November 1999: I’m sitting in a pub in Airdrie following an ‘Auld Firm’ game – Rangers vs Celtic – I’ve attended in Glasgow. I’m at the bar with a friend, we’re waiting for other people and although I’m trying to relax, I know that these surroundings are not my scene. The atmosphere here is, to put it mildly, heavy, and the pub itself is not the most salubrious I’ve ever been in.

If you’re well known in sport and you’re out and about, you’re going to get recognised, particularly in a small country like Scotland. Some people have no inhibitions about coming up to you to talk about how well you’ve done or (if you’ve lost) how they themselves would’ve handled themselves if they’d been in your shoes. In the latter situation, my usual tactic is to agree with everything they say. ‘You’re right,’ I’ll say, ‘I really should’ve played like that.’ Agreeing tends to defuse what could be potentially argumentative situations. But not this time.

A guy comes over looking the worse for wear and clutching a pool cue. ‘Hey, Stephen,’ he slurs, ‘gie’s a game. G’wan … see how good y’are against me.’

I shake my head. ‘No, you’re OK, thanks,’ I say.

‘G’wan, Stephen,’ he repeats, ‘gie’s a game.’

I shake my head, he turns away, then looks back and growls something in our direction. My friend has grown up around here and he’s tough. In no uncertain terms, he tells the pool player to clear off. We decide to take ourselves out of the situation by going to the upstairs bar. All is quiet for the next fifteen minutes until the drunk guy comes lumbering up the stairs. He spots us and begins snarling again.

‘He’s told you already,’ my friend says, ‘he doesn’t want to play. OK?’

‘Hey, Stephen,’ he says, pointing to my friend, ‘what are ye doin’ wi’ a cunt like him?’

Next second, they’re fighting. No doubt there are dozens of other pub scraps breaking out all over the area, but 99 per cent of them will be about football. Unfortunately, this one has me at its epicentre; not a place I want to be at all. I scarper with lightning speed to the nearest exit. Somehow, another large fight has broken out in the main bar. Fists and feet flail, chairs fly, people shout and scream, accompanied by the sound of smashing glasses. I dodge the gunfight at the O.K. Corral and make my escape through a fire exit into the street. I get into the car which brought us to the pub and unashamedly make my escape.

A year later, I will relive the whole scene in court, because my friend has been charged with assault. I appear as a witness for the prosecution because I saw the first punch thrown and, nervous as hell about giving evidence, I don’t sleep much the night before. My friend is fined £500 and that’s the end of the matter. Rough pubs and seedy nightclubs have never been – and never will be – my thing. Restaurants and hotel bars are my natural habitat now, if I’m not at home. I also consider that only a few years ago, I wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near such a pub – my all-seeing manager would’ve made sure of that.

Not now. Ian is still around, yet not much for me. In many ways I’m not complaining; I’m no longer a boy. I don’t need a father-figure – I’m a father myself. I’ve proved to Ian repeatedly that the time and effort and expense he’s poured into my career has paid off just the way he and I wanted it to. His success with me has attracted other good players to his stable and, while I’m still Cue Masters’ top player, there are others snapping at my heels, which is all good for business. For myself, I’ve done what I set out to do, which is becoming the best snooker player in the world. I’m thirty, happily married, financially comfortable and, as our drunken pool-playing friend proved, have a face that is recognised everywhere. I have it all – but do I still have the hunger which led me here in the first place?

There is the usual post-mortem with Ian on the season just gone but if there is any grand plan being hatched by management for Stephen Hendry, I’m not party to it. ‘Just carry on winning’ is the general advice. Ideas about ‘branding’ or monetising my name outside of the usual sponsorship deals are nonexistent, even in this late 90s/early 2000s climate in which sportsmen and women are truly understanding the earning power of themselves as personalities as well as top players. Some are earning as much, if not more, after retirement. In addition, football, golf, motor racing and many other sports are targets for the cult of celebrity and opportunities are building like never before for those willing to take them. In time, snooker players will be granted such chances in reality shows but for now, our game is largely untroubled by notions of fame away from the table. Certainly, snooker has its personalities, but it’s still a working man’s sport and its practitioners aren’t naturally comfortable with the limelight off the table. I include myself in that category.

