Thursday 4 February 2010

Day 30-Out Of The Lipstick And Into The Doldrums, Nutritional Experimentation, The Phoenix From The Ashes, and The Comeback Kid

Number Of Hours Practice-45
Average Number Of Darts Thrown To Checkout-Read on...

Ups and downs, peaks and troughs. And Jeez Louise, I have been in a trough, although there may be a light at the end of this tunnel...

The best way I can tell the story is to illustrate it with averages. On the afternoon of Saturday the 23rd of January, my average number of darts thrown to checkout on a game of 501 was 42.3. That's another 1 darts shaved off my previous average. Chuffed, I was, and feeling highly confident about my practice games against my mates Chris and Craigy later on, due to the many hours of practice I had put in compared to their zero hours.

But I reckoned without the pressure factor.

Though I felt confident, I threw badly at first, thinking to much about my throwing action as opposed to just focusing on the board and doing it. I lost the first game; and after that, I went to pot. The pressure on myself was immense; surely I should be crushing these two goofballs? And now I was a GAME DOWN to these people, when I should be crushing them beneath my heels. The frustration began, and every three bad darts I threw it got worse. So did the anger, which fortunately I didn't direct at my two grinning opponents. I did, however, throw my darts into the wooden floor at one point. I make no apologies.

Looking back, I should have known it was a doomed effort; I've not been practicing long enough, nor have I nailed my action enough, for it to hold up under pressure. Plus I was playing a against two former Future Of Darts World Championship opponents who have EVERYTHING to gain by beating Mr Four-Hours-Practice-A-Day, whilst I have everything to lose. They could play with a sense of fun and excitement. I could only play with fear. It was like being on the oche with the Sword Of Damocles swinging over my head. The final score was Chris 7, Craigy 3, me 2. The only consolation was the last two games of the night had me beating the pair of them.

It sat very heavily with me, despite knowing that I'd lost through a poor (equally important) mental game as opposed to being beaten by superior players. It had come down to them having a strong psychological advantage, and I had been good enough mentally to beat it. Plus Chris suddenly played the best darts of his entire life. You won't see THAT again...

Plus, it revealed a major flaw in my game, and one I half expected; there's no practice like competitive play. Thankfully-and perhaps this is unwise-the three of us are going to continue our saturday meets.

Either way, come the following week, I threw myself, and my darts, back into practice with a renewed vigour. But something was different. I was consistently analysing my throw for what I believed had gone wrong. I had been applying the finger flick enough as I released, or wasn't throwing my forearm over my elbow straight enough. As the 26s kept landing repeatedly, the frustration came back within 5 minutes of practice. It wasn't fun, it was torture, and I couldn't work out what the hell was going wrong. It was maddening. Where had all my new skill gone? Why the hell couldn't I sink three into the 20 anymore? Why wasn't my new technique to find the treble 20 working? All that kept happening was the dreaded Bed And Breakfast (single 1, single 20, single 5, all in a row. 2 and six, the once-upon-a-time price of a B and B) and it was enough to make me want to scream.

Something had happened in my head, and I was staggered that the amount of damage one horrific evening of darts against two chumps had done. Overnight, I'd gone from looking forward to practice to dreading it, from delighting in my progression to feeling helpless and confused. It may sound ridiculous, but when you put hours into something, and you suddenly just go shit and don't know why and even worse, can't fix it, then it is deeply unpleasant. My checkout average slumped to 49.2. Drastic steps had to be taken.

I had to calm my head. It was time to experiment with booze.

I took my life in my hands on the thursday and went into Angela's village's working men's club. In Newcastle. In the middle of the day. And I'm not a member. But I could see through the window they had two great boards, so I figured it'd be worth it. And apart from a pleasant conversation with two toothless gentlemen playing pool ("Ah wah jus' seeyin to him like, ah said, ee's a shit at daaahts as we ah at poo-al") I had no other interaction with the locals. All was well.

My thinking was the classic darts player's approach: A few pints to relax oneself and clear the mind, then get started. I had two pints of strong cider before I started, but still felt the same anxieties I'd developed. I realised I perhaps needed another, so got one and carried on playing. But that didn't quite calm the mind either, and the B and B's were still falling. The problem wasn't being fixed. So I had another. Four hours later I'd had 8 pints of Bulmer's, my darts were even worse than when I'd started (114 darts to checkout at one point) and I was fucked. The experiment had achieved nothing, except getting me drunk by myself and leaving me the best part of 25 quid lighter.

