I’ve mentioned that Alex Higgins has an enemy, one he snarls and snipes at the minute he enters the room. And although we don’t express it in quite the same inimitable way, the rest of us on the mid-1980s professional snooker circuit understand what it is about this man that irritates Alex. This is an enemy common to us all – a snooker machine who seems to walk off mercilessly with every trophy going without even a backwards glance at his crestfallen opponent.
Since turning pro, the player I’ve come to respect above all others (including Jimmy White, my childhood hero) is Steve Davis. He is, of course, right at the top of his game during this era. He seems unstoppable, and he is. Everyone tries hard, but few even get close. With little ceremony but a lot of skill and tactical play, Davis systematically annihilates his opponents and, while he’s doing so, shows little or no emotion. He’s courteous enough off the table, but I notice that he doesn’t mix much with the other players and keeps well away from players’ lounge banter. I don’t mix with the other players either – more because I’m shy than anything else. I’d like to be a part of the inner circle but I’m so much younger than they are. They’re married, they have kids, they go to the pub, they have grown-up stuff to deal with. I just don’t know what to say to them. I keep myself to myself, and perhaps my fellow players see this as a sign that I’m deliberately copying Steve Davis. He keeps away from the others because he’s a winner, and winners like him are a breed apart. His separation is conscious and, to an observer like me, intriguing. I’ve always liked Jimmy – freewheeling, talented Jimmy, the people’s choice – but Steve is the player I most admire, and most want to be: the best in the world.
Another thing I notice about Steve – which I deliberately copy – is that on the table he always looks immaculate. The other players smarten up for matches, of course, but Steve appears to have a particularly good tailor who makes everything fit perfectly. The sleeves of his jacket are just the right length, his waistcoat fits snugly, and his polished shoes are never seen with even a speck of dust on them. Being a bit of a clothes-obsessive, this impresses me deeply. Even before he’s played a shot he has an advantage in that he already looks like the winner. I quickly discover that away from the table Steve has another uniform comprising of a scruffy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, but that doesn’t matter. As soon as he dons his black suit he’s in Snooker Terminator mode and there is no stopping him.
‘Steve is the target, Stephen,’ says Ian. ‘Defeat him, and you’re on your way to the top.’
It’s easier said than done, of course. Beating Steve in a final or semi-final is nigh-on impossible because he just dominates this sport like no one else. You think you’ve got him under pressure, that he’s on the run – then he just finds another gear and leaves you behind. My impression is that he will strangle you with safety play and when he does get in, his long potting is so good that you’ll not stand a chance. Everything looks perfect; his technique, the way he stands, his cue action – everything seems flawless, every single time he plays. His game is designed to tie you up in knots, and for someone like me, who goes for everything on the table, that spells trouble. To understand Steve, to unpick his approach and find the cracks in his armour, I have to play him.
I first get my chance in early January 1987 at the Mercantile Credit Classic in Blackpool. On the way to the semi-final I beat Ray Reardon and Silvino Francisco, among others. At 5–0 the latter match is a whitewash and, as I go into the semi against Steve, my confidence is soaring. Ian chirps to the Daily Mirror that very soon ‘we’ will be able to ‘buy a bigger forest than the one Steve owns’. I’m not sure I want to spend any winnings on a forest (I have my eye on a car instead, even though I can’t yet drive) but nonetheless the point is made.
I should’ve known. In the match Steve does an effortless demolition job on me, tying me up all over the table and giving me little chance to stage any real comeback. Halfway through the match I pull back three frames, but Steve takes all this in his stride and the game ends 9–3. It isn’t the worst result, but it proves that I’m still wandering the foothills as far as beating him goes. After the game Steve tells the press he considers me a ‘dangerous player’ (good) and that I remind him of Jimmy White (maybe not so good, especially if I keep losing). He does add that he thinks I’ll be in the world’s top eight by the time I’m twenty. I hope to be in the top three by then.
