Running: The Autobiography

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  What I love about Kennenisa is the ease with which he raced. If they wanted to go fast, he’d go fast, if they wanted fast laps then slow laps, he was happy with that. It didn’t matter how the others wanted to run the race, he was always aware of what was going on, and knew where the threat was and knew when it was his time to go; and at his peak when he did go nobody was going with him. He didn’t even bother looking back. He knew nobody was going to get past him. That’s what separated him from the other runners. I watched him once in the world cross-country championships and his shoe came undone. He was in the lead, and had to stop and put his shoe on; it took him about 20 to 30 seconds, the others overtook him, then he just made his way back through the pack with such calm determination and won the race. I thought, he’s given everybody a 30-second start and still won the race so how much more has he got left in the tank? That was when I thought, this fella’s special. You just knew he’d be able to pull them back and maintain his pace to outsprint them at the end. And to think Mo Farah beat him at the 2012 London Olympics . . .

  Mo Farah’s feat in taking double gold at 5,000 and 10,000 metres off him in London is impossible to overstate. What an achievement. He was only the fifth man ever to pull off the double. To be honest, I didn’t think he had a chance beforehand, but the work he put in, training at altitude in Kenya, leaving his family back home, giving everything, really paid off. He transformed himself as a runner through sheer discipline and hard work to become the first British man ever to win double Olympic gold in these events.

  Mo tells amazing stories about how he walked away from his honeymoon when an ash cloud interrupted their flight back from Zanzibar and he told his wife that she and their daughter would have to make their own way home while he went back and trained in Kenya. But that’s what it takes to be a great world champion. He’s incredibly cool under pressure – and not just on the track. He became the first contestant, celebrity or member of the public to win the jackpot and beat the Cube in the TV game show The Cube, and won £250,000 for charity. The Cube is all about pressure – contestants have to stand in a 4 × 4 × 4-metre Perspex cube and complete challenges. It’s claustrophobic just looking at it, never mind being inside it.

  In 2009 I met Tirunesh Dibaba and was star-struck. She’s one of the greatest distance women runners ever, and also comes from Bekoji in Ethiopia. In 2008, at the Beijing Olympics, she won double gold at 5,000 and 10,000 metres, and in London 2012 she held on to her 10,000-metres title – that made her the first woman to win back-to-back Olympic gold at 10,000 metres – and this was after she had been out for 16 months with injury in 2010–11.

  I met her in a hotel in Birmingham where she had had to pull out of the Aviva Grand Prix because of injury. We had a lovely little chat and I showed her my weekly running schedule to see what she thought. She said she couldn’t believe the miles I was putting in. I had so many questions for her – what pace she trains at, how many track sessions she does, how many laps, how she psyches out her rivals. I wrote down all my questions before meeting her because I was worried I’d be so nervous in front of her that I’d forget everything I wanted to ask.

  She’s a lovely girl and suggested I go and train with her in Ethiopia. I’d love to give it a go.

  Golf hero:

  Tiger Woods

  Tiger Woods is relentless. He’s such a competitor. People say he was the first billionaire sportsman. He became a business, a brand, yet he retained that focus to be the best he can be. He’s not won a Masters for five years, but for me he’s still up there. The exposés about his private life coincided with his loss of form. Before that he’d won the US Open on one leg when he was injured. That’s how good he was. He had that air of invincibility. Then there was the time away from sport; he had the horrors in his personal life and other players caught up with him. You read the comments about him and realise there are a lot of Tiger haters out there, but that always surprises me. Even when he smashes his club and spits on the floor I still love him; that’s part of his desire to win. He’s just psyching himself up, and when you’re out there you just become a different animal. I don’t think people realise that you’re not always conscious of what you’re doing out there. Tiger the golfer is different from Tiger the person. It’s the same with all the world’s great sportsmen. They give off that air that they’re the boss, and Tiger’s no different.

