In the immediate aftermath of the win there is a flurry of family hugs, kisses and handshakes, then straight into press interviews. ‘How do you feel?’ I’m asked. Now it’s beginning to sink in. ‘When I turned pro at sixteen I said I’d be World Champion at twenty-one,’ I reply, ‘and now I’ve done it, it feels amazing.’
‘What’s next, Stephen?’ ask the reporters.
To keep winning, of course. What else?
There is an after-final party hosted by Embassy at the Grosvenor House Hotel in Sheffield. I’m not keen on this place – it’s a bit of a dump, to be honest, but it’s close to the Crucible and everyone descends on it for the final fling before the season closes. The press are allowed in, too, and after a few drinks the questions are less about the professional and more towards the personal. How much money have I earned? How will I spend it? What’s it like to be a millionaire at twenty-one? I’m always on my guard at these events, being careful not to have any more than a couple of glasses in case I say the wrong thing. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ian giving interview after interview. He loves the attention and the sound of his own voice. Whether I like it or not, tomorrow’s papers will be as much about my earnings as they will about the win, because Ian will tell them.
After Sheffield it’s back to Scotland, and my ‘hero’s welcome’. An open-top bus tour of South Queensferry, where I live, has been arranged and I do my best to look like I feel comfortable about it. I’m honoured that I’m thought of in this way but in truth, I’d rather just go home after the win and make very little fuss about it. The victory itself has been labelled in the Scottish press as ‘one for Scotland’ and while I believe it’s more a win for me than for anyone or anything else, I’m happy to go along with the theory. For many years Scottish snooker was very much in the shadows compared to what was going on down south. Ian and I have challenged the English status quo in the most visible way possible. Scots players have previously been seen as not having the bottle to play on TV. It’s very satisfying to overturn this idea spectacularly.
And yet, this is still small-minded Scotland – the country that moans when its heroes remain local ones, and moans even louder when they have major success. My family is gathered for the bus tour through South Queensferry, and amid the cheers and clapping I can hear the odd voice shouting from the pavement about ‘hangers-on’ and the like. No doubt they’ve read all the pish in the papers about earnings and youth and success. It’s stupid and annoying but I’m going to have to get used to it. Like it or not, I’m now ‘famous’ in that people want to know as much about me as they do about my game. There are requests for ‘lifestyle’ articles – I do a couple but try to keep the answers to the questions as close to snooker as possible. There are requests for public appearances, too. I’m more than happy to take the World Championship trophy to Tynecastle Park for one of Hearts’ first matches of the season and walk on to the pitch with it at half-time, to a massive cheer. I’m less happy about the sartorial rules imposed on me that day; I turn up in a smart suit and shirt, but with no tie. Ties are obligatory in the directors’ box, where a reception is being held, so I’m forced to borrow one that doesn’t match my suit or shirt, which irritates me somewhat.
So life has become more than just playing snooker, but in fairness I’m shielded from much of the extracurricular attention by a combination of Ian’s deflection and living in Scotland. The scrutiny I get is nothing to what it would be if I lived in London, and I’ve no intention at all of going there. I’m happy just to do the occasional bit of publicity and otherwise keep my feet on the ground.
The summer break consists of a holiday in the sun, time spent with Mandy and her family in Blackpool, and playing golf. I am more visible now – it’s hard not to be when you’ve been in close-up on TV for the past few weeks – and people do greet me in the street. They’re generally polite, friendly and older. As ever, there’s quite a bit of ‘My granny loves you,’ or ‘Can I get an autograph for my mum?’ If there are hordes of young screaming groupies following snooker players around, they haven’t yet discovered South Queensferry …
Following the summer break, the plan is to smash all the records Steve Davis has set. Tournaments won, maximum breaks, ranking points and – the daddy of them all – the six world titles he has amassed. I’m already alongside him in winning the Triple Crown and momentum is right behind me as I go into the 1990/91 season, though Jimmy White has already reminded me that it will not be a walkover by beating me 5–2 in the semi-final of the Hong Kong Challenge late that summer.
Still, I win the first four ranking tournaments of the season – the Rothmans Grand Prix, the Asian Open, the Dubai Classic and the UK Championship. The Rothmans is marked by a heart-stopping moment when I discover my cue has been stolen. There is a dedicated practice room in the Ramada Hotel, right next to the venue. I’m there practising and after an hour I nip out to get a Coke. When I return, the cue is gone, prompting complete panic all round.
