20 minutes, half an hour, an hour, whatever I could do, and that became my preparation for the World Championship – just lying on the settee and practising whenever I had the strength.

  I’d come straight home from matches and sleep. It was mad. I was ill from December 2011 to May 2012. Eventually I went to see the doctor and the tests came back saying I had glandular fever.

  ‘What do I do?’ I asked the doctor.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, Ron,’ he said.

  There were times I felt I couldn’t get to the top of the stairs, and all I could do was rest. So I thought, that’s what I’ll do – rest and play, rest and play. It wasn’t a bad thing; I quite enjoyed it – loads of sleep, loads of chilling out. It could be plenty worse. It forced me to slow down. It meant I couldn’t keep running, going to China, going up and down motorways. Glandular fever became a blessing in that it forced me to slow down and reappraise the way I was living. Trying to keep my family life in order and playing in all the tournaments took too much out of me. So I missed a couple of tournaments and started to take it easy, and that’s when things got better for me.

  In February 2012, I played in the German Masters. That kick-started my season. I felt I had been playing well till then, but I wasn’t getting results. Two years without a victory in a ranking event was a first for me.

  I had no problem with the Premier League. That was a tournament made for me. There’s a stopclock, and you have to play a shot every 25 seconds. But because that so obviously benefited my natural game I never counted it as a real victory. The Premier League was almost a given, my banker – and my mortgage paid for the year.

  I was so close to an inglorious exit in the first round of the German Masters. I was 4-0 down to Andrew Higginson and thought, I’m done for here; start the car. I’ve lost it. I obviously haven’t got it in me to win these important tournaments any more. The German is a ranking event, which means it’s classed as a major, whereas the Premier League is an invitation event so they often invite people like Jimmy White and Steve Davis just to put bums on seats. No disrespect to them (they are two of my heroes, after all) but they are past their best. It was seen as Barry Hearn’s favourites who were invited to that, whereas a ranking event is open to all the top players in the world. Everybody wants ranking titles on their CV, the World and the UK being the most prestigious. But I’d just lost the ability to win them. Or so I thought.

  So I was 4-0 down, first to five. And I thought, either the standard’s getting really high or I’ve lost it. Or a combination of both. I’d been working with the sports psychiatrist Dr Steve Peters so I didn’t panic. I thought I was cueing well. I’d had a couple of chances, but not made the most of them. Rather than panic or get the hump, I thought, no, I’m here, I’m playing okay, a crowd of 2,500, just try to enjoy the experience. If you get beaten 5-0, you get beaten 5-0, but just give it your best, and that was the stuff I was working on with Steve Peters. Stay patient, and if I get a chance to put some pressure on the fella, you never know what’s going to happen.

  I won one frame to go 4-1, then I won another. And I won them in one visit, and quickly, which is always good for morale. So at 4-2 I thought, if he’s going to twitch he’s going to twitch now. It got to 4-3, and then he had a chance – he was on a 60-odd break, and there was a red over the hole, and I thought, well, I’m done now. Fuck, I’ve got beaten in another ranking event early doors. Then he kissed the green and four-ball snookered himself on the red over a hole. Unbelievable. You would have got odds of 1,000 to one on him doing that. I’ve got a bit of a chance here, I said to myself. But I was still 60 down, 4-3 down, and there was 67 on the table. So if he gets on the red he’s 61 ahead, 59 on the table and I’m out.

  But he didn’t pot that red. I then got a good long one, cleared up, 4-4, and I thought, bloody hell! Then I won the last comfortably. So I got through a match I was dead and buried in. He was gutted. I shook his hand, and he was gone. Andrew’s a good player ranked in the 20s. All these players coming through these days can beat the best at any time. Andrew looked like he was going to fall over. He was in a daze, and I was so pumped up. He was deflated, and I was elated. I thought, wow, that was a touch! Four-nil down, one ball from going out: you couldn’t have written it.

  When I got through to the quarters in Germany I thought that was a result because for two years all I’d been doing was last 16 at best. And then I got to the semi, and I thought, fuck I’m near a final. It was a shitty match against Stephen Lee; one of the only matches that season I felt: ‘I want out of here, I’ve had enough, count me out, I’d rather get home and watch it on the telly.’ Somehow I got through that match. I was there for the taking, but Stephen sat on the fence and once it got close I reckoned if he’s not been able to beat me yet and I’ve got this far then there’s a good chance I’m going to win.