I take the advice and carry on with my game. The truth is, though, that ‘my game’ still isn’t as it should be. The efforts made with Frank Callan produced a world-beating performance but as we go into the new season it’s obvious that something more fundamental is affecting my play – a combination, perhaps, of an attitude born of realising that at this stage I’m less of a winning machine and more of a human being, and a condition that I’ve yet to put a name to but which I know is physically preventing me from playing as I would like, and as I used to.

Over the past couple of seasons, I’ve noticed I’m struggling to push the cue through the cue ball properly. I don’t shake, and I don’t ‘twitch’ – it isn’t quite as physical as that. It’s almost like a reluctance on the part of my wrist to allow the cue to accelerate through the ball. When this ‘tightness’ happens, I butcher the shot. It’s a weird phenomenon, and while it isn’t happening on every shot – maybe one in ten, or even twenty to begin with – it’s enough to freak me out and throw me off my stride temporarily.

When it does happen, it makes me wary of playing a similar shot, should one come up later in the game. For a snooker player, particularly one who plays with aggression and determination, this isn’t good news. I don’t mention it to anyone, as I don’t want any other players finding out and taking the mickey out of me for ‘twitching’ shots. I wouldn’t respond so well to such banter, if indeed it is ‘only’ banter. Although I’ve integrated more with the rest of them over the years, I still like to think of myself as ‘other’ – in a league of his own. Anything that might tarnish or take that away isn’t to be welcomed.

As the new season begins and I get off to a flying start, I tell myself that maybe I shouldn’t worry about such niggles. I beat Mark Williams 7–5 in the final of the 1999 Champions Cup and a week or so later I reach the final of the British Open in Plymouth. My opponent is Peter Ebdon, a player still disinclined to give an inch, particularly when he’s facing me. He makes a great start, taking the first three frames, and I start to panic about falling behind. But there’s nothing like a challenge and I win the next four frames to take the lead. And in style, too, because in the seventh frame I make a 147, the sixth of my career in a professional event. I hold my glass of water aloft, acknowledging the crowd’s cheers, and basking in the moment.

Peter’s natural confidence is unshaken by the 147 and he wins the next frame. Once I’m back in my stride, though, it’s full steam ahead and eventually I win 9–5, a score which also boasts a break of 132 to complement the maximum. When I play like this I’m convinced no one can beat me and yet, as the season continues, I find it more and more difficult to capitalise on these two early successes and play consistently well. I’m trying hard and making my way to quarters and semis regularly. Somehow, though, places in ranking finals are becoming more elusive and I’m not entirely confident that I’ll be taking home any more trophies this season. Apart from the 2000 World Championship, of course, and as it begins the papers are all talking about ‘Hendry the Eighth’. Sure, there seems to be more and more talented players around now capable of winning the championship but what better way to celebrate the new millennium than another victory in my Sheffield-based ‘kingdom’?

Is it overconfidence or under-preparation? Is it that I think I have a divine right to the world title? Whatever reasons I have, they don’t alter the fact that I go out in the first round to a guy making his debut here. Stuart Bingham, ranked ninety-second in the world, has had to play four qualifying matches just to get to this stage and I’ve dominated here for more than a decade. I win the first frame and, this being the first round, expect to run away with the game. I’m wrong. I should know that opening rounds can be banana skins. It doesn’t matter who you are, you should take nothing for granted, and instead of doing what I think he will do – capitulate – Bingham is hanging on and is never more than a frame behind. Something about his doggedness rattles me and although I take the final three frames of the first session, including a break of 106, it’s not enough to throw him off and he replies by taking four in a row. I can only sit and watch, dejected, as Stuart piles on the pressure. At the 10–7 conclusion of the match there is no one more astonished than my opponent and no one more depressed than me. In the press conference I say that I wasn’t playing to win; instead, I was trying not to lose, and this isn’t something I’ve ever experienced at the Crucible. This is the second time in three years I’ve had to go home early, and it’s not a good feeling at all.