  Darts hero:

  Phil Taylor

  Phil Taylor is the greatest sportsman in any sport. Sixteen world titles: who gets near that? He did me the honour of coming to watch the final at Sheffield in 2013. The geeza’s awesome. He never looks as if he’s going to lose. Does he ever not hit a treble? He’s unbelievable. Snooker and darts have one thing in common – sums. But that’s the only thing. I would say snooker is closer to golf. Both are still-ball sports. If the ball goes off line, you’ve got nobody to blame but yourself, whereas with all other ball sports it’s more reactive – you have to react to what the opponent or team-mate is doing to the ball and you’re on the move with the ball. With golf and snooker, everything points back to you.

  Coaching hero

  Ray Reardon was a great coach for me. He was a funny mix – so relaxed in some ways, so demanding in others. He was, like: ‘Go into the club, have a little practice, get out your cue and if you don’t feel like it put it away, have a cup of tea, chill out, relax, come back to the table when you’re feeling better, yessssss.’ Ray is very funny. ‘Go and play some golf, you’ve got all the time in the world, come back later.’

  That was a pep talk from Ray. Fantastic. The funniest man I’ve ever met. Ray is my hero, the king, I love him. Perhaps he should be a snooker hero – after all, he won the World Championship six times – but he’s more of a coaching hero and all-round-person hero to me. He is a father figure, granddad figure to me. I felt that man loved me, and that was so important to me.

  I worked with him in 2004, the second time I won the World Championship. Ray taught me things that only a mathematics genius could know. I adopted his philosophy, and for a time I played every shot Ray Reardon would have played. The games became long, drawn-out matches. I became like Mark Selby, the Torturer. Pre-Ray, whenever I played a match I’d come off at the interval (after four frames) and look at my screen at the other matches and see 1-1, 1-0, and think, Christ, they’re going to be there all night. But when I started working with Ray I’d come in at the interval, and I’d look at my screen and they’d already be back out there playing, 4-2, 4-3. And I’d think, what’s going on here? I was torturing my opponents. I became a nightmare to play against.

  It was a new way of playing, and I understood why that game was getting me results and why I was now being classed as the complete player, but it felt weird. I wasn’t blowing players away, I was outtacticing them, outthinking them. Ray would think so many shots ahead it was incredible. He once told me that if you get a respotted black, it would go like this: he plays this shot, you play that, he plays this, you play this, he plays that, and on it went. Anyway, one day I thought I’d try this against John Parrott and it was an eight-or nine-shot sequence and Ray was absolutely right. That’s how clever that geeza is. He played snooker like chess. Ray knew what shot he’d be playing in four shots time, whereas I’d just go bang red, split ’em open, make a mistake, game over. Ray taught me how to play snooker like chess.

  Did I like playing like that? Well, I won the world title and learnt a huge amount along the way. But after a year and a half with Ray I felt I needed to get aggressive again and do it my way. I knew I had his game to fall back on, and it gave me confidence. I could go back to playing aggressively, and then I had the more defensive game to resort to when things weren’t going well.

  In the end, though, Ray got a bit too much for me. I couldn’t cope with the play-this-shot, play-that-shot, and if I didn’t play a shot the way he wanted he’d get the hump. It put a lot of pressure on me and I felt I couldn’t please him. Every time I made a mistake he’d be going: ‘Ohhhhh!’
That’s how I felt anyway. He was a harsh taskmaster. I’d be telling him my hips aren’t right, my stance isn’t right, my head’s not right and he’d just say: ‘Oh no, don’t worry about that, put the ball here, put the ball there, don’t worry about that.’ And I’d say: ‘Well, I am worried about my stance and my head because if I can get those right potting the balls is easy, but you’re asking me to do something I can’t do at the moment because my cue action is so shit.’

  He couldn’t get his head round that. He just said I was unplayable. ‘You’re unbeatable, Ron. You pot better than anybody and you’ve got the defensive game.’ It might have been true theoretically, but if your head’s not screwed on right it doesn’t count for anything. He used to say: ‘Once I make you impregnable you’ll be unplayable.’ He was right to an extent, but I suppose the bottom line is I like to play it my way.

