Running: The Autobiography

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  The crowd were really supportive. I got standing ovations whenever I went out. They’ve always been brilliant to me at Sheffield, but this felt different. It was really touching. I thought, well, I’ve been around a while, and maybe they gave it to me because they now regard me as an elder statesman. A lot of these people have been watching me for 20 years and they think, he’s one of us, he’s an old boy.

  My first match was against Marcus Campbell, a tough, tough Scottish opponent. Marcus is a good, solid match player. The previous year I’d played him in China and just scraped home. But I always think Sheffield is different from anywhere else. Experience counts for so much at the Crucible – experience of the atmosphere, the intensity, and experience of having done well in the past. You can go there with bad form and do well if you’ve got the belief.

  I was 7-2 up after the first session, playing decently, potting the balls. My long potting wasn’t great, but it’s never been brilliant so I wasn’t that concerned. In the evening session I went 9-2. Almost home. Then I started missing balls. I began to panic, and thinking my game’s gone; it’s only day one and I’ve got another 16 days of this shit, if I survive that long – and that was a huge if.

  I won 10-4, and was so down when I came off the table. Damien Hirst said to me: ‘You’d think we’d lost.’ He was making a joke of it, telling me how shit I’d made everybody feel. What he was basically saying is that I’m nuts. ‘You’ve been out for eleven months, you’ve won ten-four, you’ve played some lovely shots, yes you’ve missed a few, but that’s the game.’ He’s like another Steve Peters – he gives me perspective all the time.

  In the evenings, when I wasn’t playing, I went to the casino with friends. We played blackjack, roulette, had some dinner, watched the snooker on the telly. A great way to spend an evening. I went in there with £500 and told myself that it had to last me 10 days because I don’t like gambling, don’t want to get sucked in to it. When I played, I bet anything between £3 and £50. We had a little team – me, Damien, Sylvia, Chick, Irish Chris, Taz and Scouse John. I ended up about a grand up after the first night. Sweet. My luck couldn’t hold out, though.

  In the second round I played Ali Carter. Even though Marcus is a good player, he’s not got Ali’s experience at the Crucible – I’ve played him in two World Championship finals. The match started brilliantly for me, and I was 5-1 up in the first session, cruising. Then he won two good frames and came back to 5-3. We came out for the second session, and my game just wasn’t there. I couldn’t score, was coming off second best at the table. It got to 7-7, and I wasn’t feeling good.

  At 7-7, Ali put me in a snooker and I smashed my way out of it and potted the white. I thought it was unlucky, but actually it was a touch because I got away with it. He had to take on a long ball after the white went in it, and he missed it by miles. Lovely, I thought, and I knocked in a 70. In the last frame of the evening I made an 80. So I’d gone from 5-3 to 7-7 to 9-7. I’d struggled, Ali had played really well, and I’d come out in front, which was brilliant for me. The most telling sessions at Sheffield are when you’re struggling rather than flying. If you can win or draw a session when you’re off your game, that’s the stuff that wins you the World Championship.

  It gave me confidence overnight, thinking, I’m two up, I’ve had my bad session, that’s out of the way. I came out the next day, played well. Long one, boom, 70. Long one, boom, 80. I played good safety, too. It helps when your long shots are working – it gets you in earlier, and puts pressure on the opponent. In the end, I beat Ali 13-8, and thought, that’s more Championship form.

  I was in the quarter-finals, and a lot of the big names had already gone out: John Higgins, Mark Williams, Mark Selby, Mark Allen, Neil Robertson They’d all fallen by the wayside, but it didn’t make me feel that this was my big chance because I’ve always said that if you’re going to win the world title you’re going to have to play someone who’s on top of their game. There’s not a lot in it among the world’s top 16, and anyone who’s in their best form can beat you. So I wasn’t really worried about who’d won and lost; it was always more about my game.