Once home, and as with the Jimmy White knockout of ’98, I avoid the TV as much as possible; as much as he’s my good friend off the table, I’m not keen to see Mark Williams holding up the trophy after this year’s final. It’s the first time he’s won it and I should be delighted for him. Instead, it just feels wrong. Quite simply, it hurts, though I’m careful not to sulk. I beat Mark 9–5 the week following the final to win the 2000 Premier League title, but it’s no consolation. Mandy understands that I’m feeling gutted after such a defeat, though in our world there is no time to dwell on it and I’m happy she takes that attitude. Home is home – I have very few reminders of my career lining the walls or stuck in display cabinets. All my trophies are in Ian’s club and my mum collects the press cuttings. I like the fact that when I come back in through the front door I can leave work behind.

My usual method of getting over the blues associated with a defeat is to get on the practice table as soon as possible. In recent times, though, I’ve found myself just ‘dropping by’ for an hour or two or, more frequently, taking a day off. Increasingly, this is extending to a couple of days, particularly if it’s summer and there’s golf to be had at Gleneagles. When I do go in – and providing I don’t feel too embarrassed about whatever defeat I’ve had – I’ll have a chat with whoever’s around, make a cup of tea, watch a bit of sport or news on the TV and, finally, get down to knocking in a few balls. Enthusiasm for the intensive practice routines I carried out so faithfully and regularly at the start of my career and beyond is evidently waning.

The following season is even more disappointing than the previous one. For the first time in many years I don’t win a single ranking tournament. I’m still reaching finals, semis and quarters but the focus, intensity and dedication needed to win tournaments is not what it should be. And then there’s the recurring problem of the ‘tightness’ around my cueing action, the psychological effect of which is still causing me to avoid playing certain shots I could previously play with my eyes shut. My confidence is sapped every time this happens. Before I experienced this, I could play every shot in the game. Now, I feel that it is nothing less than a handicap that creates difficulties during matches, with the net result that I’m losing to people I feel shouldn’t even be at the same table as me.

It sounds arrogant. It is arrogant, and I’m naming no names because in years to come some of those people will turn into fine, tournament-winning players. But at this point in my career it makes my blood boil to see myself losing time after time to players who are much further down the rankings than me. I sit in my chair as they clear up for the frame and I curse them; their style of playing, their mannerisms, even their clothing. And above all else, I curse myself for no longer possessing the animalistic effortlessness with which I used to sweep away such players with barely a second’s thought. Against the top players I appear to be really suffering; in the 2000/01 season Ronnie O’Sullivan beats me on no fewer than six occasions.

The 2001 World Championship is, again, nothing to write home about, though at least this time I make it to the quarter-final. ‘At least …’ just a few short years ago I’d even be annoyed if I’d won a final but played a handful of bad shots. Now I’m almost grateful to have made it through the first couple of rounds without embarrassing myself.

And yet, there are still glimpses, lightning flashes, of the type of play I had. I win the 2001 Malta Grand Prix, beating Mark Williams comprehensively at 7–1 and making a 147 – the eighth of my career – in the third frame. It’s still there, the attacking yet poised break-building of old, and looking at the statistics – one final win, four final appearances, four semi-final appearances, a great 147 and prize money in excess of £250,000 – on the face of it I’ve had a good season. But I know better, and so does everyone else. ‘Hendry out to recapture past glories’ is a familiar headline this season.

Once again, I need help. I try to describe to Ian where I think the problem lies. His answer is short: ‘Just practise more.’ It’s a fair point, because I’m not practising as I should, and I know it. However, the problem lies deeper than that. I need someone who’s been there; who knows how it feels to be sitting in your chair for long periods. The man for the job is Terry Griffiths, the former World Champion and now a highly rated snooker coach.

