Running: The Autobiography

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  With me, they are suffering it while I am doing okay, but I know the minute I’m not doing well, or the minute they think snooker fans have given up on me, they’ll get rid of me. It’s just a matter of time. But I’ve always thought I’m going to walk before they push me. I’ve always planned to leave on my terms rather than be pushed. I don’t want to do an Alex Higgins and be forced out. That’s why last year, world champion, best player on the planet, I went, you know what? Ta-ta. It was on my terms. And in the end they moved every goalpost to have me back. And that was me winning the battle.

  In a way they must be looking forward to me retiring. Sure, they’d miss the stories and the will-he, won’t-hes, but at least they’d feel they had more control over their sport and be able to keep everyone in line easier. They would be like, Ronnie’s history, let’s move on.

  People have talked up Judd Trump as the new me. But, again, I think there’s a difference. There’s a lot going on with me, for good and bad. Underneath it all, though, there is a burning desire to win and an intelligence in my game. I don’t just go out and hit balls and hope for the best, smash them round the table. I’ve walked out of a match, come back next tournament and won it. I’ve always managed to come back, and I think that makes people respect me – that I’ve come back when I’m down. People like that. It’s like Rocky or Muhammad Ali – get knocked down, get back up, win again. Ali was banned from boxing for being a conscientious objector and refusing to go into the army. In 1966, he famously said: ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong.’ He came back three years later and won the world title.

  With all my demons, and my mum away, and dad away, and the drink and drugs, the kids, the maintenance, the keeping fit, the obsessions, the depressions, in between all that I’ve managed to win four world titles, four UKs and four Masters. I don’t know how. I’ve won 24 ranking events, 10 Premier Leagues, more than 50 tournaments altogether. It’s not bad going for such a fuck-up!

  The Hurricane won two world titles, which is a fantastic achievement. He had the bottle to produce his best when it mattered. But he wasn’t relentless like I’ve been. He’d be out on the piss, I’d be out running eight miles (and sometimes doing both). Sometimes I would win in spite of myself. I think people have always expected me to crumble; blow up. Look at me, and you can understand why. But I’ve been going as a professional, winning events, for more than 20 years, and still feel I’ve got a few more victories left in me. But those who did think that, or who say that I’m weak mentally, don’t really know me. I’ll eat commentators like John Parrott for breakfast. All right, I have blowouts, my moments when I crack up, but over 20 years I reckon I’ve been far stronger mentally than most of my critics.

  I’m not saying I’m mentally strong in the way, say, Peter Ebdon is, where he can grind through frame after frame at tortuous pace. I wear my heart on my sleeve, love my game, and ultimately as a player I do hold it together.

  I might be inconsistent, contrary even, but so many real people are. Who can’t relate to that?

  One day you love the game, next day you hate it. I bet loads of people feel that about their work (if they’re lucky). One day you love being around the kids, next day they’re driving you mad. That’s just life. For me, it’s how I manage my emotions that’s important in how I go forward. In the past, my emotions dominated me. I’d have to go so low that there was nowhere else to go but up. Hopefully, I won’t spiral out of control now. I can nip it in the bud when I see things going downhill – breathe, think, ask myself what I want, try to enjoy the game.

  I think most players, most people, have extreme highs and lows, but they just don’t talk about it. I’m very vocal. If I’m guilty of anything it’s being vocal about what goes on in the mind.

  Shaving my head at Sheffield

  It was 2005 and I was in the World Championships, playing pretty shit. I’d had a great season, winning four of the eight available titles. But at Sheffield I wasn’t dealing with the pressure very well. I felt ugly, low, sluggish. Nothing felt right. There was a clip on the telly of me, with the scoreline, and I looked at it and thought, ugh, look at the state of you. My hair was long at the time. I said to my friend Mickey the Mullet, get the razor out and give me a number one. The Mullet said: ‘No don’t be daft.’ But he did it anyway.

