Running: The Autobiography

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  I ended up getting on well with Jerry, the counsellor. He was into this Indian guru called Osho and always went on about the path to inner peace, and I said: ‘You know what? I get that every time I go to play snooker. I know exactly what you’re talking about. I get lost in what I’m doing, and it’s a fantastic feeling.’ Jerry was trying to attain this spiritual enlightenment through the Osho buzz, and I explained to him that snooker wasn’t just a game or a job to me, it was more than that. I told him that was all I’d done since the age of seven, that I was a perfectionist and I wanted to be the best player I could possibly be. And we had a fair bit of common ground.

  I think Jerry was fascinated by how passionate I was about my sport. He was almost a guru in his own right. I enjoyed my sessions with him. He wasn’t there just for the money – sometimes he didn’t even charge me. I went to see him five or six times, and I enjoyed my one-to-ones with him because I knew he wasn’t spinning me bullshit.

  I’ve tried a number of religions and gurus in my time, including Buddhism, but ultimately they didn’t do as much for my peace of mind as snooker. There were moments when these faiths or spiritual paths held me together, but it was always only ever briefly. I discovered ways of switching from a bad place to a good place, and gaining peace, but they were only temporary solutions. Every time I tried something new, my gut instinct told me I was running out of ideas; that I was desperate.

  After the kids were born I was thinking of giving up the game so that I could be a better family man. In the end, though, I decided I was too young to, and that it would destroy me; that however much pain it caused me, not playing it would cause me more. I accepted that I wasn’t easy to live with. Sometimes I go into myself and shut down. I come home and don’t talk, and I would imagine that must be hard for most women. Often I feel my mind is not here, present; it’s on other things – ridiculous stuff like why can’t I pot a ball, why am I struggling with this shot – and I shut out everything else. Everything else becomes unimportant, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I don’t think I’m a nasty person. I get angry with myself, I get frustrated with myself and with the game. Even now, as I’m working on the book, part of me is replaying shots, asking why my arm isn’t connected to my body, and fidgeting about. I wish I could forget about it, just get on with what I’m doing, but I can’t. That’s me. And I reckon that’s probably the most difficult thing for people around me to handle – my inability to switch off.

  But in other ways you could do worse than me as a partner. I was happy to settle down and be a dad. I wasn’t out trying to get other girls – I was too interested in my snooker and my running to do that, so I was faithful. But in the end Jo and I ran out of patience and options. We were simply incompatible. It was desperately sad that we couldn’t make it work, but for me it’s much sadder when you see couples stay together when it’s obvious that they no longer have a relationship. And I believe that can be awful for the kids, too – the last thing you want as a parent is for your children to see you rowing all the time.

  In the end I moved out after we’d had a big row. I got my bags and lived out of the boot of a car for about a month – sleeping on people’s settees. I had my mate in Ongar, Chrisy Flight, and I’d go round to his house at night, and he had all these old snooker books that I hadn’t read. One night I picked up this Joe Davis book; he was never beaten at the old-style World Championship and won it a record 15 times between 1927 and 1946 and scored the first ever maximum. I’d never read anything about him – to be honest, I’d never even read a coaching book. And I thought, blimey this is good.

  It took me back to basics because I’ve often struggled with my game, and I thought I’d see what he had to say, and my game improved. Joe stressed the importance of being still on the shot, get my cue nice and parallel because I was always jacking up at the back, get my bridge hand a bit lower, get my cue going nice and straight along my chest, get my feet nice and solid, get my body bolted down, and basically I was away. The game came easy again. I ended up hitting the ball really well, I couldn’t miss – that season 2007–8 I won the UK and World Championships. It was one of my best years and it was all because I was reading the Joe Davis book. I was as fit as a fiddle, too, running an unbelievable amount – I weighed 11½ and was doing 10 kilometres in 34 minutes. I was too skinny really, but I felt great.