Now, incredibly, this is still the £40 Rex Williams cue that I picked from the rack in the Classic Snooker Centre in Dunfermline simply because I liked the design on the handle. It’s a cheap bit of wood, to be honest, and it has been the butt of other players’ jokes for ages. Frank Callan has always insisted that I need another cue, claiming that it isn’t strong enough to play a long shot to pot a red, screwing the cue ball back to the safety of the baulk end of the table. It’s a bone of contention with Frank but I insist on sticking with the Rex Williams for the reasons that it’s my first proper cue and because it suits my small hands. And with it, I’ve won a lot of silverware, including the World Championship trophy. Its loss is a massive blow.
Ian swings into action, contacting the press immediately. He tells them there is £15,000 on the table for anyone who can get it back. Pretty soon it is discovered in a bin (even the thieves appeared to have had a laugh over it) and returned. It’s a tad damaged, but otherwise no worse for its ordeal and there are sighs of relief all round. Well, in some quarters at least. In the first round I’m drawn against a player called Jon Wright and as we stand in the wings, waiting for the announcement to go out, he says, ‘I see you got your cue back.’ I confirm this to be the case, to which he replies, ‘Fuck!’ As well he might – I beat him 5–2 and go on to win the championship, beating Nigel Bond 10–5 in the final.
There’s no doubt I’m on a roll and I know it, and sometimes that leads me to shoot my mouth off uncharacteristically. One of these moments occurs at the Dubai Classic in November 1990. The country is an emerging market for snooker and we players haven’t been going there too long, so it takes a bit of getting used to. In 1990, Dubai is nowhere near what it will become as the decade progresses. The city is expanding, but just beyond its limits is a whole lot of desert and we are having to drive many miles across barren wastes just to get to the Emirates Golf Club, where we play expats during downtime. Our snooker practice takes place at the Dubai Police Club, and it’s not at all uncommon to be up against players in full flowing Arab dress. I like the place and find it interesting, though any chance of experiencing some night-life is stymied by the fact that there is little to no night-life to be had. In 1990 Dubai is still a very conservative, traditional Arab country.
I win the final very comfortably, beating Steve Davis 9–1. Afterwards, I do a TV interview during which I’m asked if I have any regrets about the tournament. Without thinking, I reply, ‘Yeah, I wish I’d beaten Steve nine–nil instead.’ Immediately I realise how arrogant that sounds, and how it didn’t really need to be said. I was trying to express how much I enjoyed winning, and winning well, but it comes out churlishly. Off the table, I’m not an arrogant person at all, though it has been said that when I am playing, I move around the table with an air of arrogance. At dinner that evening I apologise to Steve and explain that it came out the wrong way. Credit to him, he just laughs it off.
If I am arrogant, it’s only because I’m enjoying being world number one, and World Champion. There is a respect towards me from the other players that I used to notice when Steve Davis was top dog. He cultivated a certain aloofness and now I feel this too. The guys aren’t in awe of me, as such, but I sense that I’m being treated differently. The days of being ‘the kid’ in the corner are over. I love having the attention from within the game that being number one brings. It was hard getting here, and it will be even harder to stay, but for the moment I’m really basking in the sun – and not just around the pool of our Dubai hotel.
As a gift of thanks for attending the Dubai tournament, all the players receive a watch. Mine is a Cartier and I’m delighted because I have a thing about nice watches. Steve doesn’t even look at his, and when he turns up to the airport the following day, looking tired and almost missing the flight, his first action once safely on the plane is to open the box. Whatever is in there is obviously not up to his standard.
‘Well,’ he says, snapping the lid shut, ‘that’s the final boot in the bollocks from this trip.’
We all laugh, but when we arrive at Heathrow Customs the smirks are replaced by downturned mouths. Duty is payable on the watches, and some of us must cough up tidy sums. I’m stopped by a customs officer, who asks if I’m in possession of one too.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘they gave it me for winning the final.’
‘Ah,’ the officer replies, ‘that’s different rules. Off you go, sir.’ And I walk out of the airport to mutterings all round!
This particular trip to Dubai is one that some wives and girlfriends attend, and they spend their days sunning themselves while we battle it out indoors at the Al Nasr Stadium. Mandy isn’t among the party, but this isn’t because she doesn’t want to come. In truth, it’s me who would rather be alone, and this goes for most of the travelling abroad that comes with the job. I don’t want to worry about her being bored while I’m working. Neither do I want to feel under pressure to do things when I’m not at the table. When wives aren’t invited I see them in tears at airports and players phoning home several times a day. I just don’t feel that way, and I don’t particularly miss being at home. It sounds callous and selfish, and maybe it is. But I just enjoy my own space, and the experience of visiting new places. Understandably, Mandy finds this difficult to accept but as soon as I walk out of the door of our flat and towards whatever venue I’m playing, I’m off to work. My desire to be alone while I’m playing abroad will be a fixture of our years together – sadly, problems will arise because of it.
