Running: The Autobiography (8 page)

Selby and I have different mentalities. His way is not wrong, my way is not right; we just have different philosophies. A lot of people don’t like playing him. He tortured Graham Dott, he tortured Neil Robertson in the Masters, he tortured Sean Murphy. They probably wouldn’t admit it, but, watching, it was evident they were finding it hard going. And in some way I got satisfaction out of that because in the past I’d played him in the Masters and in the Welsh, and people went: ‘See, Ronnie doesn’t like this kind of player’, but I still managed to get a couple of wins over him. I beat him 9-8 in the UK, and had a maxi. We’ve had tough matches, and I’ve got a certain amount of respect for the way he goes around getting a result. John Parrott’s got the best name for him: Stickability Selby. He’ll stick to you no matter how well you play. Selby does have issues with his cue action, though; his belief in his game. He has anxiety within himself. I don’t think he’s enjoying his
game even though he’s getting the results. I don’t think he’s entirely happy with the way he hits the ball. He’s had about 20 different cue actions in the past 10 years, but, again, I take my hat off to someone who’s prepared to change their game to become a better player. It shows that he loves the sport he’s playing.

There was one match I played him where I just counted the dots on the spoon repeatedly. There were 108 dots on the spoon, and every time I lost count I went back to the beginning because it was difficult to watch; difficult to get any rhythm against him. That was the 2008 UK Championships and I was in good form then. But I found myself counting the dots because you’re not allowed to go out there and read a magazine or put a towel over your head, or do this and that, so I thought, fuck it, I’ll count the dots. I’d have found something in that arena to distract me. Everybody went, he’s lost the plot: ‘Ronnie’s counting the dots.’ But they didn’t have to get in there and play him. Now they are playing him and crumbling, so maybe they should look back to those earlier matches and say: ‘Well, Ronnie did well, and you can understand why he counted those dots.’

I pulled out of Ireland. I had a bad back and shouldn’t really have got on the plane in the first place. To make matters worse, I was travelling on Ryanair – never a pleasant experience. You know they’re out to catch you whenever they can – it’s one of those airlines that just wants to make something from your misfortune. I was the last one on the plane with my mate Gay Robbie. We got on the plane and there were six spare seats together, and I thought, happy days, we’ll sit there. As we got on the Ryanair fella is going: ‘Anybody who would like the extra seats that are free it will be an extra ten euros.’ And I’m going: ‘Ten euros! That’s Arthur Daley flogging you a seat for an extra
ten euros.’ Anyway, I went, I’ll have ’em, and the geeza then goes: ‘No, you can’t have them.’

So I just went: ‘Right, we’re getting off, I’ve had enough of this, I don’t want to travel.’ I said: ‘Thank you very much, we’re getting off the plane, you’ve done me a favour. I’m in no state to travel, my back’s in spasm, I’m off. I haven’t got the hump, happy days, I’m going home, see you later.’ So I got off the plane, rang my manager and told him I was going home.

The next tournament was China. I’d not played a tournament for a month and I felt a bit rusty. I went 4-2 down to Marcus Campbell, and ended up winning the match 5-4. Don’t know how, but I did. Then I beat Mark Williams 5-1 in the next round, didn’t play great, but was pretty match-sharp because I’d won the German and got to the semis of the Welsh. Then I played Maguire in the quarters and he beat me 5-4. Again, he outplayed me in the beginning, but I held on and it went 4-4, and I felt I was beginning to find my game at the right time. I had a fairly simple shot to stun in to win, but I decided to come off a cushion, then missed a red, we had to respot the black and he potted it. I lost the match, but came out thinking I could have had that, and again I felt I’d done well. You can’t win every event and sometimes you have to save your wins for the right time. So win, semi, quarter, and I was thinking, I’m back. I felt I’d earned my right to play again.

I was playing in a lot of the small PTC events that Barry Hearn had introduced. This is how Barry was putting on more games – not televised, but it meant players were getting more match practice. If you got to the quarters you got a grand, if you got to the semis you got £2,500, 10 grand for the winner, so there wasn’t much money in it, but there were ranking points. If I hadn’t gone to those PTC events I would have had to qualify for Sheffield, and I really didn’t fancy that. Barry had us
by the bollocks – as I’ve said, we had to turn up for the minor events to qualify for the bigger ones.