I’ve discovered that my cueing problems are being caused by something called the ‘yips’. Terry doesn’t like the expression but knows what it means. It affects snooker players and golfers, causing the latter to struggle with what should be simple putts. In my case, the inability to accelerate ‘through’ the ball results in weak shots. There is a debate about whether the yips is a physical or psychological condition, or a mixture of both. Certainly, I can feel a tightness around my wrist which somehow stops me believing that I can play the shot. That, in turn, leaves the ‘scar’ of a poor shot – one you avoid returning to in the future.

Terry’s solution is to change my cue action by shortening it and cutting my backswing in half. Specifically, he wants me to pull the cue back to about half the distance I currently employ before taking a shot, then strike the cue ball faster to avoid the deceleration that is creeping in during the long delivery of the cue. It doesn’t sound like a dramatic change but after more than fifteen years of cueing the ball in a way that feels completely natural to me, I must now adapt to a new technique. It’s a bit like swapping arms in that it’s going to take some getting used to. That said, it gives me something to concentrate on in practice and I’m desperately short of goals at this stage. Terry’s patience and persistence inspires me to get back on the practice table. I’ve become so stale in this respect that anything which will motivate me to put in the hours is welcome. Plus, I like and trust Terry. He knows what he’s talking about and knows when to press the right buttons. Equally importantly, he is sympathetic to my struggles but understands when a player must work it out for himself.

As ever, in the intervals during matches, I like to sit in my dressing room and read the paper. I’d rather not be disturbed but I don’t mind Terry dropping in, as he is an antidote to my increasing negativity. I’ll have a moan to him about all the luck I think my opponent is getting, and he’ll counter this by telling me that ‘luck’ has nothing to do with it – the other guy is just playing solidly, that’s all.

‘And,’ he adds, ‘you’re three-one up, Stephen. You’ve a good lead on him. Forget him – build on your own game.’

‘Yeah, but did you see that miss I made on the yellow in the third? Stupid, stupid mistake. I shouldn’t have let him in.’

‘Stephen,’ says Terry, in a fatherly way, ‘forget the negatives and concentrate on the positives. You made one poor shot. Compare that to the number of great shots you’ve made so far. You’re doing fine – honestly.’

Under Terry’s guidance the new season starts slowly but surely. It’s still semis and quarters up to the 2001 European Open, held in Malta. There I beat Ronnie O’Sullivan and Ken Doherty to reach the final against Joe Perry. It’s his first ranking final and he’s nervous from the start. After a one-sided match the 9–2 win breaks my ranking tournament drought. Then it’s back to the pattern of semis and quarters until the World Championship. Although I’d have liked more titles under my belt by this stage, I can take some small satisfaction that I’m playing reasonably well with a brand-new cue action. I’m still well up there in the rankings and if I can find that little bit of Crucible animal I know lurks within me I might – just might – pull off something spectacular this year. Terry and I discuss the World Championship and he floats the suggestion that, if I win it, I retire immediately after. ‘What a way that would be to go out,’ he says. I agree that it would be an amazing thing to do, but we decide not to mention it to anyone and see how the tournament plays out.

I squeak past Ken Doherty 13–12 in the quarter-final and am due to face Ronnie O’Sullivan in the semi. On the morning of the match I get an unexpected early knock on my hotel-room door. Slightly annoyed that I’m being disturbed on a match day, I half-open the door to see John Carroll standing outside with a copy of one of the tabloids.

‘You’d better read this,’ he says, pushing the rolled-up newspaper through the crack. ‘Ronnie’s had a right go at you.’

I take the paper, flip through the back pages and find the relevant article. As I read, I realise Ronnie’s really gone to town this time. He accuses me of being ‘unsporting’ during our last meeting at the Crucible and says that nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to send me back to my ‘sad little life’ in Scotland.

