Running: The Autobiography (23 page)

Whatever I was like, Damien remained a great support. He just said: ‘If it makes you feel like that, just don’t do it. If it’s making you feel like this, fuck it off. You’ve just got to be happy. You’re the king, the best snooker player ever, but I just don’t want to see you down.’ I don’t think I am the best ever, but it’s nice of him to say it. Damien never seems to get down.

Sheffield is exhausting at the best of times, but I was so gone early on. After each session, up until the semis, I was so tired that I’d just sleep all the time. I think that was because I wasn’t used to the adrenaline pumping through my body and playing match after match. My recovery powers were not good. Even my mates, who’d seen me down plenty of times, thought I looked in a bad way when I’d come off at the end of a session. I’d think to myself, what am I putting myself through this for? I was happier when I was working on a farm and had no money. As soon as I was done I’d strip down to my pants and an old T-shirt, but I couldn’t sleep. Yet everyone told me how confident I looked when I was out playing. I thought, I’ve got to look after myself. I’ve been down this road before, with glandular fever, and my health is more important than the snooker. I felt I was living the life of the fella out of
Breaking Bad
. I thought, I just don’t give a fuck any more. But at the same time I was desperate to win.

Your view of yourself is at such odds with that of others when
you’re paranoid that you start to question your own sanity. You think, are they just saying things because you’re a top player and they feel they have to say nice things about you, or am I just getting this completely wrong?

Paranoia is a form of depression. Other people probably don’t even notice it. You feel that everybody else is enjoying themselves, having a good time, and inside I’m feeling so uncomfortable. I just want to be in my room, on my own. I want to duvet dive, I want to watch the telly, get loads of room service sent to me, I want to start smoking, go on my mate’s barge and sit there and moan my bollocks off because he doesn’t care. Little Mickey has a barge on the canal. He was in the army for years, then split up with his missus, and he bought himself a barge to live on. I can just go there, let my shoulders drop, moan, tell him I don’t want to play any more, and he just goes: ‘Alreet, mate’, and he’s got his little dog there who hates my guts because every time I turn up there I go: ‘Come on, Mick, let’s go out for a cup of tea’, and the dog hates me because he has to lock it up and they’re like husband and wife. I told Mick, the fucking dog hates me, and he goes: ‘No he don’t, mate, see, he’s wagging his tail’, and I’m like: ‘Look, I’m a threat to that dog. All that dog thinks is, whenever I come you disappear with me. I ain’t good news for that dog.’

On the surface, I looked composed. Probably was pretty composed for me. But I certainly had my moments. At times I couldn’t bear being in the Crucible, couldn’t bear seeing people; every little thing was getting to me.

I got better towards the end. I remember saying, three more days of brushing my teeth, two more days of brushing my teeth and it’s done; one more day. All my friends in the dressing room kept me sane – Irish Chris, Scouse John, Damien and Sylvia, and two close friends from Sheffield, Iyaz and Taz.

Despite my doubts, I was through to the semi-finals and drew Judd Trump – a huge match and potentially a real crowd-pleaser. Both Judd and I play an attacking game. We were still going down the casino in the evenings. By now I was back down to £500 worth of chips left and I thought, fuck it, it’s time to win big or lose it all. I lost, of course. But it didn’t matter by then. I was happy with what I’d achieved at Sheffield.

I was 4-1 up in the first session, but it ended up 4-4. I came out and I thought, I’ve outplayed him by a mile and we’re drawing. It didn’t give me much confidence for the second session because I thought I should have been 6-2 up, maybe 5-3, but at least I should have had a lead. A pattern emerged in Judd’s game, and one that I’ve noticed before – he always played well when he was three frames down, but when he got level he went negative. I picked up on that and it gave me confidence.

At 7-6 to me he missed a red, and I thought, right, now’s the time, I’ve got to clear up and pull away, and that’s what I did. At 11-8, I felt that mentally he gave up, and that made my job easier. I thought, all I have to do is stay disciplined, and if he gets close kick on again and just be professional. In other words, it was mine to lose rather than Judd’s to win.

