Commentary Legend - Paul Seigel – November 2009

Interview by George Silberzahn

“What possessed me to let “Dartoid” into my life?  It was an accident, a complete and total frickin’ accident, and right here and now I want to respectfully make my apologies to the world (and my wife!). 

You have to understand that, in the beginning, there was no Dartoid.  There was just me, Paul Seigel, and I threw darts. 

Then one day, America Online was introduced, it was all new technology to me but a friend of mine, Tom Moliterno, had an account and was having a blast with it.  He was going into the Sugar Daddy chat rooms and pretending he was a movie producer.  He was going into lesbian chat rooms and pretending he was a lesbian.  “You’d make a great lesbian,” he told me one day.  I said, “Sign me up!” 

When Tom came to the point where a screen name had to be entered he asked me “What do you want your screen name to be?”   I’d never heard the term before but after Tom explained I began to throw out ideas.  “Dartboy!”   “Dartguy!”  “Dartdude!”  They were all taken.  So Tom, of his own evil volition, typed in “Dartoid” and it took.  It wasn’t until years later that some guy in New York – his name was Allan Mandeville – shocked me with a letter explaining that in medical terminology “dartoid” is synonymous with “scrotum.”  Honest – Google it and you’ll see.  The day will come when I pay Tom Moliterno back for this.  I’m just waiting for him to run for Congress.  I have photos from his bachelor party. 

Anyway, this all transpired something like 15 years ago.  I bought an annual AOL subscription for $19.  If I’d bought $1,000 of AOL stock it would be worth something like $75,000 today.  This as just one example of the sacrifices Paul Seigel has made to bring Dartoid to the world.  

In May of 1995, and again purely by accident – Dartoid became the irreverent darts humorist that has written some 400 columns about our sport.  Back in those days there weren’t all the websites that exist today – there were only a small handful.  One of the forerunners was Rick Osgood’s CyberDarts in Houston. 

Rick and I used to e-mail frequently when I traveled – and he had a chat room that I would pop into from time to time.  One time when I was in Beijing, Rick and I got to talking and he suggested I find a darts bar in China, write a little story, and send it to him for his website.  Marylou, my wife, came across the Beijing column just the other day and told me it was “crap.”  Anyway, that was the very first Dartoid’s World column listed at my website. [www.dartoidsworld.com] I haven’t changed a word because I want my wife to be able to actually prove she was right, for once. 

The geneses of the concepts that are what they are today are the fault of Tom Moliterno and Rick Osgood. So blame them. 

When I wrote the first several columns I signed them “From the Field, Dartoid” (and still do). In the beginning, Dartoid was really just a screen name, a pen name – the character was completely undeveloped and only beginning. At the time Dartoid was Paul Seigel and I was having a blast traveling the world and writing about darts.  I would go into some bar somewhere without any knowledge whatsoever about the local darts scene.  I’d just ask a taxi driver or a hotel concierge where I could find a board. 

Early on, a friend of mine in South Africa – David Barritt – who had a public relations firm persuaded me to let him develop the Dartoid idea and give the character personality.  David put a fantastic graphics artist on the case – Malcolm Allen, who, sadly, passed away some years ago.  It was Malcolm who created the Dartoid’s World logo with the whimsical little World War I flying ace straddling the dart as it zips about the planet.  This was the birth of the actual Dartoid persona.  Some believe that Dartoid is an alter ego of Paul Siegel but this isn’t so.  He may have been my alter ego when I was in my 20s.  If he was my alter ego today, in my mid 50s, I would not be able to keep up with him.  One thing is certain: we are not the same.  For example, I don’t drink, swear, or look at women.    

I get some shtick from time to time from people who think I’m some sort of mixed up soul who doesn’t know who he is or worse, knows exactly who he is but uses the Dartoid character to say things he wouldn’t have the courage to say otherwise.  I say to these people, from Paul Seigel: I respect your point of view but you know not of what you speak, and from Dartoid: Bite my arse!

So I got into all of this by happenstance and without any vision, without any direction, and without any business plan.  Dartoid emerged from my mind and experiences and the bits and bobs of others’ – and slowly evolved.  In time, Dartoid matured, at least a little, and grew beyond just a crazy hard drinking dart throwing babe ogling dude and into someone who occasionally felt compelled to offer serious commentary about the state of our sport.  Dartoid generally yields his column to me at these times.

Fundamentally, my goal, through Dartoid, is quite uncomplicated: to share the joy that is bursting in me for the sport of darts.  I try to find the words to share what it’s like to carry a board into the Congo rainforest, nail it to a tree and, to throw to the chorus of a billion insects under a giant starlight sky.  I try to share the experience of walking into a bar in a strange land and playing with someone with whom you share not a lick of language in common, but with whom – due to the universal “language” of our sport – you can discuss the finer points of the game, commiserate over missed shots and bounce outs, and even argue about scorekeeping errors.  Dartoid and Dartoid’s World is simple: the object is to promote the game I love and hopefully encourage others to give it a go.  That’s all I’ve tried to do from the beginning.  And this aim will never change.  Sometimes I feel the need to bench Dartoid and write something serious, something that I think demands to be said for the good of the sport.  I feel very strongly that after a quarter of a decade around the sport at all levels it would be wrong to be silent when serious matters come up.