I came in at number 16 and just qualified for the World Championship, so I didn’t have to play qualifiers. That had been my goal – to keep my top 16 ranking – and I’d just about made it. I’d won a few of the PTC events, even ended up number one on those rankings, so my form was decent. It’s just that I hadn’t done it in the major events till Germany. But by then I thought, whatever happens at Sheffield, I’m back, I’ve had a great season. I’d proved to myself that I deserved to be on the circuit, that I was still a top 16 player.

6

ME AND MY CHIMP

‘Worked well, felt OK then pushed up at the last. Good session. Wednesday, forest, easy run, 50 minutes, seven-minute miling, then did a steady push and finished off with seven-minute miling.’

Dr Steve Peters is a bit of a genius when it comes to the mind. A sports psychiatrist, he has worked for years with Britain’s top cyclists, people like Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy and Victoria Pendleton, to help them get the best out of themselves.

It was my manager, Django Fung, who first suggested I go to see Steve. He was convinced he’d be able to fix my head and he also told me that he was on the running buzz, which of course appealed to me. To say he’s got the buzz is to do Steve a bit of an injustice. He ran as a kid at school, then didn’t run again till he was 40. Then he became world champion in the Masters category at 100 metres, 200 metres and 400 metres (you have to be over 35). He ran 100 metres in 10.9 seconds, and 200 metres at 22.21 seconds when he was 44 years old. The fella’s a freak, a flying machine. He came third in the East of England all ages when he was 44, and he got a call-up from the Olympics training squad – they thought he was an up and coming youngster.

Django drove me mad about seeing Dr Steve. In the end I agreed, but at first he said he was too busy to see me. He had so much on, working with the British cycling team, who were preparing for the Olympics, and Team Sky. Then he did a bit of research on me, and went to Django: ‘Right, get him in now! This fella’s in trouble, I can help him.’

He said to me, ‘I knew you needed help, and I knew I could help you.’ And he has done. If my private life hadn’t been in pieces, I don’t think I would have seen Steve, and if I hadn’t seen Steve I don’t think I would have come back to win two successive world championships. He knocked the complacency out of me, and made me want to win again. As so often happens, something good has come out of something bad.

Steve used to be a forensic psychiatrist at Rampton High Security Hospital, and since then has worked with just about everyone in British sport. For most of the time he’s based in Manchester with the Sky cycling team. Victoria Pendleton called him ‘the most important person in my career’, and before the London Olympics Chris Hoy said: ‘Without Steve, I don’t think I could have brought home triple gold from Beijing.’ After Bradley Wiggins became the first British man to win the Tour de France in 2012 he thanked Dr Steve for ‘opening my eyes on how to approach my worries and fears and for simply being the world expert on common sense’. He’s helped loads of sportsmen famous for having a short fuse, not least footballer Craig Bellamy, and now he’s working with Luis Suárez at Liverpool.

Steve is just as good with the brain as he is with his legs. It didn’t take me long to realise he was a bit special. I chatted away to him, told him how I felt about this and that, what was happening in my life. He’s very quiet and unassuming, but incredibly wise.

‘Sometimes I just don’t want to be there, Dr Steve,’ I’d say to him.

And he’d just listen away, hardly saying a thing.

‘Sometimes I want to pick up my cue and just run out of the room and head off home. And then when I get home I just want to pick up my cue and run away to somewhere else. Probably back to the venue. It’s mad.’

‘What you’re talking about is common, Ronnie,’ he said. ‘Lots of sportsmen and women experience this. And lots of people do in everyday life. I call it freeze mode,’ he said. The way he described it, you just stop doing what you’re doing in the middle of it.

‘You’ve just disengaged and said, “No, I can’t do this, so I’m going to stop.”’

‘Then there was a match I played in when I actually walked out even though I was a long way from losing.’ I told him I was 4-1 down to Hendry, and I just went to shake his hand, and everyone thought I was bonkers.

‘Well, what was going on in your head at that particular moment, Ronnie?’ he asked.

‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘I was panicking, paranoid. I just wanted out. Couldn’t stand being there, couldn’t stand people looking at me. Wanted to be by myself.’