  The one big negative was that I couldn’t run at Sheffield. I tore my calf muscle when running just before the World Championship. I was in the gym doing stuff on the bike, but that was about it. It’s ironic really that once I stopped playing and thought I’d be able really to focus on the running I kept getting injured, so I got fat and lazy. Then, when I did start playing snooker again, I thought I’d better get fit, probably did too much running too quick, and tore my calf muscle. When I was in Sheffield I saw my running mates Jason and Lee. We couldn’t run together because of the injury but I went out for a couple of meals with Jason, and saw Lee down the gym. Between matches I’d speak to Steve Peters, who lives between Sheffield and Manchester, in Chapel-en-le-Frith. I’d pop over there whenever I could, stay overnight, have a chat.

  In the quarters I got Stuart Bingham, and went 7-0 up in the first session. His nickname is Ball-Run Bingham because people say he gets the run of the ball. But I don’t think he’s lucky. In my book he’s unlucky – he’s a good player; if he was lucky he would have won more tournaments.

  Even though I wasn’t really confident with my game I was able to put the bad shots behind me. And there were quite a few of them. But my break-building was good – 79, 111, 87, 133 and 78. The commentators were saying it was snooker from the gods, but it didn’t feel like that at all; not like when I’m potting balls for fun. I felt I had really to work hard for it. I got to 7-0, then took my foot off the gas.

  In the last three frames of the session against Stuart I couldn’t pot a ball. My concentration had gone. I got down on myself, thinking, I’ve got to concentrate so hard on every ball in every session to win this tournament and I can’t do that. I felt I was just taming the monster, caging the chimp, but it could have broken loose at any time. What made it difficult was having all these thoughts going through my head, and thinking, I’m not playing very well, then hearing Steve Davis and Stephen Hendry in the studio saying it’s the best snooker ever. It didn’t make any sense to me. I thought, are they winding me up? I think the truth was somewhere in the middle. It wasn’t coming to me as easily as it had in 2012; that year I had to graft for it, but was generally consistent.

  I ended up beating Stuart Bingham 13-4, despite the fact that I was beating myself up so much. After the match, it has to be said I wasn’t at my most positive. I said I hadn’t missed snooker, that this was possibly my last major tournament, and I’d only come back to pay the school fees. It didn’t go down well. But I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with snooker: when I hate it I really hate it and when I love it I really love it. Sometimes I love it and hate it at the same time.

  As for the school fees, some people found it funny, and some thought it in poor taste and made me come across badly. Others simply didn’t believe me. Some thought it made me sound snobbish in that I needed to send the kids to private school, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I have no choice but to take them out of their schools unless I go to court, and I don’t want to do that. I do want to pay for their schools out of my income, but, actually, I’m not really a believer in private education. I think state school is good enough for all of us; it’s just a matter of whether you want to apply yourself. I went to state school and didn’t apply myself. But there were loads of highly intelligent kids there who did, and who went on to university and good careers. I don’t think many people believed that I was short of money, but it’s true. Yes, I’ve got my home, and the home for the kids, and a couple of properties with my mum, but the bottom line was that if I didn’t go back to work I’d have to sell my home.

  The commentators kept saying how relaxed I looked this year, and I think I did on the table. But there were times when I felt so paranoid, especially after I’d just finished a session. It’s hard to explain, but it’s the classic symptom of paranoid depression – you can’t talk to people, can’
t look them in the eye, you think people are laughing at you, you think you’re going to be exposed but you’re not sure why or about what. It’s a horrible, destructive waste of energy and life. Then I’d get out there and be alright. Playing was escapism – I felt okay playing; playing was a distraction. What I couldn’t handle was the thoughts and anticipation when I wasn’t playing. And that’s what I wore my friends out with.

  Everybody became exhausted. All my closest mates, Scouse John and Damien, I’d tell them, I can’t do this no more, I’m getting a new job, I’m going to work in the media. And the next day I’d get on the practice table, I’d be hitting the ball really well and I’d be going: ‘Yessssss. I’m going to play this game for the next ten years!’