  A friend who was sitting next to Ray in a match said to me afterwards: ‘If he could have got out there and played the shot for you he would have.’ And that put pressure on me. In the end I was playing terribly in the UK Championships against Mark King, and I started going for everything, thinking this will give Ray the hump. I knew he’d go mad. I came in at the interval and I was going to say: ‘Ray, drop me out, I ain’t having it’, and as I came in I said to my mate: ‘Where’s Ray?’

  ‘He’s gone home,’ he said. ‘He got up and walked out of the crowd and went home.’

  That was the last time we worked together, and we haven’t talked about it since.

  I was shocked when I discovered Ray had gone. But he knew what had happened. He knew he’d done my head in, and just went. But we still love each other. I don’t speak to him much, but I know I’m welcome to go down to his house in Torquay any time and he’ll put me up. The time I spent with him was one of the best 18 months I’ve had with anyone.

  His one-liners, his little laughs, his manner, were so funny. He’d slaughter people in the nicest way. You’d listen to him and think, he’s ruined that person but he’s done it with a smile on his face, and you’d think, I wish I had that skill! And it is a skill, make no mistake. Just before a match, when people came up to us, he’d say: ‘Right, shop’s open. No more talking! See you later! Bye bye!’ He’d say it to everyone. He took no prisoners, and I was the opposite. I’d think, how can you say that to people, but he’d be like: ‘No. Shop’s open, time for business, shop closes later, then it’s time for fun.’ Basically, fuck off, get out of the way, we’re here to do business, ta-ta, but always with a smile on his face. And he was right to say that.

  I saw Ray after I won the World Championship in 2012. He was sitting just behind me in the crowd, and I was winning 17-11, one frame short of victory, when I caught him. He just gave me a little look, and I thought, blimey, he’s watching me. Pressure! But he was so happy when I won.

  Ray couldn’t stand Scouse John, who’s one of my best mates. I think he misread John. Every time Scouse John has been at Sheffield I’ve won because he makes me laugh. Ray didn’t realise that, and he got the hump with him. John used to call him Raj, not Ray. It drove him mad.

  One day we were in Brighton, having breakfast. Ray’s a class dude: smoked salmon, poached eggs, he’s chatting to the girls who love him, he’s immaculate. Every day we’re sitting there, overlooking the sea for breakfast, and it’s all well classy. Then one day we get there and there’s a camper van in front of us – Scouse John’s camper van. And Ray’s going: ‘What’s this? What’s this? Where’s the view gone?’ I can’t say it’s Scouse John’s van because he’d just go: ‘Move it. What’s he doing here?’ So he goes to the woman in charge and says: ‘Can you find out whose van this is, and get rid of it?’ She comes back and says: ‘It’s Mr O’Sullivan’s.’ Typical Scouse John that is.

  Even though he ended up walking out on me, I like to remember the good times with Ray. He’s a gentleman. Snooker brainwise, he’s the best coach I’ve worked with. There have been a few other decent ones. Frank Adamson, an old boy from Bristol, was good. He’s around 80 and has supported me massively over the years. Frank looks at light and lines, and I couldn’t be more different. So in the end, to spin his head out I said, here, look at this, Frank, stood on one leg, played it left-handed and started rifling balls in. I have to prove to people sometimes that what they’re saying is not the only way.

  In a way the best coach I’ve ever had has been myself. I’ve always learnt from people when I’ve watched them. I can watch a player and know why the ball’s doing this or that, and I’ll take that in and say, okay, I’ll use that. I did it with Steve Davis and now I do it with all the youngsters on the circuit today.

  Rock friend hero:

  Antony Genn

  Antony used to be with Pulp as a kid then went on to form The Hours. He has been like a brother, top mate, heart of gold, one of the funniest geezas you’ll meet in your life, and he can eat chocolate for Britain. I love him to bits. He’s a bit of a sensitive soul, like me – we take things to heart. He’s a northerner. I love northerners.

  It was 2008 when I first met him. I won the World Championship, but was in a terrible state personally – splitting up with Jo and caning it. I was incredibly fit – but I was also abusing my body like there was no tomorrow. I met Antony at Sheffield, but we didn’t really get chance to chat. He was with Damien Hirst, and they both seemed like nice fellas – not that I knew anything about them. We swapped numbers, and a couple of weeks later met for a bit to eat at the Ivy. We had some dinner, and I was looking at these two blokes sipping their Perrier water and Antony was telling me all the addiction horrors he had been through – that I was going through. Maybe he was on a mission, and could tell I was in pieces. To be honest, he looked so fit and together I didn’t really believe him.