  I went to the venue next day and thought, they’re going to think I’m mental. I looked like I’d just been given a lobotomy. Ken Doherty walked in, took a second glance and thought, who’s that lunatic playing over there? It was like they’d let some serial killer into Sheffield.

  It was bad.

  That was the year I played Ebdon in the quarters and he tortured me into submission. He drove me to the torture chamber. For large parts of the match I sat in my chair slumped against the wall with my hands over my head. At other times I just chewed my fingers and grinned and grimaced at Ray Reardon. I was in bits. Ebdon made me scratch my forehead until I drew blood. He ruined me. I was relieved when he beat me. He had a 12 break in 5 minutes and 12 seconds. I was sitting there and asked this geeza in the audience the time. He said about 11 a.m. and I thought, Jesus, there’s still two or three more hours of this to go. I now know what it’s like to be waterboarded. It was like sleep deprivation. There’s not a sympathetic bone in Ebdon’s body. To him that was the art of winning, the art of sport. We call him Psycho because he looks like Anthony Per-kins. I like Ebo; he’s a nice guy, but he is a torturer of the worst kind. Everybody thought I was distraught when I lost, but I was relieved. It was over! It was holiday time.

  I’d had the haircut halfway through a previous match. Lucky I didn’t kill myself rather than just shave my head. That’s how bad I was feeling. I got off lightly. I was playing so badly – 8-2 up at one point, but proper pony, all over the gaffe. But Ebdon did me like a kipper. I didn’t blame him – he had a wife and four kids to feed, and if that was the only way he could win, so be it. But I had to go and get smashed after that.

  From Alcoholics Anonymous to Sex Anonymous

  I keep moving things from here to there to there. On my kitchen table I’ve got my pad and my phones and my bowl, and if it looks messy I try to tidy it up. When Damien’s cooking it’s like a bomb’s hit the place. So I tidy up. It doesn’t annoy me. It makes me feel better because it gives me something to tidy up after. I always have to do things. My mate said, you’re a human doer, not a human being. I suppose that’s an obsessive thing.

  I never realised I had an addictive personality till I went to the Priory. Until then I just thought I had a bit of a problem with drugs, and that I needed to stop using them, or at least learn how to control it. I certainly didn’t consider myself an addict. Then it probably took another 10 years after first going into the Priory to accept that I was an addict.

  I supposed I rationalised things to myself. I’d say, well, if I’ve worked hard, or had a good run I deserve a little night out. So I’d tell myself I wasn’t as bad as the others; I was different. I’d say, if I can have a month or six weeks clean then have a little blowout that’s better than doing it every day. I was trying to manage my binges, and I told myself if I could do that I didn’t have a problem.

  A typical day on the binge would start with a bit of drink. Always vodka and orange. I don’t actually know much about drink, don’t know my beers and spirits; all I know is vodka and orange will do me. Ronnie Wood is a pro. I realised I wasn’t a drinker when I started drinking with Ronnie. He had a drink for every different type of situation, so he’d start off on the Guinness, then he’d go on to the vodka, then he brought out this lovely drink early afternoon. I can’t remember what it was, but it was his early afternoon drink. He drank by the clock, and I thought, this geeza is an expert. Me, I’m just an amateur, I’ll drink anything without knowing much about it. But Ronnie was educating me.

  I don’t actually like alcohol, I just like the effect. It obliterates everything nicely for me. So a good day I’d be on the vodka and orange, about 10 of them, then get home
at 3 a.m. and the wine would come out. Any old drink: it didn’t really matter by then. Throw in a few spliffs. Then at 7 a.m. the sun would come up and I’d think, oh, Jesus, I’ve done it again. The birds would start tweeting and I’d think I’m bang in trouble. Then it gets to 11 a.m.–12 noon and I’m sunbathing on the floor, just thinking, what have I done? Then it takes three or four days before I feel normal again.

  When I was on a bender, I’d talk shit all night, drive everyone mad, bore them to death.

  When I went into the Priory I thought, how am I going to survive without anything to numb me? And it was hard for a while. I didn’t think it was possible to give up drink and drugs just like that. If I was clean, I’d lock myself in the house and not come out. I’d do the same at snooker tournaments – I wasn’t good at mixing with people and felt paranoid.