On arriving home, Ian is very keen to get me to take part in a sports-related TV show being made at Thames Television in London. Forceful at the best of times, he’s unusually insistent that I do this and so we turn up at the appointed hour to the studios in London’s Euston Road. There seems to be something going on that I can’t quite put my finger on, especially the way the blonde receptionist is trying to hide her face – then all is revealed when Michael Aspel steps out of nowhere and tells me that, ‘Stephen Hendry, tonight, This Is Your Life!’ Mandy reveals herself as the ‘receptionist’ and from behind some screens emerges a gang of snooker players, Joe Johnson and Terry Griffiths among them.
I’m stunned. ‘But I’m only twenty-one,’ I reply, genuinely surprised that anyone might be interested in such a short life as mine.
After I get over my blushes I’m led into a studio full of familiar faces. I take a seat next to Mandy, who has known about this for months, as have my parents and Ian. A parade of players is brought on, the first being Alex Higgins, who describes the time he and I practised for money (‘just to make it interesting, you understand’) and I had to borrow £100 from Ian. A couple of hours later, I took the stake back to Ian intact, plus an extra £20. After he tells this story, Alex kisses me on the cheek and waltzes off. Cliff Thorburn, Willie Thorne, Ted Lowe and Jimmy White all make appearances, as does my gran and Conrad Whitelaw, my teenage snooker pal. Conrad has made the effort to come to London and has never in his life stayed in a hotel. Later he tells me he even got lost walking up to his room from the lobby. It’s great to see him, but the times we pretended we were Jimmy White and Alex Higgins seem like a lifetime ago. It’s not just family and snooker-related guests: I’m delighted to see star striker John Robertson and chairman Wallace Mercer sending a few words from the pitch at Hearts.
After all this there’s barely time to breathe before I rejoin the tour for the 1990 UK Championship held, as ever, at Preston Guild Hall. This year I’m the defending champion, having beaten Steve 16–12 the year before, and he’ll be out to take back the title. I know I’d feel the same if I were in his shiny shoes. I have little trouble getting to the final and, predictably, so does Steve. My confidence is such that five frames in, I’ve skipped comfortably into the lead and Steve is nowhere. Good job, then, that I never underestimate him because he holds his nerve and battles me back to 10–7. From there on it’s a real tussle. Steve’s game is superb and at the start of the final two frames he’s in the lead at 14–15. So much for an early advantage, and by now I’m pretty sure I’m beat. I’ve played Steve enough times now to know when he’s in sight of the winning post. When the pressure builds he keeps his cool whatever the circumstances.
Or will he? Catching sight of the end of a match, when it’s going your way, is fraught with danger. The situation can really faze players, and cause mistakes they would not otherwise make. As I sit in my chair at the start of the penultimate frame, watching Steve make a steady break, I’m hoping for one of those mistakes. And on forty-four it comes, letting me in – until I fail to pot a tricky red and I’m off the table again. Then Steve misses an easy red to the top-right pocket, there is a groan from the audience and I’m back in the frame. But now it’s my turn to make a simple miss and on we go, with Steve closing in all the time. However, his default safety play won’t allow him to split the reds and, as the tension mounts, he gives me yet another chance, one of several in this frame. I start the break with a great red, but I also know that the positioning of the blue, hard up against the cushion, is going to cause me problems later on. Even so, the break builds and even though any miss can cost me the match, and the title, I plough on with confidence. I really want to move the blue from the cushion but it’s now impossible because of the angle I’ve left myself on the brown. An option – the only option, most players would argue – is to play a safety shot off the blue. But that doesn’t cross my mind at all. I’m going to have a crack at this. I’ve made a great break and I simply don’t see that I can’t pot the blue. It’s a crazy shot that few players would attempt, especially under these circumstances and made even more difficult by the fact I have to use the rest. If I twitch it Steve will clear up and win the match. Backstage, Ian is speechless with horror that I’m going to attempt it. But to hell with all that. I’m in the zone and I know I can do it.
I breathe, pull the cue back and hit the white perfectly. The seconds seem to slow down as it hits the blue, knocking it in cleanly. There is a short gasp followed by applause from the audience. It was an outrageous shot to take on but I’ve been rewarded for my bottle. Frank Callan, who is watching the game, tells me later that he can now ‘die happy’, having seen me build what will be one of my greatest career breaks culminating in that potted blue.