There was a mini-controversy in the semi with the score 13-9 in the middle of a long, boring frame. I made a ‘motion’ with the snooker cue – some people might call it a wanking-off-the-cue gesture, but not me! I had the cue between my legs and just gave it a little rub. To be honest, I’ve often done it when I’m pissed off with myself. The referee, Michaela Tabb, gave me a quick but stern talking to: ‘Don’t make obscene gestures again, okay?’ I said I was just wiping something off my cue, and: ‘I want to go home.’ It probably put me off for a bit, and I ended up losing that frame.

It was a tense match, and I enjoyed the first session. But I
didn’t feel I was flowing in the other sessions or that I had momentum. It was just bits and pieces, but tactically I had my wits about me, my safety game was good and I did enough.

To get to the semis and the one table was a nice feeling (until the semis there are always two matches going on at any one time), but to get to the final was great. I felt a real sense of achievement. I’d made it from 32 players, the first one into the final, defending champion, and I hadn’t played for a year. I didn’t think it was possible at the start.

When the bookies had me down as one of the favourites at the start I thought they were mad. When the players said I was the favourite it annoyed me. I thought, you’ve been playing all year; when is someone going to stand up and say, I’m the governor of this sport, I’m number one, I’m going to win the World Championship? But I never heard one player come out and talk with that confidence. I really want to see that because it will be great for the game and it would probably spur me on again. But no one’s really grasping the nettle. In a way it’s good for me because it means my competition isn’t that confident, they don’t believe in themselves enough, but it isn’t good for snooker.

Perhaps Judd should be that man, but sometimes I think he lacks the killer instinct. He seems as if he’s just happy to be there – he’s got a bit of money, enjoys the lifestyle, wins a few matches and the odd tournament, but what he really should be doing is trying to write his way into the history books. There isn’t a Hendry or a Davis out there who wants to devote his life to it, someone who says: ‘You’re going to have to scrape me off the table if you’re going to beat me. I want this so bad I’m going to make it happen.’

When I got through to the final my first thought was, I don’t fancy Barry Hawkins, he’s flying, he’s going to smash me. Daft, because, as I said, you’re always going to meet someone
in form in the final. I went through everything Steve Peters had taught me, and told myself to get a grip – every day’s different, every player’s different, forget the catastrophic thinking, let’s get the facts, let’s get the truth. With Steve I was trying to reverse the belief system that I had grown up with, one that was based on fear and negatives – you’ve got to win, don’t make me look bad, don’t show yourself up.

So I gave myself a good positive talking to – whatever happens, nobody’s going to smash you; the worst that could happen is that it might get close, then I’ll get my chance to win. So it was about staying patient. I never felt I was going to be blown away. I’d been here before, won four finals out of four, am reasonably good under pressure, not going to bottle it, and I just kept thinking, if the opportunity comes to win the match I fancy my chances.

Just when I’d talked myself into enjoying it, I discovered they’d changed the cloth on the table for the final. They told me they’d changed it but I expected it to be the same as before – fast and slick. But this was really slow. A faster cloth suits me better, and I think a slower cloth suits Barry better because he hits firmer with the ball; he’s a bit more punchy whereas I prefer to float balls in. You can’t float them in on a slow table, you’ve got to bang them in. I can do that, but it’s a different technique – it’s like going from clay to grass in tennis. So I thought, who did that, and why? The conspiracy theorist in me believes it was done to try to stop me winning the World Championship. But every little thing that could have set me back I’ve tried to turn into a positive, so I told myself, right, if there are people out there who don’t want me to win, I really need to do it now. It made it more of a challenge, more of a buzz.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but even a couple of knowledgeable ex-players said to me: ‘I know why that was done!’

‘Why?’ I said.

‘They didn’t want you winning the World Championship. That was to try to stop you.’ This was after the final, so they weren’t trying to wind me up.

I loved the final. It was the only match in the World Championship in which I thought I played really well. It wasn’t until the semi-finals that I got my energy back, and I thought, I’ve got a chance here. The first session in the final was good – I took a 2-0 lead, then he came back to 2-2 and I thought, we’ve got a game on here. Then he went 3-2 up, and it was the first time in the whole tournament I’d gone behind. I then had three really good breaks, two centuries, and I went 5-3 up, and I thought, lovely, we’re involved now! This is a proper ruck. I’ve set my stall out, let him know I’m here. I know that he’s there as well, so it was a good first sparring session.