  Spliff gave me the confidence to have a laugh and a joke. I got so used to puff I could function on it. I could play golf, snooker, anything: it just levelled me out. By the end of it I was so immune to it that it never got me stoned, it just levelled me out.

  I was frequently tested, but if I was fucked or over the limit I’d just pull out of the tournament. But after I’d been done once I thought, they’re not going to forgive me a second time, so I knew I was better off missing a tournament rather than risk getting banned. I was always running the risk of a ban, but when you feel miserable and in bits and you know a little spliff is going to lift you out of that depression, you think you’ve got to have it. When I stopped taking drugs I got really depressed. I was struggling with life. It’s a bit chicken and egg. I was depressed because I’d stopped drinking and taking drugs, but I only drank and took drugs in the first place because I was depressed. Ultimately I’d rather be clean and depressed than on drugs and depressed. At least there’s a way out, and you’re reliant on your natural feelings – if you’re down you really are down; if you’re up, you are genuinely up.

  After the Priory I spent a long time going to AA meetings. They provided a lot of relief at the time. They helped the depression. I’d go there, share, say I was depressed ’cos I missed the drink and drugs, and everybody would be sympathetic, tell me to keep coming back and pray to God! So it took me out of it for a bit. I would go back to AA if I had to. AA is Alcoholics Anonymous, but I did all the As. I did NA (Narcotics Anonymous), FA (Food Anonymous), all of them. I thought, if I’ve got addictions, food is one of them so let’s see what they have to say about food because I love my grub. They’d say, don’t eat this bread, don’t eat those potatoes, but I was reasonably fit at the time and thought I didn’t really belong there; I thought, I’ve got that one under manners.

  At one point I tried SA – Sex Anonymous – for sex addicts. I’d been single for two years and thought I’d see some sick, dirty, rotten sex addict who wanted to give me a really good time, but they were all off their heads in there. I thought I’d see what’s around; there might be a few nice birds there. Some of them wouldn’t even hold hands because their addiction was so bad – or they thought it was. I thought, no, I can’t handle this.

  Sex Anonymous sent me back to drugs. It was so mad in there I thought, fuck, I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to end up like that mob. It’s funny: you see the same things in there as you do in NA. It’s like they’ve had problems with drugs, they get well and outgrow NA, and they start looking for other addictions they can ‘cure’. So some of the people I saw in NA, who were really sound people, I found them in Sex Anonymous, and I began to think this recovery lark is just continuous; it goes on for ever. And I don’t want that. I want to be able to live my life and be in control of it. I’ll take my chances.

  You don’t have to talk at Sex Anonymous, which was good because I thought, I’ve not really got anything to say to them anyway. I never actually felt I was a sex addict. The opposite. I’m not a sex addict at all. If I’m with a girl and I’m attracted to her, great. But I’m not craving it. I can go without. So I knew at heart I wasn’t a sex addict, but I just wanted to try them all out.

  Running is the best addiction, though. It’s not that dissimilar to AA and NA and all the As. RA – Runners Anonymous! We meet once a week, a group of friends, talk to each other, help each other stay fit, push each other on, there’s always someone ahead of you and always someone behind, so there’s always someone to help and always someone to get inspired by. Runners are addicted, and some of them start to look unhealthy with it. But I’d much rather look like that than Steve Lee, just feeding off pork pies, eating my way out of it. I’ve been there, and I know what that’s like and it ain’t nice. I just wanted to run. Run, run, run; that was my cure for everything. Perhaps it’s better to confront things, but I’ve never been good at that.

  When I’m running I’m just thinking of the strides; of keeping a nice rhythm and tempo, just staying within myself. When I do a proper workout, 12 x 200 metres or whatever, I’m thinking, why am I doing this, what’s the point? I just want to stop. You can’t make any sense of it at the time, but when it’s done you’re on holiday, and you’re glad you’ve done it. It’s never enjoyable, but the fitter you get the more pain your body can tolerate.