  I got through to the final against Stephen Maguire and I thought, if I’m going to play in the final like I did in the semis, it’s going to be a long day. At the interval I was 3-1 down – Maguire had had three century breaks, basically hadn’t missed a ball, and I managed to nick a frame. And I thought, I’ve done well, I was 3-1 down, but I’d had a result. Was it always going to be like this against modern players? Every time you go out there you’re going to get your head punched about. Unless you make three centuries you’ve not got a chance.

  Then I thought, no, just enjoy it, give it your best. That’s all you can do. And I managed to come out of the session 5-3 down, which was also a result. It could easily have been 8-0 or 7-1, so I’d avoided a whitewash and there was still a game on for the evening session. I’d avoided the embarrassment of getting absolutely hammered and having to come out 7-1 down; I’d done alright. I’d given everything, and there was no more meat on the bone.

  Stephen played so brilliantly he probably felt disappointed going in only 5-3 up. He’d not made as much of it as he could have done, so maybe he was the one in the dressing room beating himself up. I came out in the evening and got to 6-6. It wasn’t the best snooker in the world, but I came in and asked myself, how did I get to 6-6? I’d been outplayed all over the place. Then we came out for the last session and he started missing a few, and I was thinking, game on, it’s the best of five now, I fancy this. I started to feel I was in charge. That’s the thing about snooker, any sport really: so much is psychology – and the psychology swings one way then the other by the second. So I’d taken a battering all day long and then my rewards came later in the match, when you want it to come good for you.

  I was 8-6 up, on the verge of winning, then I played a bad positional shot. I was convinced I’d just thrown it away. I’m on a 40-odd break, in my mind I’ve won the match, I’m doing the winner’s speech and, boom, he clears up. And I was thinking: ‘Oh no, I’ve done it again, got carried away in the moment.’ I wasn’t used to winning, and I tensed a bit. So it went 8-7. Eventually I potted the blue to win it 9-7, and I was twitching like mad. My backhand was shaking like a leaf, my arse was pooping all over the gaffe, 2,500 people in the house, and I was, like, get me out of here; this isn’t the place to crumble and fall apart.

  I’d not been so nervous since a semi-final in the World Championship against Stephen Hendry in 2002. The German Masters is a tournament that loads of snooker fans aren’t even aware of, but this was huge for me. Huge. When the blue went in, I couldn’t believe it. I was shaking so much I thought I’d miss it by a foot. At first I thought, don’t worry about potting, just get the white safe. Then I told myself, don’t think like that, that’s not how a champion thinks. A champion t
hinks: ‘That’s going in the hole, pot the blue and get on to the pink; that’s the shot.’ Embrace the moment, I told myself. This is what top sport is about, this is how you separate yourself from the pack. You grab these opportunities, and commit.

  I went back to my chair and I was gone. Exhausted. I thought, I’ve won a tournament, a proper ranking event. After coming out of the Priory and winning the Champions Cup, it was the greatest turning point for me since I’d started playing professionally. That was so massive in 2001 because I’d been drinking and puffing my head off for seven years and I’d come out clean and won this tournament, and I thought, I’m enjoying this, I’ve got a chance. After winning the German last year I felt the same, and I never thought I’d recapture that feeling. I’d been down for more than two years, I’d been knocked by everyone in the game, and I’d proved I still had it in me. I won about €50,000 – not a massive amount, but that was irrelevant.

  Not winning for two years had a big impact on me financially. Not just the prize money. When I started to lose all the time, the sponsor money disappeared or went down. Snooker was unrecognisable financially from when I started. Back in the days of Steve Davis and Dennis Taylor the standard was nowhere near as high, but anyone in the top 30 could make a decent living out of the game. After all, the tournaments were on telly, watched by millions, tens of millions even, and the tobacco sponsors queued up to put their name on trophies. But the game was hit by that double whammy: cigarette sponsorship was banned and the viewing figures fell away.

  When I stopped winning I went from earning £750,000 a year to £150,000. Listen: it’s still decent money, but once you subtract the costs of travelling and hotels, managers and agents, believe me it’s not impressive. Actually, it seemed to bother my accountant more than me – he’d go, hold on, what’s going on here. He couldn’t get his head around it.