The game of choice in Hell
It would be more in our line to wonder what the Olympics must produce to match the extraordinary standards set by these giants of men.
Phil Taylor and company – certainly Taylor himself – need not, must not, swap polyester for lycra to validate their talents. These men might already be the greatest of them all.
Not for these warriors the easy crutch of physical fitness. Theirs is no straightforward business of faster, stronger, higher. This is a game more demanding than any natural, athletic expression of human gifts.
Operating table precision is part and parcel certainly. But more crucial is the ability to find peace hundreds of times in a single night. To hold every dart as though everything depends on it. And let it go as if nothing does.
How much easier to run a mile as fast as you are able, than to trust everything, over and over, to a technique as fragile as confidence?
The brutal simplicity of this great sport eliminates hiding places. There can be no three wood off the tee, no respite in a bout of safety until you begin to recognise your arm again. There is only the next dart. And then the next one. The game’s beauty is its reward for mundane consistency. For standards.
This is no game of inches. Fighting and tearing for that inch, as Al Pacino urged, will do no good. In the game of millimetres, the fighting and tearing is done in your head. And you are running only to stand still.
Most impressively; all of this peace is found in a madhouse.
“Taylor looking to the heavens, playing darts from the Gods,” roared one of the men who isn’t Sid Waddell last Tuesday night, as The Power began to wear down Michael van Gerwen en route to his 16th world title.
But it’s hard to imagine any of the Gods venturing inside the Ally Pally without summoning somebody up a mountain for another tablet of commandments. In fact, a man was thrown out of the Players’ Championship recently after he caused a stir by simply looking like Jesus.
Rather darts, you suspect, is the game of choice in Hell. A place where hundreds of stag and hen parties jostle loudly for attention in the same room. Where the floor is always sticky. Where there is no ‘quiet please’; no shushing; no stepping back from the oche because a grasshopper has twitched on an adjacent fairway.
Some day, when Armageddon has come, and civil disorder surrounds us, we will turn to these great men and ask them to lead us. And they will instantly block out the madness and know – as quickly as they decide between 11-double top or 15-double 16 – what to do.
Judging by the size of them, if the odd car needs to be pulled out of a ditch, they’ll be up for that too. And all we’ll do for them in return is chant ‘da da da da da da, da da da da da, da da da da da da, oi, oi oi.’
Incredibly, as wrecked as these lads’ heads must be, they are still able to find resources from somewhere for the mind games. Taylor certainly is.
The anatomy of this win was fascinating. When van Gerwen missed a double for 5-2 and the turnaround began, Taylor did everything to remind the Dutchman he was an interloper on someone else’s patch. A playful punch to the midriff of referee Bruce Spendley greeted four-all. As Taylor took over, the bonhomie spread wider. The message unmistakable; The Power knew the way home from here.
The pretender who flung 17 perfect darts in a row while winning his semi probably thought he was ready. But an evening spent pegging lumps of tungsten and plastic at a board will always tell a man something new about himself.
Taylor once spoke about the ability to step outside yourself to deal with the pressure. “When I see myself on TV, it’s like watching a film with Bruce Willis in it. You think it’s somebody else. It’s weird.”
When a man like Taylor can look at himself on television and see Bruce Willis, you know you are dealing with a very special breed.
The Olympics might not be ready for him.