  As well as running I found walking therapeutic. I learnt that when I lost my licence a couple of years ago when I got done for speeding. I really began to enjoy a good walk down the Manor Road to the Tube station.

  The reluctant 147

  In 2010, Barry Hearn decided there wasn’t going to be a prize for a 147. It used to be £25,000 at the World Open, and then they just decided to get rid of it – so the only prize was £4,000 for the biggest break in the tournament. To me, that’s crazy, an insult – after all, the 147 is the ultimate, the greatest thing you can do in the game; snooker perfection.

  So, rather than complaining about it, I thought, what’s the best way to get this out in the open? And I thought, well, if I get in the position where I’m on for a maxi I could just stop short, ask the ref what the prize money was, he’d tell me that there wasn’t any, then I could sabotage it at some point in protest. So, sure enough, I was on the 147 and I had a word with the referee, Jan Verhaas.

  ‘What’s the prize money for a maxi,’ I said.

  ‘Four thousand,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not making the 147 for that.’

  I was only on about 40 or 50 at the time; it was early days. He didn’t say anything, but I reckon he thought I was joking. Every time I potted another black I told him, I’m not making it. You can just about hear it on the telly. So I got to the yellow.

  ‘I’m still not making it,’ I said.

  I was quite excited by now. I thought it was a good protest and would be better remembered than a 147; that it would be more exciting for the punters to be able to say: ‘I was at the match when Ronnie refused to make a 147’ than at the match where he did make one – after all, I’ve made plenty in my time. That might have been as remembered as the fastest 147 – though, obviously, for very different reasons. No snooker player had ever made 140, then decided not to pot the black. It would make history.

  Dennis Taylor said: ‘He’s smiling and joking with Jan Verhaas, the referee.’ But they didn’t know what I was saying then.

  ‘What can you say?’ said John Virgo. ‘Last frame it looked as if he wasn’t bothered, and this has just been sensational. Sensational.’ I was on 134. ‘Come on, Ronnie,’ he said.

  One hundred and forty, and a huge roar from the crowd.

  I then just shook Mark King’s hand. I’d won 3-0. The black was simple. You could have potted it with your knob. Mark looked as if he was in shock. The whole arena seemed too stunned to take it all in. Jan wasn’t having any of it, though.

  ‘Come on, Ron, do it for your fans,’ he said.

  I thought, you bastard, guilt-tripping me in my moment of glory. So, sure enough, I ended up smashing the black in.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like that in your life?’ said Virgo at the end. Well, if I’d not potted the black they certainly would
n’t have.

  Barry Hearn came up to me straight afterwards. ‘Thank God you potted that black because you would have been in big trouble. We’ve got the superintendent here who’s clamping down on the betting scandals and we’re trying to clean the game up. For you to do that in front of him would not have looked good.’

  There were only a few seconds between shaking Mark’s hand and actually potting it.

  The reaction was mixed. To me, it was obvious I was having a laugh and making a point – ruffling a few feathers. But the authorities thought it was shocking. Mark Williams was critical too. ‘Ronnie’s break should stand at 140 because he’d shaken hands before he potted the last black. He should have potted the black without messing around or played safe [if he wanted to make a point]. But that’s why people come to watch him, to see what he’s going to do,’ he said.

  Some players were supportive, though – after all, they were pissed off about the prize money, too. Neil Robertson said he thought it was great. ‘To pot one red and black and then ask the referee if there’s a 147 prize is pure genius. No other player would have done that. He knew there wasn’t a prize, he was just setting it up. No one is bigger than the sport but he does make it more attractive when he does something like that.’

  17

  MY GREATEST WINS

  ‘Ran hard, pace felt fast, slowed down at halfway for a bit then worked hard up the hills.’

  My first World Championship in 2001 was so important because it had taken me longer than everybody had thought it would. The pressure was mounting, the longer I went without winning it. I was 25 years old, and beginning to think I’d never do it. So in a way this was the most important and toughest one to win.