Although I’m disappointed not to have played better, I’m about to get another chance – six other chances, to be accurate. Ian’s obsession with me getting past Steve and becoming the youngest World Champion ever (an ambition I share) has translated into a deal he has reached with Barry Hearn, Steve’s manager, and the Daily Record. In mid-January I will play Steve in a week-long series of six ‘Challenge’ matches across towns and cities in Scotland: Edinburgh, Livingston, Renfrew, Inverness, Glasgow and Irvine. Essentially, these are exhibition games for the entertainment of the public but of course they are a way of testing my mettle and learning from the greatest player in the game. The theory is that if I learn how to crack open Steve now, I will remember the formula when it comes to the serious stuff later in the year.
The Challenge has all the razzmatazz you’d expect of this type of event. The prize money is £4,000 a night, plus a bonus of £6,000 for the overall winner. Not bad for six nights’ work. A liveried double-decker bus is hired for Steve, and I occasionally share this when I’m not being driven to the matches from home. I soon discover that while we’re on nodding terms, there is no way Steve is going to be any kind of good friend or mentor. We might play a hand of cards to pass the time but, incredibly, we never discuss snooker. I’m so in awe of him that I don’t ask a single question about his game. Instead, I watch carefully at the way he conducts himself on and off the table, how he limbers up, how he deals with the fans. This isn’t just a lesson in how to play Steve Davis and win; instead, it’s a masterclass in how to become a World Champion, with all that that entails.
One of the first things I notice about Steve is his dedication to practice. These might ‘only’ be exhibition matches but he is up here to win and, as I know from my own regime, winners must put in the practice. Wherever he is, he finds himself a local snooker club and gets to work. I’m impressed and pleased that we share the same dedication to the boring stuff – the boring stuff which gets results.
I’m excited and eager to get on with the first game, at Edinburgh’s Grosvenor Hotel, but I’m aware that I’ll have a hell of a fight on my hands. Steve hasn’t lost a game in Scotland for five years and isn’t going to give me an inch. I wouldn’t expect anything less. Even so, I’m on home turf and the 300 people in the audience are here to cheer on a fellow Scot against an English champion. At least I think they are – as the week progresses I’ll be a little less sure of this.
As the lights go down on the opening match I’m lucky enough to make a couple of quick opening breaks – nothing major, but a confident start. My cue action is still pumping and jumpy, in contrast to Steve’s smooth slide towards the white ball. Like a snake, he watches carefully as I make my opening break and when I eventually let him in he’s merciless. The game finishes 6–3 to him and, although I’m disappointed not to have done better, I feel I’ve acquitted myself reasonably well. And, more importantly, Steve has respected me as a player by not giving me any chances. His tactical, safety-shot style of play is not mine but each moment we’re at the table I’m learning something new. The following day, the Scotsman newspaper prints an article about the match with the headline ‘The schooling of Hendry has begun’. How right they are, and how right they will be over the next five nights.
The following night Steve does it again, tying me up all over the place and taking the seventh frame 136–0. I can only sit and watch as he does a job on me. And so it goes on, night after night. He tells the press that I’m ‘cannon fodder’ and I can hardly argue. I try to put him under pressure but there’s something about his coolness and determination not to give anything away that makes him an impossible nut to crack. As the week progresses I feel more and more demoralised, not helped by Ian’s somewhat unsupportive approach to each defeat. I’m hammered 8–1 in Inverness, only managing to pull one back in the sixth frame, and after the game Ian tells the press that he ‘cannot believe’ I’ve played so badly.
‘Perhaps the pressure of top-line snooker has finally got to him,’ he says. ‘Naturally I’m very disappointed for the fans who expected so much from him.’
Thanks, Ian, nothing like a morale boost from your manager!
Steve clobbers me again on the final night in Glasgow, taking the series 6–0 and going back down south with the £30,000. There isn’t much comfort to be taken from any of this, other than it has been a total learning experience. At no point in the entire series does Steve play to the crowd and they respect him for that. In fact, as the week goes on I think they take a perverse delight in seeing one of the greats crush a relative newcomer, even if the newcomer happens to be one of their own. They want to see a real winner, and they certainly get that. Steve remains aloof from it all; happy to sign autographs and stop for a word here and there, but never showboating or even demonstrating how he is feeling during the matches themselves.