  Whatever I was like, Damien remained a great support. He just said: ‘If it makes you feel like that, just don’t do it. If it’s making you feel like this, fuck it off. You’ve just got to be happy. You’re the king, the best snooker player ever, but I just don’t want to see you down.’ I don’t think I am the best ever, but it’s nice of him to say it. Damien never seems to get down.

  Sheffield is exhausting at the best of times, but I was so gone early on. After each session, up until the semis, I was so tired that I’d just sleep all the time. I think that was because I wasn’t used to the adrenaline pumping through my body and playing match after match. My recovery powers were not good. Even my mates, who’d seen me down plenty of times, thought I looked in a bad way when I’d come off at the end of a session. I’d think to myself, what am I putting myself through this for? I was happier when I was working on a farm and had no money. As soon as I was done I’d strip down to my pants and an old T-shirt, but I couldn’t sleep. Yet everyone told me how confident I looked when I was out playing. I thought, I’ve got to look after myself. I’ve been down this road before, with glandular fever, and my health is more important than the snooker. I felt I was living the life of the fella out of Breaking Bad. I thought, I just don’t give a fuck any more. But at the same time I was desperate to win.

  Your view of yourself is at such odds with that of others when you’re paranoid that you start to question your own sanity. You think, are they just saying things because you’re a top player and they feel they have to say nice things about you, or am I just getting this completely wrong?

  Paranoia is a form of depression. Other people probably don’t even notice it. You feel that everybody else is enjoying themselves, having a good time, and inside I’m feeling so uncomfortable. I just want to be in my room, on my own. I want to duvet dive, I want to watch the telly, get loads of room service sent to me, I want to start smoking, go on my mate’s barge and sit there and moan my bollocks off because he doesn’t care. Little Mickey has a barge on the canal. He was in the army for years, then split up with his missus, and he bought himself a barge to live on. I can just go there, let my shoulders drop, moan, tell him I don’t want to play any more, and he just goes: ‘Alreet, mate’, and he’s got his little dog there who hates my guts because every time I turn up there I go: ‘Come on, Mick, let’s go out for a cup of tea’, and the dog hates me because he has to lock it up and they’re like husband and wife. I told Mick, the fucking dog hates me, and he goes: ‘No he don’t, mate, see, he’s wagging his tail’, and I’m like: ‘Look, I’m a threat to that dog. All that dog thinks is, whenever I come you disappear with me. I ain’t good news for that dog.’

  On the surface, I looked composed. Probably was pretty composed for me. But I certainly had my moments. At times I couldn’t bear being in the Crucible, couldn’t bear seeing people; every little thing was getting to me.

  I got better towards the end. I remember saying, three more days of brushing my teeth, two more days of brushing my teeth and it’s done; one more day. All my friends in the dressing room kept me sane – Irish Chris, Scouse John, Damien and Sylvia, and two close friends from Sheffield, Iyaz and Taz.

  Despite my doubts, I was through to the semi-finals and drew Judd Trump – a huge match and potentially a real crowd-pleaser. Both Judd and I play an attacking game. We were still going down the casino in the evenings. By now I was back down to £500 worth of chips left and I thought, fuck it, it’s time to win big or lose it all. I lost, of course. But it didn’t matter by then. I was happy with what I’d achieved at Sheffield.

  I was 4-1 up in the first session, but it ended up 4-4. I came out and I thought, I’ve outplayed him by a mile and we’re drawing. It didn’t give me much confidence for the second session because I thought I should have been 6-2 up, maybe 5-3, but at least I should have had a lead. A pattern emerged in Judd’s game, and one that I’ve noticed before – he always played well when he was three frames down, but when he got level he went negative. I picked up on that and it gave me confidence.

  At 7-6 to me he missed a red, and I thought, right, now’s the time, I’ve got to clear up and pull away, and that’s what I did. At 11-8, I felt that mentally he gave up, and that made my job easier. I thought, all I have to do is stay disciplined, and if he gets close kick on again and just be professional. In other words, it was mine to lose rather than Judd’s to win.