  I’d come about 25th in the Essex cross-country championship, and that’s when I decided I was prepared to give everything up if I could just get into the Essex running team. As I’ve said, you had to get into the top six to make the team and I thought I could do it. I looked at the fellas ahead of me and thought, they’re fit and fast, but with my obsession and dedication if I put my mind to it I could achieve it. In hindsight, there was no way I was going to do it because I would have had to give up so much family-wise for the running, and I wasn’t prepared to do that.

  Having said that, apart from the kids running was then the most important thing in my life. I was putting off snooker tournaments if there was a race I could have competed in instead. The running gave me an outlet that made me feel good. I enjoyed the social side of the running, looked forward to the cross-countries at the weekend, I loved it all.

  And perhaps, most importantly, it was helping my head. The first five or ten minutes are hard, but once you’ve got a sweat on it’s impossible not to feel better than you did beforehand. Running really is pure serotonin. I hate to think what state I’d be in if I’d not found running. I might be four or five stone overweight because I do like my food, and I am prone to laziness. Running gave me a sense of professionalism and purpose. It made me want to get out of bed in the morning; it made me want to take care of my appearance; it made me have a bit of respect for myself and that all helped my snooker.

  At the time I could easily have gone the other way. In fact, there were times when I did. I went through a period when, once a week, I did have a little release. Well, not so little, actually. I’d go out on the booze with my mates and not get in till seven or eight in the morning. It was always a Thursday; we’d play backgammon, have a few drinks, have a few joints. I’d get home for early morning, go to bed till early afternoon, then go out for a six- or seven-mile run when I woke up. I’d feel like shit when I got back and just sit on the settee, but by Friday I felt okay, so I’d do another seven- to eight-mile run, then, come Saturday afternoon, I was flying. The benders lasted about six months – drink, drugs, and backgammon. We’d start about 9 or 10 p.m. and just go on through the night. Vodka was my drink. It’s the one drink I know I don’t feel bad on. Beer gasses me up and bloats me out. Vodka is just smooth.

  I’d fall asleep on the fella’s settee, wake up then get a cab home; or sometimes I’d just run home. I was that fit. I’d have my big leather boots on, my top, big cardigan, and jeans. One day I was stuck in a jam in a cab, and I had to be home for Lily’s birthday. So I told the cabby I was going to get out and run because it was quicker, and he said, but it’s three miles, and I said, look I can do three miles in 16 minutes, and I’ll get there quicker than in the cab. So with all my clobber on I just ran home, which turned out to be a pretty good way of coming off my bender. I was so fit that three miles was nothing.

  I eventually gave up on the Thursday nights. I knew I was an addict, and I couldn’t keep on doing it. So I said to myself, get to the other end and once you’ve stopped keep away from those people and places, and get your head down. I learnt that about myself when I went in the Priory. I knew that however much I wanted to continue caning it, I couldn’t. It was the one road I couldn’t go down. It was difficult because I needed escapism at the time, I needed some fun in my life. But after six months I just said that’s it; end of.

  Even though I had been smashing it once a week I had my best year on the snooker table, so how does that add up? Joe Davis’s advice was stronger than the drink, the drugs and the backgammon. It got me through. Running and Joe Davis will conquer any drug! (Well, any drug in moderation.) Everybody wa
s saying to me, when you stop drinking and taking drugs your life gets better and it does in some ways, but that brilliant year professionally was when I was having my weekly benders and my private life was in bits.

  3

  I FOUGHT THE LAW

  ‘Wednesday: Went steady on the first lap, same on second, then picked it up on the last. Felt tired in the legs, hamstrings felt tired, lactic acid in the quads.’

  In some ways it was a relief when Jo and I finally split up, but that’s when the shit really hit the fan in terms of the kids. We couldn’t agree on me seeing them so I got a solicitor. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I couldn’t go without seeing them.