I laugh at that bit. To me, it’s just verbal sparring and I wonder – quite rightly, as it turns out – whether he’s been listening to a certain Sheffield boxer with a penchant for shooting his mouth off. In the last couple of seasons my pal Prince Naseem Hamed has visibly switched his loyalties from me to Ronnie, and the latter has been spotted hanging out with Naz’s entourage. So it’s not surprising there’s a bit of fighting talk, especially given he’s the most mercurial player since Alex Higgins.

What does annoy me, however, is that Ronnie claims not to like me. He’ll say hello to me, he says, but I’m not his ‘cup of tea’. This is news to me; we’ve always spoken and have what I think are good relations. Ronnie can be up and down, as we know, but I’ve never felt he’s had anything personal against me. Until now.

I put the paper down and head for the shower. ‘OK, Ronnie,’ I think, ‘if that’s the way you want it, I’ll not bother with you. We’ll do the talking at the table.’ And with that, I go into the semi-final determined to show him who has the mastery at this venue. It will be the first time I’ve ever played a match at the Crucible where there is a certain amount of needle involved.

Ronnie finishes the first session 5–3 up. Here and there I catch him smirking whenever I miss an easy shot. However, I’m nowhere near ready to return to my ‘sad little life’ just yet and I level with him 6–6 before breaking away to make the score 10–7, including two consecutive century breaks. Neither of us are in a mood to concede, and when Ronnie fights back to make it 12–12 I know I must find the magic that seems to exist for me within the maze of corridors around this place. Call it bloody-mindedness or just sheer determination to settle a score – whatever it is, it pushes me to aggressively take five out of the next six frames to send Ronnie home with a 17–13 defeat ringing in his ears. At the end we shake hands, but I don’t even crack a smile in his direction and I give a fist-pump to the crowd as he walks out. This has been a grudge match, no doubt about it, but the way it has fired me up leaves me feeling that I’ve played in a World Championship final and won. Unfortunately for me, the final itself is the following day.

Peter Ebdon, my opponent in the 2002 final, is now more of a complete player. He has shot up the rankings and is considered a potential winner. I know he’s one to be wary of and yet I don’t think he can possibly beat me over a four-session match. And after the clash with Ronnie, I reckon I’m on a roll strong enough to beat anyone. Big mistake. I go into the final with a feeling of invincibility and although I concentrate on playing my current opponent, and not reliving yesterday’s game, I allow Peter to take advantage of the fact that whatever I have left in the tank might not be as much as I need. He goes 4–0 up and leads for most of the match with me hanging on to him, chasing him all the way. We both make great breaks and miss ridiculously easy pots. Nerves are getting a grip of us and as I sit in my chair I grow increasingly frustrated, believing that Peter is somehow harnessing luck – that word again – to get a good run of the balls. It isn’t true, of course, but this is becoming my mindset now – focusing on what my opponent is or isn’t doing instead of keeping my cool and concentrating on my own game.

From 10–12 down I win four frames on the trot, but the pressure is enormous as the frames fall away. At 16–16 we can both see the winning line. I desperately want it to be my night. I’m convinced that an eighth win will really put my career back on track and justify all Terry’s efforts to improve my cue action. Peter goes 17–16 ahead but in the next frame he misses a simple black off the spot and I jump in to clear up and level the score. Then, in the decider, he plays a bad safety shot early on and gives me a tricky red to go for. I must attempt it because it’s a chance to win the championship. I take on the risky red and miss it. I’m now on the back foot and, as predicted, Peter makes a couple of solid breaks and wins frame, final and championship.

Losing the match and the championship really, really hurts. To this day, when I think of that final I get a sickening, uneasy feeling. The 9–0 defeat by Marcus Campbell was bad enough but, in a way, I can cope with a very uncharacteristic whitewash better than I can an ‘almost did it’ result, especially at the Crucible. And in May 2002, as I head homewards in a state of total dejection, I’m not to know that the match which should have been mine marks the last time I will ever appear in a World Championship final.