‘That’s flight mode,’ he said. ‘Now it’s much rarer to see sportsmen in flight mode. Flight mode is an extreme form of freezing. Often they’ll freeze less dramatically – and that can take lots of different forms; pulling out of matches or races saying they’re not fit when they probably are, giving up in the middle, bottling it. But it’s much more unusual to actually get up, shake the opponent’s hand and admit you’ve had enough.’ He explained it all in very simple terms, telling me that freezing or taking flight was disengaging from battle, which made perfect sense.

‘What you’re doing, Ronnie, is an act of sabotage. You’re sabotaging your chances, and most sports people do that at one time or another, and in various different forms. What I’m here for is to try to help you stop sabotaging yourself.’

He told me about how the head worked, and said that he divided it up into two different bits; the chimp and the human.

‘The chimp is the emotional bit. You know every time you feel like putting down your cue or taking the first train home or not even turning up for tournaments that’s your chimp having its say. Having too much say.’

He told me the chimp was vital – without it I wouldn’t be the person and player I am. But when the chimp took over all hell could break loose. Bloody hell, it made perfect sense to me. I had a huge chimp on my back, shouting in my lugholes, giving me all sorts of advice I could do without.

Then he told me about the human, the opposite of the chimp. The human is all reason and logic, and if you start listening too much to the human you think too much and tend to become over-deliberate or too cautious. That made sense, too. I thought of the time Ray Reardon coached me – it was fantastic the way he improved my safety game, but I gradually became more and more cautious, and more and more boring to watch. Dr Steve says the perfect balance, the computer, is when the human and chimp are working in harmony, and that’s what he always aimed for.

‘I’m on edge,’ I told him. ‘I’m always on the edge; I put myself through such anxiety.’

‘Well, you don’t need to be,’ Steve said. ‘You just have to work out what’s important to you.’

‘Snooker is pretty important to me.’

‘It’s just a game with sticks and balls, so try to get a perspective on it,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but unless I’m playing really well I don’t enjoy it.’

‘So unless you’re playing really well you’re never going to enjoy it,’ he said. ‘The reality is you’re not always going to play well. It shouldn’t stop you enjoying yourself and just trying your best. It’s a sport, there has to be a winner and a loser, and we can only do our best.’

Because he was also an elite sportsman Steve knew exactly what we were going through and could relate it to his own performances in the Masters sprinting world championships.

‘My chimp can kick off if I go to a world final, and I’m lining up,’ he told me. ‘If you look at the brain, I’ve tried to say as a simplification that you’ve got one part of your brain that is highly emotional and it’s very quick to think impulsively but it can be very inaccurate. Another part of the brain is logical, rational and calm. And they form teams across the brain. One team is what I call the human, and one team is the chimp and then you’ve got a computer system that is sprinkled around the brain and both of them rely on that for reference and for automatic behaviour. So if your blood supply goes to the chimp you think in a very emotional way, and if the blood supply goes to the human you’ll think in a very rational, logical way. When I go to compete my chimp starts kicking off, and gives me the usual thoughts. It’s all about me managing what my chimp throws at me, like “I can’t lose this”, “I mustn’t look stupid”, “I’m not fit enough at this point”, it’s the classic stuff I get when I work with elite athletes. So I can relate to that and the intensity of the feelings.’

If the human takes over you become too rational and analytical and you lose your spontaneity, he said. If the computer’s working nicely and suddenly the human wakes up you can choke.

This fella really knew what he was talking about.

I worked with Dr Steve for the whole year building up to Sheffield in 2012, and he was great. For the first time I was really getting my emotions under control. I never felt I was going to lose the plot, and if there was any danger of getting overemotional I was much more aware of it than I had been before. I thought that however bad I felt during the match, I could put those emotions on hold till it was all over. He was there for me throughout the finals in 2012. Whenever I had a bad moment, he’d come into the dressing room in the break and talk me through it. He was incredibly calming and sensible. Steve is probably more responsible than anybody for my comeback.