  I was feeling sorry for myself, but this wasn’t straight depression. My life had been turned upside down; I’d not seen the kids much in 10 to 12 weeks. Altogether I’d seen them for probably 20 hours in three months and it was killing me. Initially I was granted five hours on a Saturday and two hours on a Wednesday. The courts said you can never mix access and money, but in a way that’s just what they seemed to be doing. It felt like a simple equation to me – you pay more maintenance, you see more of your kids. This went on for 18 months, then two years, and all this time the meter was running, so every couple of months I’d get a monster bill through the post. I couldn’t understand why we ended up going down this route. I always wanted to give Jo money for herself and the kids, and I wanted to see Lily and little Ronnie – and it shouldn’t have taken lawyers to sort that.

  I started representing myself, which was disastrous. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing in there. I was shocking in court – the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. Laughable. They ran rings round me and I was paying for the privilege. After a while, the judge said: ‘I recommend you get a barrister, Mr O’Sullivan, because this is going to cost you.’ He had a point. I wasn’t doing myself any favours. So I got myself another solicitor, and said, do what you have to do. I said I wanted it resolved quickly if possible. But of course these things are never quick.

  Money and lawyers brought such ugliness into my life. In the end I thought there was one simple, if drastic, solution. Stop playing snooker. If I stopped playing then I wouldn’t have any problem being with the kids on my Saturdays and Wednesdays, I’d get to see them grow up and I’d be more relaxed. Simple.

  But, of course, there was a problem. It would also mean that there was no money coming in. When we finally settled on maintenance, the figure was based on 2008, an incredibly successful year. If I wasn’t winning major tournaments it would be impossible for me to keep up such a high level of maintenance, and if I wasn’t playing at all there would be nothing coming in. This didn’t just mean no money for me, it also meant I wouldn’t have money to pay for the kids’ maintenance or their school fees because they were both at private school. It also meant I’d struggle to pay the lawyers’ bill which had now topped £200,000.

  I did feel angry. I’d spent all these years working hard earning money for the family and it was now being pissed away on lawyers’ fees. Anybody who’s been through this – and there are plenty of us out there – will know how it feels. And it didn’t make any sense to me. I hated the fact that because of the legal system my relationship with my kids had been turned into a cash-for-access deal. Perhaps the thing that upset me most was when I was playing, to earn for the family, it would inevitably mean sometimes not being available on Saturdays and that might prejudice my chances of seeing the kids more frequently. I even felt angry about the fact that I was angry. Because this ain’t me – I’m not an angry man by nature. I might be screwy in some ways, but I like to think the best of people.

  I wasn’t simply a virgin in the family courts, I was a headless chicken virgin. I was getting advice from family and friends and didn’t know who I could trust. I didn’t have a clue if people were telling me sensible stuff or whether I was being taken for a mug. When you receive huge invoices from solicitors, you question why you’re now spending all your money on this. But once you’re on that wheel, you can’t get off. My mind runs a hundred miles an hour at the best of times – I think the same way I pot balls: bang, bang, bang. And I had all these thoughts going through my head at the same time, and it was driving me crackers.

  All the legal stuff began to get to me after I moved out and I was playing in the Regal Welsh. I thought, I don’t even want to be here. I got to the semis and thought, you know what, I’ve had enough, I just want to go home. I felt lost, lonely in myself, and I just gave up in matches. I never threw matches, and would never dream of throwing matches, but I did give up. There’s a big difference – one is planned, illegal and something I would never contemplate. The other is unplanned, and unconscious. It’s often only afterwards that you look back and think, blimey, what was I doing there?

  I did it in the Regal Welsh in 2010 and in the China Open, which was straight after, then I did it against Mark Selby in the World Championship quarter-finals. I felt ready to win the Worlds that year, I was playing well enough, but then I just reached a stage where I couldn’t bear to be there any more. It was mad, really – there’s nothing that means more to me than winning the Worlds, and there I was desperate to get the hell out. I just gave up mentally and started going for shots I shouldn’t have gone for.

  When we were due to go to China I said to my manager, Django: ‘I don’t feel up for it, mate. I really don’t feel I can get on that plane and travel across the world. I ain’t got it in me.’