And, as a player, he never gives me a chance. From this moment on, I vow to do the same to anyone and everyone I play. During the week I hear murmurs of, ‘Ach, but he’s only a bairn. Give him a break …’ Steve, however, has played fair; he’s tested me to the limits and given me plenty to think about. He’s intimidated me, rattled me and given me an inferiority complex. If I’m ever to beat him I need to work much harder and, in some ways, become a much smarter player than I am presently. I’ve been Steve’s support act, and I haven’t played with the ruthlessness required to put him in his place. There are times on the tour that I’ve thought, ‘I’ll never be as good as him,’ and for good reason. Steve has demonstrated what it takes to be a champion and I know I have a long way to go.
Criticism in the press aside, Ian’s decision to put me up against Steve has been a masterstroke. When I arrive for practice in Stirling the following Monday, I have a new determination to take on board every lesson I’ve been taught so painfully. In a nutshell, Steve Davis has shown me how used he is to winning, and how rarely defeat comes into the equation. That’s what I want for myself.
Also, and perhaps less consciously, I’ve learned from Steve the ways in which a champion conducts himself. I know I’m not one of ‘snooker’s bad boys’ as the press like to portray Jimmy and Alex, among others. I don’t go out drinking, I’m not into chasing women. And I’m still living at home! All that, ironically, goes in my favour, because I’m seen as a kind of ‘boy next door’ snooker player. Increasingly, there is attention if I walk down the street or visit the shops, but it’s very much of the ‘my mum’s your biggest fan’ sort of thing. Which, when you’ve just turned eighteen, isn’t necessarily what you want to hear, but I really am as innocent and naive as I look – off the table, at least. I’m also very shy, and Ian arranges for me to have some media training so that I can answer questions in words of more than one syllable.
And, contrary to expectations, I quite enjoy media interviews. My appearances in the press tend to be confined to the back pages, and the questions are directed towards snooker so I’m well within my comfort zone. However, there are an increasing number of ‘profile’ pieces appearing further up the paper, or in magazines, and these focus on other areas of my life that I’m not as eager to talk about. Like how much I’m earning, what I’m spending my money on and how will I feel when I’m a millionaire within a couple of years? The money question is one that pops up time and time again; I always seem to be ‘pocketing’ a big cheque or ‘swelling my bank balance’ with yet another large sum. The truth is that while I’m earning very decent money from tournaments and exhibitions, my pockets aren’t being filled with much of it. Ian pays me a wage suitable for my age, and a large proportion of the rest goes on travel, accommodation, clothing, tax, etc. Ian takes his cut, of course, and some of the money is invested.
Hands up, though – when I decide to spend, I spend. Without first passing my test, I decide to splash out on a £17,000 Mercedes 190. It’s not what you might describe as the average seventeen-year-old’s first car, and when I finally pass my test, at the age of eighteen and drive solo in it for the first time, I get looks of both admiration and sheer envy. During the test itself I’m too nervous to put it into fourth gear because I know that its powerful engine will take it over the 30mph speed limit and into the examiner’s bad books. Once the test is out of the way I’m taking to the road with my mix tapes playing through the sound system and feeling every inch the lucky lad. And it is Ian who recommends the Mercedes brand, because he has one. I even get mine from the same garage.
Some of the ‘profile’ type interviews I do around this time are telling, not least because the interviewer spots clues to my personality, and my relationship with Ian, that at this moment I’m just not sophisticated enough to see. Like the way Ian decides who I will be in the future (‘a clean-cut entertainer’) and how he views my time off with Mandy (‘that week cost £11,000 in lost earnings’). He has comments on my off-table social life (‘His face is getting so well known he must be patrolled’) and my table manners in restaurants (‘I’ve noticed tremendous changes already’). Interviewers also pick up on non-verbal clues; how I look at Ian for reassurance when I answer a question and how on edge I sometimes seem in his presence. One interviewer tells the story of how I accidentally rested the toe of my shoe on a table while I was in a meeting with Ian and a business contact.