  There was a mini-controversy in the semi with the score 13-9 in the middle of a long, boring frame. I made a ‘motion’ with the snooker cue – some people might call it a wanking-off-the-cue gesture, but not me! I had the cue between my legs and just gave it a little rub. To be honest, I’ve often done it when I’m pissed off with myself. The referee, Michaela Tabb, gave me a quick but stern talking to: ‘Don’t make obscene gestures again, okay?’ I said I was just wiping something off my cue, and: ‘I want to go home.’ It probably put me off for a bit, and I ended up losing that frame.

  It was a tense match, and I enjoyed the first session. But I didn’t feel I was flowing in the other sessions or that I had momentum. It was just bits and pieces, but tactically I had my wits about me, my safety game was good and I did enough.

  To get to the semis and the one table was a nice feeling (until the semis there are always two matches going on at any one time), but to get to the final was great. I felt a real sense of achievement. I’d made it from 32 players, the first one into the final, defending champion, and I hadn’t played for a year. I didn’t think it was possible at the start.

  When the bookies had me down as one of the favourites at the start I thought they were mad. When the players said I was the favourite it annoyed me. I thought, you’ve been playing all year; when is someone going to stand up and say, I’m the governor of this sport, I’m number one, I’m going to win the World Championship? But I never heard one player come out and talk with that confidence. I really want to see that because it will be great for the game and it would probably spur me on again. But no one’s really grasping the nettle. In a way it’s good for me because it means my competition isn’t that confident, they don’t believe in themselves enough, but it isn’t good for snooker.

  Perhaps Judd should be that man, but sometimes I think he lacks the killer instinct. He seems as if he’s just happy to be there – he’s got a bit of money, enjoys the lifestyle, wins a few matches and the odd tournament, but what he really should be doing is trying to write his way into the history books. There isn’t a Hendry or a Davis out there who wants to devote his life to it, someone who says: ‘You’re going to have to scrape me off the table if you’re going to beat me. I want this so bad I’m going to make it happen.’

  When I got through to the final my first thought was, I don’t fancy Barry Hawkins, he’s flying, he’s going to smash me. Daft, because, as I said, you’re always going to meet someone in form in the final. I went through everything Steve Peters had taught me, and told myself to get a grip – every day’s different, every player’s different, forget the catastrophic thinking, let’s get the facts, let’s get the truth. With Steve I was trying to reverse the belief system that I had grown up with, one that was based on fear and negatives – you’ve got to win, don’t make me look bad, don’t show yourself up.

 
; So I gave myself a good positive talking to – whatever happens, nobody’s going to smash you; the worst that could happen is that it might get close, then I’ll get my chance to win. So it was about staying patient. I never felt I was going to be blown away. I’d been here before, won four finals out of four, am reasonably good under pressure, not going to bottle it, and I just kept thinking, if the opportunity comes to win the match I fancy my chances.

  Just when I’d talked myself into enjoying it, I discovered they’d changed the cloth on the table for the final. They told me they’d changed it but I expected it to be the same as before – fast and slick. But this was really slow. A faster cloth suits me better, and I think a slower cloth suits Barry better because he hits firmer with the ball; he’s a bit more punchy whereas I prefer to float balls in. You can’t float them in on a slow table, you’ve got to bang them in. I can do that, but it’s a different technique – it’s like going from clay to grass in tennis. So I thought, who did that, and why? The conspiracy theorist in me believes it was done to try to stop me winning the World Championship. But every little thing that could have set me back I’ve tried to turn into a positive, so I told myself, right, if there are people out there who don’t want me to win, I really need to do it now. It made it more of a challenge, more of a buzz.

  Maybe I was being paranoid, but even a couple of knowledgeable ex-players said to me: ‘I know why that was done!’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘They didn’t want you winning the World Championship. That was to try to stop you.’ This was after the final, so they weren’t trying to wind me up.