But I didn’t want to become reliant on him. l didn’t want to feel I had to have him around me 24/7. That would have been unhealthy, and he couldn’t always be there for me anyway. He had so many other successful sports people to be dealing with. He wanted to give me the model for what I needed to work on, so I could then go and do my homework, practise, and become good at it on my own. Then, when I’d go to see him it would be like servicing a car. I wanted to be a good pupil, I had a lot of respect and love for Steve and I didn’t want to pull the wool over his eyes, so there was no point in not practising what he’d taught me.

He’d come down and watch me play at Sheffield, but I’m not sure if he likes snooker. It’s funny; we don’t really talk about it. He likes his dogs and his animals and his running. He’s got two huge wolfhounds, rescue dogs, and he likes having people around him that he feels comfy with.

I’ve never wanted to become too reliant on any one thing. Even when I’ve got into my religions, I’ve thought, well I can work out things for myself. I’ve tried the lot in my time
– Buddhism, Islam, Christianity. I was reading the Koran and bits and pieces, and loads of my friends were Muslims. Because I was open-minded going to Narcotics Anonymous and stuff, I thought, let’s go with Allah, the Muslim God, find out what he’s all about. Allah wasn’t too bad as it happens. Again, it was just a belief in something, but in the end I thought, I just want to be me. I want to be happy being me. Friday night at Regent’s Park mosque in London, prime location, the big gaffe. I was with Prince Naseem and his brother Murad. He said he was going to the mosque and I said, well, I’ll come with you because I didn’t want to show a lack of respect. I thought, maybe I can just hang around outside, have a cup of tea. I didn’t want to be rude.

So I ended up going, washing my hands this way and that way, kneeling there, on my knees, hundreds of people there. I’m doing all my bits and pieces, and I thought that was it – we’d sneak out, do a bit of grub, and then they suddenly dragged me down the front, and they were doing the business with me, whatever it is, and I’m getting kissed by all these other Muslims: ‘Welcome, brother, welcome, brother . . .’ Bang! It’s in the paper. ‘Ronnie’s converted to Islam.’ Just after 9/11. I thought, I need that like a hole in the head. I phoned up Naz and begged him, and said: ‘Naz you need to get me out of this, I’m terrified.’ So that was another fine mess I got myself into. It was a one-off. I tried Christianity for about three months, but that didn’t do the trick either. I’m destined never to be a member of the God squad. Everything with me is a one-off. I believe in people rather than gods.

And Steve Peters was a person I believed in because he taught me how I could conquer my chimp. Whenever I feel him coming to throttle me (the chimp, not Steve) I have to repeat the following steps to myself. Actually, even when the chimp’s not on
the prowl I need to repeat the steps to myself. Steve called it the five-point anchor:

Steve said that, rather than pretending the chimp didn’t exist, I had to accept him, and get to know him. ‘If you have to put the chimp back in his box, one shot at a time, do so,’ he said. ‘Listen to the chimp without panicking, but always know it’s the chimp and not you.’

Steve asked me to keep a diary of my relationship with the chimp. Here are a few typical entries from the build-up to the 2012 World Championship:

Wednesday 15th

Got up. Felt like the chimp was on me. Telling me I’m over playing, should be at home with the kids, should be training, running, obsessing about getting fat. Told him that I was not gonna discuss this now, I want to go and enjoy my breakfast. I then want to go and enjoy the snooker.

I went to snooker, and started off great. Not missing anything, my chimp was very quiet. I stayed in a great space. There were times when I played, or felt not quite comfortable on the shot, but I quickly put the chimp away, I gave it some logic and facts. Facts: that I have actually played lots of great shots. Not true
that I’m no good. Logic told me that I should not beat myself up. Once I put that in place I really did shift and start to find momentum again.

Once I came home I did start to think about my shoulder, and my approach to the shot, and telling myself this good form can’t continue. I did put the chimp away and felt better, but he kept coming out. But it was okay, not that bad. I kept putting him away.

BELIEF: That I can’t play bad and win.

FACT: I have played bad and won three world titles.

BELIEF: Everyone is better than me.

FACT: M. Williams says I’m the best.

BELIEF: That I’m getting old and that my potting is not very good.

FACT: I have been potting long ones in certain games.

PERSPECTIVE: If I’m lying on my death bed what would I say to little Ronnie and Lily? ENJOY LIFE!!!