‘Without breaking his sentence he (Ian) snapped his fingers quietly and Hendry’s foot was on the floor.’
Meanwhile, I’m telling another interviewer that for Christmas I’ve bought my mum a coat, some perfume for my granny and a furry gorilla toy for Mandy. I also disclose that I still live at home, and that my mum gives me a talking-to if I refuse to do the dishes for the reason that ‘I’m a superstar now!’ Talk about a boy in a man’s world …
Still, I know I must act like a man, not a boy, if I’m ever to beat Steve Davis. During the Challenge week I’ve been far too caught up in the emotion of it all to really study Steve at work, so Ian insists that we sit down in his office and watch back-to-back videos of Steve playing. We study every move he makes at the table, every calculated shot, every inch of his safety play.
‘We’re gonna learn about this guy inside out,’ says Ian. ‘Knowing your enemy is the best way of finding out how to beat him.’
I see from the videos, and from experience gained during the Challenge week, that Steve is not invincible after all. He does make mistakes and doesn’t always play perfect snooker – who does? What he rarely does is make unforced errors, and he makes far fewer mistakes than anyone else in snooker. Even when he does, he remains so implacable that you hardly notice he’s done it. Learning how to read the man and his game is, I realise, a good percentage of the fight needed to defeat him. And not to be in awe of him, either. He’s a tough nut, but beatable. And not everybody is Steve Davis. There are many other players I can beat on the way. He’s the benchmark, but I won’t be playing him every match.
I study his cue action and understand that I need to calm down my own natural pumping action. I must make it more deliberate, more calculated and technical. To some extent, this goes against my instincts. The up-and-down action of my right arm has so far served me well and I’m somewhat reluctant to change. But change needs to happen if I’m to stand a fighting chance of winning a match against Steve. One aspect I won’t compromise on, however, is my dedication to attacking play. I can’t think of anything more boring than to keep strangling my opponents with safety shots. I like to break open the pack early and make big breaks, whereas Steve likes to pick off the stray reds before going into the pack. Our game is utterly different in this respect and I have no desire to change it in favour of Steve’s style. I might be raw, comparatively speaking, but I know the kind of snooker I want to play. Even when the shots I go for are deemed to be crazy, the fact that I’m going for them at all puts my opponents on the back foot, keeping the pressure on them.
The rest of the 86/87 season yields patchy results. I win the Scottish Professional Championship again, beating Jim Donnelly 10–7, but come nowhere in the British Open, losing 5–2 to Eddie Sinclair in the first round. I do much better at the 1987 World Championship in Sheffield, beating Willie Thorne 10–7 on the way to a quarter-final appearance against current World Champion Joe Johnson. Willie acknowledges that my safety play has improved massively in a year (the result of all those Steve Davis videos, no doubt, though Willie adds that ‘professionals don’t attempt’ the more challenging shots that I’m always up for) and while Joe Johnson batters me to 8–1 in the first session, I manage to pull it back to 12–12. The final frame is a nail-biter, but Joe has the edge of experience and wins it 67–6 with a forty-six break. I’m gutted to have lost so narrowly, particularly at the Crucible. The atmosphere here is electric and I want to stay for as long as possible.
After the match, the former snooker player turned commentator John Spencer comes into my dressing room. Normally, after such a disappointing defeat I’d rather sit and sulk alone, but John has consoling words for me.
‘That was really some performance, Stephen,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to tell you that. You were beaten by a brilliant player, but you were amazing out there.’
John’s words cheer me up no end. He’s a real authority on the game and he didn’t have to say what he said, but I’m delighted he did. And in the following day’s press coverage of the match, the headline above the article is ‘Kid Courage’.