  A few weeks later I was in a terrible state at my mum’s house – couldn’t move, fever, sick, pissing blood. The doctors initially thought it might be my kidneys, and put me in a hospital ward full of old men wearing colostomy bags. They did tests, and my kidneys were fine. None of the doctors could work out what was wrong with me, but I knew – it was payback time for not looking after myself.

  When I started to feel better, the first thing I did was call up Antony and ask him how he got clean. We started going back to NA meetings, but I couldn’t really cope with them. So Antony said, no worries, why not just hang out with me. And that’s how we got close. We’d meet for lunch or dinner, just chat, there was no temptation because he didn’t drink or take drugs. He and Damien showed me a different way of living, and since then I have been clean. I’ll stay clean for them because I don’t want to lose my friends, and I don’t want to be around them if I’m wrecked, so they have become my motivation. Whatever state I’m in I can pour my heart out to Antony. If I’m in a state I know I can ring him and he’ll always some say come round, there’s a bed for you at mine.

  Artist hero:

  Damien Hirst

  Only one candidate here, and that’s my mate Damien Hirst. On the outside people see this mega-rich artist with an attitude to match. But his outward persona is so different from who he is. He is perhaps the most generous and kind-hearted person I’ve ever met. He’s been my wingman during three championships, of which I won two. He’s made me laugh when the shit has truly hit the fan.

  He’s one of the few people I want around when I’m playing. He’s invested so much time and energy in helping me through those difficult times and I don’t want to let him down when I’m playing.

  Damien comes to lots of tournaments with me – Sheffield, Wales, Gloucester, Germany, Premier League. I’ve hardly ever lost when he’s been there. He plays a lot; he’s had a break of 40-odd, and he loves snooker. He can come in at the interval and I know the player is trying to fuck me about, and he’ll say: ‘What’s his game? Why’s he doing that? Don’t let him freak you out. But if you do get beat, fuck it, we’ll go to London and have a good time. Who gives a shit?’

  Damien came to watch me in the 2008 World final. I didn’
t have a clue who he was at the time. He came down with Antony Genn. Gradually I got to know Damien, and we just got on great.

  He came to about five or six tournaments a couple of seasons ago. He stayed for all 17 days at Sheffield – he went back home for his kid’s birthday, then came straight back. He said, I’ve got to go and do the birthday with the boy, but I’ll be back – bang! Sylvia, his PA, is a big snooker fan so it was just like the three of us. And when I took my year out of snooker, I said to Sylvia, it feels like I’m never going to see you again, because snooker was our way of meeting up. She said: ‘No, no, no, it won’t be like that’ but I was right – I didn’t see Damien for about nine months. The snooker was a great excuse for Damien to say, I’m not working for a week.

  Damien did me a massive favour with Rolling Stones guitarist Ronnie Wood. Ronnie and I go back a long way now – years ago, when he was still with his wife Jo, me and Jimmy White used to go round to theirs and play snooker epics while getting slaughtered with him and Keith Richards. One night we were off our heads and me and Jimmy just hit century after century. It was probably the best we’ve ever played, and nobody was there to see it except a couple of blitzed Rolling Stones. Keith said I was the Mozart of snooker – I may not be up on classical music, but even I know that’s a compliment.

  Anyway, every so often one of Ronnie’s family would ring me and say: ‘Can you help get Ronnie straight? He’s got to go on tour – he’s in a state and Mick wants him straight.’ I think they called on me because they knew all about my past, and that I was an addict who really was trying to keep straight despite my relapses. Ronnie could never get it, and so his family had come to see me as the best person to come down and take him to the Priory. I think for Ronnie it became a bit like, oh, here we go again, ring me up, go down the Priory, show willing, but he knew he wasn’t going to get clean, he was just doing it to keep the family off his back. I’d taken him to the Priory a couple of times after being summoned to the house.