I’ve never played really well in the second session in a final at Sheffield. The first session you’re all excited, it’s the final, you play really well, then the second session, on Sunday evening, always seems a bit of a come-down – you can’t win the tournament, but you can have a poor session and put yourself in a bad position for the next day. Sure enough, it did get a bit tense that Sunday night.

Last frame on the Saturday night I played a great snooker against Barry when I tucked him up behind the black. If I won the frame I’d be 10-7 up overnight; if I lost it the score would be 9-8. I would have been so disappointed if I’d lost it because I’d played well in the frame, but somehow it had come down to the colours. That would have hurt. Thankfully, I won it, and to go in 10-7 up was a massive boost.

Then, come Monday, I played great. In the afternoon I was dominant, cueing well and scoring from nowhere. In one frame I was 54 behind, 59 left on the table, and I cleared up with 56.
The final red was really difficult – a long pot in the bottom corner, then I had to screw back for the blue. But that still left me with another long yellow. That went in really sweet. Boom. Which left me with a tricky green – against the bottom cushion – and I had to come back with side for the brown. The white landed perfectly, and that was that. Lovely. The frame was to go 12-8, and it was one of the best clearances I’ve ever made.

I was pleased with my patience – potting, making a few good breaks, then playing a few snookers. Rather than having to make it happen straightaway I thought, no, I’ll bide my time, and that gave me confidence. I played well on the Monday afternoon, and I just thought, okay, we’ll have more of that on the Monday evening. This was the test of my work with Steve Peters – I’d done it the year before so I knew I could do it; but would I be able to do it again? Barry came out, long red, and made 130. Then he won the next frame with a good break, and all of a sudden the score’s 15-12 and I’m getting a bit twitchy.

Next frame he was on 20-odd; he took on a tricky red, and I thought the way he’d been playing he obviously fancied it, so I didn’t expect him to miss it. But he did. I heard the roar from the crowd – disappointment from Barry’s fans, anticipation from mine – and I thought, right, I’ve got to win the frame in this visit. I made a 70-80, went 16-12, and won the next frame with another good break.

At 17-11 I went in for the interval needing only one frame to win, but my head wasn’t quite all there. After the final, Scouse John reminded me what I’d said to him.

‘What’s the score?’ I’d said.

‘Seventeen-twelve,’ he said.

‘So that means he’s got to win six frames on the trot to beat me.’

What Scouse John didn’t get was that I was being serious
– for the whole 17 days I didn’t think I was good enough to win it. John thought I was taking the piss, but I wasn’t one bit. I thought there was every chance Barry could pull off six frames. As it happens, I came out and finished the match in style with a break of 77.

I picked the trophy up – very nice, thank you very much, five times world champion, first person to retain it since Stephen Hendry, proud moment. I was really happy. I’d achieved what for me was the impossible. To win it five times sunk in straightaway. When I wrote my first book 12 years ago, I’d just won the World Championship for the first time. Two years ago I’d won it three times. Not bad, but there’s a world of difference between winning it three times and winning it five times. Now I’m only one behind one of my all-time heroes, Steve Davis, and two behind Hendry.

My lasting memory is having little Ronnie on the table, jumping up in my arms and we’re smiling into the cameras. It doesn’t compare to the year before because in 2012 I’d had such a bad time personally and professionally I never thought I’d win it again, but it was still wonderful. There’s a lovely picture of me with one hand on the trophy, and little Ronnie standing on the table with one arm round my shoulders and another on the trophy. Beautiful.

In the after-match interview I caused another bit of controversy. Hazel Irvine said I’d made it look easy, but what had it actually been like behind the scenes and to whom did I owe a debt of gratitude? I said I didn’t think I’d have won back-to-back titles without the help of Steve Peters because; ‘Everyone knows me. I’m up and down like a whore’s drawers.’ Hazel didn’t know what to say. I’m not even sure she knew what I’d said – she just sensed it wasn’t something for prime-time telly. The audience burst out laughing. ‘I think we’ll forgive the
industrial language,’ she said. ‘D’you want to rephrase that or just plough on?’