On paper, at least, it had been a waste of time. My average was still well into the high 40s, and by the end I could even hit a single 20 out of 9 darts (at one point I hit a 7) and I realised it was probably time to go home, to stagger back to a wonderfully understanding Angela ("Well, in that case, I'll have an amaretto and diet coke." Good on you, gal. :-) ) But it was only very, very late in the session that I realised I'd changed a part of my practice that was probably vital.

In an effort to come back guns blazing after my defeat, and get my average checkout down to new levels of greatness and prove my worth, I'd thrown out the Round The Clock Doubles I'd been playing every five legs, sticking simply to 501. I realised in my drunken haze that this was probably having a very negative effect; the extra focus required to hit the doubles all the way round the board and into the bull would obviously spill over into the next five legs I would play, meaning a better game. Plus, it breaks up the monotony of the repeated 501 game, and helps keep the focus there. Upon realising this, I had a game of Round The Clock, and the following 5 legs proved the theory correct-36, 25 (best yet is 24, done that a few times on other days, but 35 on such a terrible session shows the difference Round The Clock made) 25, 42, and 41.

Ok, 42 and 41 aren't going to set the world on fire, but they're respectable for me at this stage, and either way there was an improvement. Plus I learned something else about my throw.

As I became more drunk, and therefore more lazy, I found the 'release rather than throw' thing seemed to work best when I almost casually swung my arm at the board, more like a cast than a throw. When it was done right, it found the lipstick. This goes utterly against my previous, lifelong (well, darting lifelong) belief of throwing your forearm directly in line with your elbow.

I'd had the theory (backed up by Roland; read his always interesting reflection of yankee doodle life here at rolandhulme.blogspot.com) of releasing rather than throwing half-right. I was doing it, but in a way my arm was uncomfortable with. It wasn't natural. Working, flat viewing, and, more cripplingly, travelling schedules over the last few days stopped me getting onto the oche until yesterday, but in a more sober frame of mind I applied these two revelations into the days practice.

To my great surprise, the cast-throw made the biggest difference to my finishing. I had a far, far happier session, my enjoyment and, more importantly, my confidence returning as the numbers fell and the darts consistently thudded three at a time into the 20, so well in fact I finished the day with a new record checkout average: 40.9. In fact, it was only topped by one of the so-far nameless pair of guys that come into the Plough at about 5 o'clock every day saying 'You should plee-ay for a teeem mee-ate.'

Although he does see me play darts by myself for hours on end most days, so I suppose it's to be expected.

So, to sum up, it appears my day of getting drunk wasn't so fruitless after all. In fact, it could be argued it was a mind-expanding experience that led me to discover hitherto-uncovered facets of my game that have taken me to another level. This can only mean I need to have session ripped to my tits on LSD, trying to hit that pesky treble elephant lawnmower.

Still no tournament shcedule for this year yet. I know, I know; but I WILL do it. And I suppose I may as well mention at least one definite calendar entry for this year.

In possibly the shortest retirement in darting history, I have been cajoled-mainly by Chris Revill, backed by Craig Nicholls and Keith Lawrence-back into the Showcase Of The Immortals. I am officially announcing my return to the FOD for the next Future Of Darts World Championships XI. It's been argued that I need a swan song, and a chance for everyone else to have one poke at me after months of practice, in the hope that I will fold like a minimum wage worker in chinese dry cleaner's under the pressure. I have to admit, I'm extremely glad, and I agree with the logic; I'm not going to be unbeatable to them by then, and it will be a great test. And what better way to kick off a quest to be the future of darts than by winning The Future Of Darts XI?

April 10th. Two months. I want to be well into the 30 checkout zone by then.

Thanks for reading, and Stay Hungry.

The Straight Shooter

1 comment:

  1. I've tried to post this sodding comment THREE times now!!

    1) Geordies aren't THAT bad- you're just a big southern pansy.
    2) Very interesting theory on releasing rather than throwing, it makes sense now that booze helps- making you less tense etc.
    3) You forgot to tell them about the 'Zambuca' incident following your darts/booze fest!
    X

    ReplyDelete