I’ve liked snooker since I were a nipper. I think partly ’cause dad would watch it occasionally. We even had tiny kiddie’s table for a while! But as an adult I haven’t watched or followed it much at all.
Just recently, however, during an extended period of complete mental and physical exhaustion (probably caused by my medical conditions), I’ve been getting really into it. For one thing, there seems to be more tournaments on, and very rapidly, one after another.
I’ve even taken to exploring archival matches on YouTube. But yesterday/last night there was a live treat, in the shape of a Judd Trump vs. Ronnie O’Sullivan quarter final, in Llandudno, Wales.
The series is part of one of many sponsored by a betting company (see my recent rant about the rising tide of betting). The players, in their dark and Conservative garb, and like the arena itself, act as advertising hoardings for the sponsoring companies. I try my best to block out this this tidal wave of in your face mind-manipulation. But whereas I can mute the TV ads in the breaks, I can’t ‘mute’ auch visual material – eye-pollution – from within the game.
Still, onto the real meat of this post: I’ve discovered that I, like many others I would imagine, am a great fan of snooker in the ‘Hurricane’ Higgins/’Rocket’ Ronnie mode. And consequently the Trump/O’Sullivan match promised much, both players being renowned for flair and speed.
I didn’t see all of the afternoon session, but I saw enough to know Trump had gotten a 4-1 lead. And this conformed in many respects to the new kid on the block formula, of the younger Trump usurping the elder king of the game. The commentators, including Stephen Hendry, clearly favouring the young lion over the senior silverback.
When I picked up the game again properly, Trump’s lead had grown to 8-5. With Trump needing just two, and Ronnie needing five, on the form they’d been showing thus far, Trump remained the strong favourite.
And then came a pair of very long tactical frames. I suppose these are an essential part of the game. But, as the commentators themselves concede, they don’t really make great televisual viewing. Hendry made me laugh heartily at one point, clamming up for a while, before wryly asking his co-commentator, in a long-delayed riposte to the question ‘have you taken a vow of silence?’ asked what his favourite kind of food was. Yep, this may have been a gripping match of wills for the players, but endless safety shots leave viewers at risk of losing interest.
After Trump won the single longest such duel, of something over 45 minutes, to take the lead once again, it looked to be all but over. But what’s this? O’Sullivan found his vintage and celebrated form, storming to victory in the next two frames with consecutive century table clearances.
Any true snooker addict, I would assume, and certainly this one, prefers a decent fight to a whitewash. And at nine-all, that’s what we were enjoying, no mistake. But, like a well directed film or play, the greatest excitement still lay in store.
The final frame was a real peach: first Trump did what he’d been doing all through the match, playing superbly, and establishing a strong 50-0 lead, looking every bit the winner. But then he missed a fairly ordinary red, and Ronnie leaped in.
Then, after a decent but not long or strong enough visit, it was Ronnie’s turn to fluff it.
As Phil Yates observed, by this time they must’ve been running on adrenaline and instinct, which was no doubt a strong element of what made the final set so volatile and exciting.
Trump had had many chances to put the frame and match to bed and, on the yellow, looked like he couldn’t fail to do so. But playing like his younger less mature self, he tried to power it in. Rattling in the jaws, it stayed out.
Yates couldn’t believe he hadnt just rolled it in. Nor could I. Yates’ co-commentator, David Hendon said that wasn’t Trump’s way. I know what he means; Trump is known for his brash flash potting. But there had already been many times in this match where he’d shown exemplary delicacy of touch, rolling in slow wafer-thin acutely angled pots, many much tougher than this match-winning yellow.
Where Trump needed just the yellow, Ronnie needed all the remaining colours. And he proceeded to coolly pot them, taking his time, showing the maturity that’s given his extraordinary talent that added longevity. The match had truly been, as Jill Douglas excitedly and accurately described it, ‘epic’, even in the truly Tolstoyan sense, with the two 40-45 minute plus frames.
And in the end it came down to the final ball of the final frame.
When O’Sullivan potted the black, I was ecstatic, clapping at the TV like a truly demented loony fan, grinning ear-to-ear. The crowd loved it, the pundits loved it. Ronnie, punching the air and beating his chest, clearly loved it. What a match! Sports at its best.
I’ve only just learned of the existence of Judd Trump, which shows how long I’ve not been following the game (when I last ‘followed’ it, via my dad, ‘Hurricane’ Higgins, whilst past his best, still looked human). I really like Trump, and against most opponents would’ve been rooting for him.
But Ronnie really is a legend, with some sort of dark powerful charisma. I hope he goes on to win the series. He’s recently threatened to quit the game altogether. I hope he doesn’t. But if he won this, reaching world no. one again, and then quit. That’d be, like this match, high and nigh-on fairytale drama.
Oh, and this post wouldn’t be complete without mention of that pink.