Eric Bristow (21 page)

Japan was a lovely place but very expensive. In the first round I got drawn against a local player who was a nonentity and expected me to slaughter him. Luckily he didn’t know the torment I was going through. I had to beat him, though, to at least get four grand. If I lost it was a big fat zero. I said to Al before the game, ‘Fuck me, Al, I’m going to lose to a Jap here. I can’t even let my darts go. What am I going to do?’

We were all drawn against Japs first round: me, Lowey, Leighton Rees, Big Cliff, all of us. It was best of five sets, five legs to a set and for one of the very few times in my life I was nervous as hell. I shouldn’t have been. We all played our first-round games simultaneously and I went three–nil, three–nil, three–nil. I never dropped a leg, played marvellously and was the first one to finish.

That was it then; with no sign of the yips I was strutting round the place thinking I was the dog’s bollocks once more. I went over to where Leighton was playing his game because I’d drawn the winner of this game next round. I love Leighton but my head was telling me: I hope this Jap beats him. It was wrong but it was competitiveness: I wanted the easiest route to the final.

Leighton, however, won three sets to two and played me in the next round. I murdered him four–nil. Again no yips; I was playing proper darts now, the sort of darts that got me five world titles. Mike Gregory came next and I beat him, so my prize money had gone from four thousand to seven thousand to eleven. I couldn’t believe that only two days earlier I’d been unable to throw a dart. In the semi-finals I played Bob Anderson and he didn’t have a chance. In one set I threw an eleven-dart finish, followed by a twelve-darter, followed by another eleven-darter and ran out the easy winner by six sets to two.

I left the hall, because you couldn’t drink or smoke in there, had a beer and a fag, and came back in to watch
Lowey
playing an Australian called Russell Stewart who in my opinion couldn’t throw a dart for toffee, so how he made the semis was beyond me. When I walked into the hall it was five sets all and two legs all. This was the decider. Lowey went ton, one-forty, ton; Stewart went one-forty, ton, ton. They were both on 161 and Lowey stepped up and went sixty, fifty-one and then chipped the twenty-five wire when he needed bull to win the match. Stewart walked up to the oche and threw sixty, fifty-one, bullseye to take it. What a game to witness. I shouted out ‘Yeeeeesssssss’ when he won because there was no way I wanted to face Lowey in the final, not if the yips came back. It would’ve been humiliating, and I knew that in normal circumstances a player like Russell Stewart wasn’t going to beat me over thirteen sets.

The final was the following day, so on the morning of the game I went down to the hotel restaurant for my breakfast, had a couple of beers and started practising. Russell came down about an hour later looking a bit the worse for wear. He’d been out celebrating his semi-final win and the £27,000 pay cheque that came with it. It was a lot of money to him. He’d never come close to winning anything like that in his life, and he was talking about how it had paid off his mortgage and how he’d get a nice car out of it, all that sort of thing. It was all a bit too negative as far as I was concerned; it was as if he thought he wouldn’t be going any further. I was enjoying it because I was playing this guy and not
even
considering the money I’d won or was going to win. I just wanted to win the final and that was all I was focused on – that and not getting the yips back.

Russell liked his Jack Daniels and he’d had a few in his room before he came down. As I looked at him practising I thought he was very, very close to the mark, so, because I needed some insurance against the yips coming back, I decided to go for it and walked up to him, put my arm around his shoulder and said, ‘How are you, Russ, mate? Let’s me and you have a drink to celebrate us being in the final.’

He was all beaming smiles and said, ‘Yeah, thanks, Eric. I’ll have a JD and Coke.’

I went up to the barman and whispered, ‘JD and Coke. Make sure it’s a large one.’

I gave it to Russell and he said, ‘Cheers, mate, good on ya, sport.’

Five minutes later I was at the bar again. ‘Can I have another large JD and Coke?’

Russell said, ‘Aw, mate, let me buy a round.’

‘No way,’ I replied. ‘We’ve won loads of money between us. What are a few drinks between friends?’

