The world championship snooker is on the TV right now... and I just couldn't help myself but write this comedy open mic post trying to explain to the curious why anyone would watch this most boring of sports š
Many friends of mine ask me the question; why snooker?
Not why do you like snooker? Or why do you watch snooker?
Or even, dāyou enjoy playing snooker?
It is always just why snooker? Often followed by the exclamationā¦ Iād rather watch paint dry.
And I get it. Snooker is a quintessentially English sport. Two guys walk out with dickey bows on, shake hands and then proceed to take as long as they possibly can to pot 22 balls. But to make this immaculate process of snooker enlightenment even lengthier, they donāt pot all the reds followed by the colours in a certain orderā¦ but rather one red, followed by one colour, and on like that until even the heartiest beer-bellied pie and chips engorged snooker enthusiastās eyes are drooping in sympathy with the commentators slow drawl about the ball needing to be both a good lineā¦ and a good length.
But wait I hear you exclaim! If you donāt like snooker why the hell are you writing about it raj808?
Well, the answer is I do like snooker, in fact, I love it.
I love the boredom; I love the fact that if I recline the armchair it is a fight between sleep and how many coffees I can cram into me to keep the concentration going.
I like the Zen of snooker.
The tale of how I learned to love this most leisurely of games can be told in a tale five-fold.
A tale of enlightenment, a sutra or scripture describing...
1: Curiosity, Consequence, and the Noble art of the Piss Take
I remember sitting with my grandfather watching the snooker on a warm sunny day.
Steve Davis was playingā¦ yes I am that old, while my Grandfather bitterly declaimed how he hated Steven Hendry. āHeās got no personalityā my grandmother piped up and I sat bemused staring out of the window musing on the indefinable idea that anyone could think that Steve Davis had more personality than the other Steve guy.
āCanāt I go outside and play in the gardenā I piped up āmābored.ā
My grandfatherās eyebrows bristled and his fists clenched at the sides of the sofa āif you canāt concentrate enough to watch a frame of snooker, how do you expect to get anywhere in life.ā
This was the magical moment I realized the joy of snooker.
āSo why is he going for the yellow ball if the black ball is worth seven points?ā I asked with child-like wonder cruelty.
āBecause the black is the other end of the table you stupid boyā my grandfather thundered, brandy laced coffee spraying from his lips in outrage.
āBut if he gets the black he'll have more points.ā
āAnd heāll never get the black from the other end of the table moron. If he keeps stringing the reds from the yellow, he can eventually get to the black.ā
I nodded sagely and smiled at my grandfather, dispenser of wisdom, a prophet of the hallowed sport of snooker. He allowed me the slightest nod of approval.
āIād still go for the black firstā I trilled as I ran out of the front door to his bellows of outrage.
āStupid Boy!ā
2: The Hypnotic Power of Spin
Not all of our snooker watching sessions were like this though. I distinctly remember being allowed to stay up as late as 10.30pm to watch the snooker finals, where I discovered ā partly due to the fact that I was about 6 years old and knackered from playing football ā that once you understood the concept of spin (top/back/side) watching the snooker balls expertly maneuverer around the table was a wonderfully calming.
This was a time of peace. My grandfather had often reached maximum nap potential by now and swung between a state of muttering agitation (because the guy he had bet on wasnāt winning) to brandy-fuelled moustache quivering snores.
Every five minutes or so my grandmother would wake him up with a screech āDavis has just potted the black.ā
To which he would respond āheās still bleedin 40 points down woman.ā
You know, good old-fashioned 70ās banter between man and wife.
Invariably My grandmother would get fed up with his grumpiness and when Steve Davis did start to win would refrain from waking my grandfather, winking at me and whispering āserves the grumpy ald so and so right.ā
Yet all through this drama, my eyes would get heavier, and heavier with the hypnotic power of spin until one of them (usually my gran) had to carry me upstairs to bed where Iād dream strange dreams of moustachioed snooker balls bellowing at each other across a windy football pitch.
3: Playing Snooker is Where the Zen Begins
At around the age of eight, I had to go to an after-school care centre as my mother worked until 5 and I never knew my dad. This was where I discovered the Zen of snooker.
There was a half-sized table at āthe park centreā as it was known, and due to my enforced indoctrination into watching snooker by my grandparents, I seemed to have a natural aptitude for this game.
I used to strut around smirking like a dog that can smell its own farts every time I managed to stop the ball dead with stun, or even better draw it back the length of the table using backspin to land perfectly on the black. But beyond all my smugness, and the begrudging respect I got from the other kids I can remember this being the first time I felt the feeling of flow.
The reason why playing any cue sport is 100% better than watching it, and also strangely why watching snooker stops feeling like watching paint dry once youāve felt it is this feeling of flow. When in that flow state itās like youāre on a three thought routine; which ball to hit, what spin to leave the white for the next one, hit the ball.
Rinse and repeat.
4: Graduating to the Big Table ā Life is Struggle
This is where it all goes to shit š¤£
On the half-size table, you can pot anything. You have your spin sorted out. Youāre the master of your own destinyā¦ and balls. Using the power of your lengthy rod you can place them balls wherever you pleaseā¦ Ok, enough of that innuendo.
When you move to the full-sized snooker table you quickly learn that life is a series of uphill struggles that require great patience, practice, and perseverance to overcome to reachā¦ the hallowed state ofā¦ snooker master.
Or like me, you can just give up and start playing amateur pool š
5: The Way of English Pool ā Break and Dish
Seriously, I still love watching snooker. It is because of my knowledge of how hard it is to even become a decent amature pool player that watching snooker can keep me fascinated for hours.
It is completely possible, after 3-4 years of constant practice and regular competition to reach the point on an English pool table where you can 'break and dish' at least once/night. That means you break, pot one of the balls from the break, and then clear all your colors and pot the black without the other player even getting to touch the table.
And yesā¦ it makes you feel like a kind of cue wielding Thor destroying your opponent with one mighty strike of yourā¦ bit of ash shaped into a pointy stick
But when you watch a professional snooker player make a 147 break without the other player getting a sniff at a pot, that is just a whole other level of godhood.
Honestly, once you know how hard it is on a pool table you have no choice but to admit that they have truly reached what youāll never achieveā¦ the professionalās hallowed state of the five immaculate stages of snooker enlightenment.
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