  He said: ‘Well, there’s twenty-five grand for you, there’s a sponsor there, you’ve just got to turn up, shake a few hands, meet a few people.’

  So we got out to China and the people were amazing, and you’ve never seen anything like the hotel. It was the best hotel I’ve been in my life. They gave us the top-floor suite, and I just sat there every night crying my eyes out. I felt so lost, so fucking sad, and that’s when it hit me. I thought, I should be buzzing, I’ve got a little girl and little boy, I’m staying in a fantastic hotel, top of my game, and yet I’m out here, feeling like death.

  I was playing this fella, just after I’d been crying my eyes out in this hotel. And I said to Django, I’ve got to get out of here. I was going to pull out of the event, and he said, if you pull out there will be murder. They’ll fine you heavily. So I said, alright. But I knew I was in no fit state for anything, and just wanted to get back home. I thought, maybe when I get out there it will be better, and playing will do the trick. But when I did get out there I just felt worse.

  The geeza could barely pot a ball, but somehow it got to 3-3, then he went 4-3. I knew I couldn’t play another day. I was desperate, frightened about what I might do to myself. In the next frame I was clearing up, and I had the black on the spot and I missed. It was a shocking shot. Not only did I miss, but I left the ball over the pocket. Lily could have potted it. In the end the geeza beat me 5-3 and he was in shock, but I just thought, I’m out of here, I’m done. I got in the car, boom, went back to the hotel, got my flight back the next day.

  People had always said about me that there were days when I looked as if I wasn’t up for it; that I just couldn’t be bothered. And there was some element of truth in it, but nothing like this.

  I never once went out saying, today I’m going to get beat, but I began to realise something was up when I read in the papers that I hadn’t won a first-round match for six months. I lost the first round in six consecutive major events. First round! Six tournaments on the bounce, and I wasn’t conscious of it until six months later when people were talking about it and saying it was unheard of. It was only when I read it that I thought, bloody hell, what’s happened to me?

  I was so down – upset with myself and the family situation and my terrible form – that I decided to change my life completely, so I bought a boat and went to live on it. I was at Sheffield, 2010, and things were bad between me and Jo, and I’d just been in China crying my eyes out. There’s a canal in Sheffield and I went on someone’s barge, and I thought, this is nice,
this is what I need. So I bought myself a boat, spent about 80 grand on it, and moved into it. It only lasted three months. Typical, really. I sold it for about £60,000 so I lost a bit on that. Again, typical.

  I lived on a canal in Hertfordshire, and for a while it was great. Peaceful, looking at the water, feeding the ducks in the morning. A little family of ducks would come to my window at 6 a.m. every day for feeding. I thought, wow, I’ve lost one family but gained another! These ducks were like my children. I named them Lily and Ronnie.

  There were around 15 residents living in my spot. The only problem was they all had jobs, so they were out working and I was left on the canal all day. I’d wait for them to come home at 6 p.m. and then I’d have company. It was miles away in Hertfordshire and I didn’t really know anybody there. I suppose, as so often, I’d not really thought it through. In the days I’d go and run down the canal – I knew if I didn’t run I’d fall apart, and that was one of the reasons I’d moved on to the canal in the first place. There was a gym round the corner so I’d do my run then go to the gym and another half-hour there. I was in good shape, but I needed to be, and I still lost my way a bit.

  A good measure of how much I’ve been running away from stuff is the number of houses I’ve lived in over the past seven years – eight, and a boat! I should do Homes Under the Hammer! If that’s not a reflection on how unstable my life has been, I don’t know what is.

  Meanwhile, I was in the courts so often that one time the judge told me I might as well rent a room round there. (That would have taken it to nine houses!) We’d gone through the early stages where you tend to spend about an hour in court each time, but when it gets to final hearings for the maintenance and access it takes for ever. What I went through was horrible, but I’ve heard it’s pretty standard when a separation is acrimonious.