And I carried on buying him large Jack Daniels and Cokes until it was time to go on stage.

By this time he was totally wrecked, so I didn’t need to worry about whether the yips came back or not. They didn’t and I won the first five sets three–nil, three–nil, three–one, three–nil, three–one. He won just
two
legs, and that was only because I’d missed six darts at the double. At the break I led five–nil in sets and only needed one more to become World Grand Prix Champion.

Backstage I went straight to the bar and ordered him another large JD and Coke. With five minutes to go before the end of the break he was finished. He was all over the place. Checking his top pocket he slurred, ‘Hey, fucking hell, where are my darts?’

That was all I needed. I wanted to get him up there and get him beaten while he was pissed and before my yips came back. Everybody was looking all over for this stupid sod’s darts, including me; I was more desperate than anyone to find them. I felt like saying, ‘Here, use mine.’ Then one of the officials, after what seemed an eternity, announced on the mic that they had found his darts. He’d left them on stage!

So back we went and I won the last set by three legs to nil. It was brilliant, the easiest final I have ever won in my life because he was trolleyed. I got an extra £15,000 for winning and all it had cost me were about half a dozen large JD and Cokes. It’s the best money I have ever spent in my life. Afterwards Russell was all over me and kept saying, ‘We’ve done well here, me and you, haven’t we?’ He was still buzzing from his 161 finish in the semi-final. He just needed topping up, and I was the man to do it.

*

I will never know and still do not know to this day what caused the dartitis. Maybe trying to achieve perfection was what gave me the yips. I do put a bit of it down to that, a desire not just to beat my opponents but to crush them. I always wanted to get every single aspect of my game perfect, whereas, in hindsight, maybe I should have just thrown the darts the way I had been doing year in and year out. I always tried to get better and better, and maybe sometimes you can try too much. I see a lot of Nick Faldo in me. He changed his old swing and never won a thing afterwards. Before that he was always down the middle, then on the green and in the hole it went. He was beautiful to watch. Then he changed his swing and that was it. You can get too deep into what you’re doing sometimes. If something comes naturally to you, then you should just go with the flow. I messed about with my technique when I should have just left it alone.

The worst thing was having all these people telling me what to do to beat it, when most of them had never played darts or won anything in their life. One guy, a builder, wrote to me and told me to stand with one leg in a bucket of water when I threw. Yeah, right, how much of a dick would I have looked then?

I soldiered on and carried on playing, and made my dough for the next ten or so years, but every now and again I was losing to people I should not have been losing to and that was what hurt me more than anything.
Players
not good enough to even carry my darts case were sometimes beating me when I had the yips. I called it my bogeyman. It came and went, came and went. If it came during a tournament, that was it, I lost. If it came while I was playing a top boy I’d get battered and they’d shake my hand in embarrassment. They didn’t know what to say. County players have had it, league players also, but I was the only professional to have it. Mark Walsh has had it and he’s done well to get through it. I have a soft spot for him. I really do want him to do well because I know what he has gone through. He has won the battle, I haven’t. But you name it and I’ve tried it, apart from standing in a bucket of water, that is. I’ve changed my throw, I’ve thrown faster and slower. I even gave up booze and fags for a couple of months because I thought it could be that. I took beta blockers instead – they’re supposed to slow your heart down and make you less nervous. I got through to the last eight of a tournament in LA on these things. I never had a drink and never had a fag: it was the most boring day of my life.

I now felt that I had absolutely nothing to look forward to. I could’ve looked myself in the bathroom mirror every morning while shaving and cut my throat. These beta blockers are like aspirins, you’re only supposed to have about three or four a day, but because I wasn’t drinking or smoking I was taking them by the handful, and when I had my last-eight match I must have had
about
a dozen. I got up to play and thought: Why am I shaking like a leaf when these things are supposed to steady your nerves? I still won two sets to nil, but after the match I went straight to the toilets, threw the pills down the loo, went into the bar, told Big Cliff to get me a large beer and went outside for a fag. I came back in feeling all giddy because I hadn’t smoked for months and proceeded to get monumentally pissed. It was a great day. I do feel for these teetotallers because not to be able to have a drink and a smoke must take some getting used to. I enjoy cigs, they are my heroin. Every morning I get up and have a cup of tea and a fag for breakfast. It’s something to look forward to.