I know Steve will have been willing me on to take it, assuming I’d miss. When I don’t, he’s clearly rattled. The shot is the jolt of electricity I need to keep in the game; if anyone had said to Steve just two minutes previously that he’d be in danger of losing, he’d have written you off as mad. But this is snooker. The ebb and flow can go on right down to the wire. Steve has had a handful of chances to win this, and he hasn’t taken them. As I’ll say in an interview later, going into the final frame felt like a whole new match, especially when Steve inadvertently splits the reds on his opening shot and I get in. The winning post is ahead, and now it has my name on it. I try not to think about that and stay calm, focusing, keeping my breathing steady, yet still going for everything on the table.
In the players’ lounge, Ian has already told anyone in earshot that I’m finished in this match. He seems to make a habit of this when things appear to be going badly; in fact, there are times he will have already shaken the hand of my opponent’s manager to congratulate him, only for me to come back and win. Unfortunately for Ian (and Steve) this is heading to one of those moments. Steve sits and suffers as the reds and colours go down, and at 16–15 it’s finished. I hang on to the UK Championship, Steve is vanquished and there is talk that his era is over – and that mine has well and truly begun.
The restless relentlessness of the season marches on and I’m out for every trophy I can get my hands on. I’m desperately keen to win a hat-trick at the Benson & Hedges Masters event and the tournament goes well. So well, in fact, that up to the final I lose a total of just two frames. The path appears clear for the treble, but standing in my way in the final is Mike Hallett; stablemate and doubles partner. He’s a great player but I’m not aware of too many difficulties involved in beating him.
That’s where I’m wrong. To everyone’s surprise, not least my own, Mike storms to a 7–0 lead. He’s been practising like hell for this one following a terrible 9–0 defeat by Steve Davis at this competition in 1988, and time spent at the practice table is really showing. I hadn’t expected this at all, and I’m thrown by his sheer determination to win. After this first session I go back to my room, feeling terrible. I pick at some food and stare at the ceiling, still in shock and wondering how I’m going to pull this back, if at all.
At the start of the evening session there is hope as I pick up two frames. Mike gains another and now, at 8–2, he’s almost at the point of sending me home on the long drive up to Scotland. Having potted an easy blue he’s nearly cleared the table and needs to use the rest on the pink. I close my eyes for a second as he takes aim … and misses. I jump towards the table, potting the pink before Mike’s barely sat down. Now it’s 8–3 and I’m off the hook, temporarily at least. An interval follows immediately after the frame and Mike’s frustration is there for all to see as he stomps back to his dressing room ahead of me, thumping his cue on the floor with every step. In my dressing room I sense what he’s feeling and realise that I’m now in a good position to take advantage of his annoyance. He’s the second player Ian has brought into the Cue Masters stable – the team that Ian has built to rival Barry Hearn’s Matchroom line-up – and I know he considers himself a touch ‘second best’. So there is a bit of needle here, and he’s very keen indeed to beat me at a major event. Yet he’s the underdog, and as any snooker player in that position knows, the final frame is always by far the hardest. If I can keep the pressure on him, just concentrating on every shot and winning each frame, I can really rattle him.
As predicted, when we come out after the break Mike is thrown. In his confusion, agitation and disappointment he becomes nervous and makes mistakes, leaving me to build the fightback: 4–8, 5–8, 6–8, 7–8, 8–8. ‘Has anyone got a rope?’ Mike asks plaintively at one point. He puts up a fight in the last frame but it’s too late. It’s a scrappy frame and he leaves me a tricky brown which, again, a lot of players wouldn’t take on. Again, it doesn’t enter my head to think or care what other players might do. I have to play it with a lot of right-hand side to pot the ball, which I do, taking the cue ball off three cushions to get on to the blue. And with the pressure, the blue isn’t easy, either. I must hit it really well to get the desired action that will land me nicely on the pink. Subsequently I pot the pink into the bottom-left pocket and almost punch the table in triumph. Now I’ve won three Masters titles in a row and years later, in an interview about this match, Dennis Taylor will say he’s never seen emotion like that from me. It’s from a place of celebration, but relief too. The mental effort of this fightback, the biggest of my career so far, is draining and although I never give my opponents an inch, I do feel for Mike – especially when he’s having a few drinks in his hotel later that night and is informed that while he’s been playing me, his house has been burgled. Robbed twice in one day, poor guy.
FAVOURITE HEARTS
PLAYERS
- Bobby Prentice
- Eamonn Bannon
- Drew Busby
- John Robertson
- Craig Levine