ELEVEN

The Beginning of the End

IN MANY WAYS
1987 signalled the beginning of the end for me. My darts was suffering because of the yips and my relationship with Maureen was also floundering. We were growing apart. She was a great darts player but she was becoming disillusioned with the sport and the lifestyle in general, and we split up straight after the World Masters of that year.

We had been due to fly to New York the next day. The tickets had been booked and our bags had been packed when Maureen suddenly said to me, ‘I’m not going.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not going?’

‘I’m not coming to New York.’

This was after nine years of going everywhere together and she said, ‘I’m not enjoying it. I’m not enjoying the lifestyle or any of it. There’s too much travelling. I don’t want to go.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I told her. ‘If you don’t come to New York, then where’s the future for us?’

‘Well I’m not going,’ she said. We were in the car at the time and she drove back to the hotel in London, got her stuff together and went home to Stoke.

That was it. That was the end of the relationship.

When I flew without Maureen I went on a Monday but I wasn’t playing until Thursday. We’d planned to have a few days sightseeing and shopping. I was a lonely Englishman in New York, wondering what the hell I was going to do on my own: I had only gone early for a bit of companionship with Maureen.

Across the road from my hotel was an Irish bar, so I popped in there and asked the barman if the pub had a darts team. They didn’t, but he gave me the name of a pub that did. In that pub the landlord gave me a pen and paper and told me all the addresses, in street order, of the pubs that had teams and dart boards and I did a pub crawl of them.

The sixth one I hit was called The Recovery Rooms and as I walked in it was like opening the Pearly Gates. What a pub that was! It had four dart boards, and was full of sexy nurses from a nearby hospital – and they all loved darts. I really was in heaven.

On the first night I played these nurses then ended up pulling the barmaid. She was called Linda, had dark hair and was gorgeous. I knew it was over with Maureen, so there was no guilt when I took her back to my hotel room and gave her one.

When I got back home there was no going back. My
accountant
sorted out who should have what and I gave Maureen the Crafty Cockney. That was the only thing I regret doing in hindsight. We should have kept it as a going concern because it was a licence to print money, but it’s difficult to think straight when you split. People compare it to bereavement. I also had to say goodbye to her three sons, Mark, Craig and Wayne, from her previous marriage. That was hard because I’d helped to bring them up. I still see Mark and Wayne occasionally, but Craig never spoke to me again after the break-up. It was hard for them too, but it’s not easy staying together.

Maureen and I had travelled the world together. We saw the sights and had a great time. Then she fell out of love with darts. She didn’t want to play and she didn’t want to see me play. If you’re not enjoying something then why carry on? She wanted a life away from all the travelling and upheaval. It’s also not easy living with me because I’m here, there and everywhere. I’m a bit like a whirling dervish at times. It was more tiring for her because she was doing all the driving. I still don’t drive and have never taken my test. Also, because we worked together we didn’t have much time to ourselves and I think you need that. You don’t want to be constantly under each other’s feet in any relationship.

There was also the fact that she was teetotal. This was a problem for her because I liked beer and sometimes
needed
a drink to wind down. If I was playing in an exhibition I’d be drinking all night, but as soon as it had finished and I’d signed all the autographs I fancied another pint. She’d say, ‘You’ve been drinking all night.’

‘Yes I know, but this is a proper pint now. This is where it’s all finished. This is a winding down pint,’ I’d say, but I don’t think she understood that, being a non-drinker.

Then it would get a little heated and she’d say, ‘Look, you’ve been drinking all night, for Christ’s sake, what do you need more for?’

I could understand her point of view, but she could never understand where I was coming from because those couple of beers at the end were nice ones. My darts were in my pocket, there was no pressure, I was just chatting to people who I hadn’t been able to talk to because I’d been on stage all night.