I am out of the country about half of the year – and so is Dartoid. The last I checked there were 104 countries represented among the regular readership of the Dartoid’s World column.  The hits on my website go up and down.  Readership skyrockets to several thousand a day in the period of time after I post a new column and decreases to a few hundred a day in between issues.  Paul Seigel has been to 65-70 countries, and also a village called England, located somewhere in Ireland.  Dartoid has been to a few less countries because there are some that won’t allow him in.

Dartoid does not pay for himself.  Paul Seigel foots his bills.  Dartoid has a fondness for White Castle cheeseburgers and Skyline chili dogs so he’s a pretty cheap date.

Dartoid has worked hard to contribute to the darts world in many different ways.  But I can’t say to what degree he has actually made a difference.  That is for others to determine.  What I hope is that he has at least managed to share what it is that drew him to the sport and what keeps him involved and that through this he has helped draw others into the game.  And again, that’s the priority objective.  If someone reads a Dartoid’s World column, hops on a plane, finds the pub Dartoid wrote about on the other side of the world, and has a great time, well, how could I possibly not feel some sense of satisfaction?

I have set the humor and good times aside a handful of times and perhaps on these occasions have contributed to the good of the sport in a different way.  A few years back I published three or four extensive columns about goings-on inside the Minute Man Dart League [MMDL] and the league has since been revitalized considerably.  This doesn’t mean that the columns had anything directly to do with anything – there is a smart and very dedicated group of people who stood up, said “Enough!” and brought about much needed change in the way the league is managed.  But I’d be less than honest if I were to suggest that being on the fringe of all this was not a satisfying thing. 

Dartoid’s World was out front pushing the concept of a National Darts Regulation Authority in America – not just a linear body that oversees and demands proper sportsmanship within the American Darts Organization, but rather a body that ensures and enforces appropriate behavior among all players regardless of which organization they are involved in.  More to the point – and it would seem obvious (but it is not the case, even still today in 2009) – if someone playing in an ADO-sanctioned tournament punches somebody out or slashes somebody’s tires and gets caught they may be penalized by the ADO but this does not prevent them from continuing to sully our sport by crossing over to another organization.  This is wrong and must be corrected.  And in my opinion, in both these instances, the offending parties should be banned from organized darts forever.  Cooperation among the various governing bodies is essential to achieve such positive change.

Of course, it’s quite well known that I feel strongly that anyone convicted of a sex crime, particularly against children, and who is listed on the National Registry of Sex Offenders should not be allowed near any sanctioned darts event – and banned from darts web forums.

Darts is a gentleman’s sport – and the sport that “begins and ends with a handshake” should be respected for what it is, and its history and traditions.  Darts is a family-oriented activity where everyone should be able to take their child to a darts event and expect to have a positive experience.   While Dartoid is usually focused on the fun and the camaraderie – after all, this is why 99% of players are involved in our sport – the column also offers commentary on important issues that impact the game.  I hope that to some degree, at least from time to time, such breaks from humor force some people to think.

I’ve made a tremendous number of friends through darts and Dartoid has made it possible for me to do that because people read Dartoid and they want to meet the person who writes Dartoid.  Pretty much any where I go these days the game comes to me (and the beer is free!).  If it wasn’t for Dartoid I would not have met and played and enjoyed the occasional beverage with the best players in the world – or the worst.  People don’t give a rat’s ass about meeting Paul Seigel.  They want to meet Dartoid.  And let me stress something that many may not appreciate: Dartoid wants to meet them even more.   For Dartoid the joy is not just in the game.  It is just as much in the forming of lasting friendships, outside the “real world” of business, with other people who live for the game.  For Dartoid and Paul Seigel all of their best friends are involved in the sport.

On a purely selfish personal level, slipping into the Dartoid character and writing about darts is always a welcome break from what I do day-to-day.  My business is intense, serious, pressure-packed, and non-stop.  Some people jog.  Others dig in the garden or read.  Paul Seigel, as Dartoid, picks up a set of darts or begins to write, and life becomes relaxing and sunny again.

Not that many people have the opportunity to travel all over the world and it isn’t darts that’s made it possible for me; it’s business.  Many years ago when I would be away – often for three of four weeks at a time – meetings would begin at breakfast and last through dinner, every day.  There was no respite.  Then one day – in a sort of epiphany, I suppose – I simply decided the routine was ridiculous and had to stop.  So I made a change – I gave my evenings back to myself.  Since that time, I have dedicated my evenings and weekends on the road to darts.  And then I write about it.

I am a fund-raising consultant.  I help international animal protection nonprofit organizations raise money to fund their program activities.  That’s the short answer.  Truth be known, I don’t think my parents, who have now both passed away, ever had a clue what I do.   And sometimes I’m not entirely sure that my clients know what I really do! 

My clients are spread around the world.  For example, a number of people might recognize the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, founded by Captain Paul Watson.  He was one of the co-founders of Greenpeace.  The organization is based in Friday Harbor, Washington.  For the past two years and again this year there has been a documentary program running on the Animal Planet entitled Whale Wars, where the Sea Shepherd crew battles the Japanese whaling fleet in the Southern Ocean Sanctuary off Antarctica.  To do what the Sea Shepherd’s do – to fuel their ship(s), supply them, feed the crew, and run campaigns elsewhere in the world - costs a bundle of money.  The same goes for any nonprofit organization.  That’s where professional fundraisers like me fit in.

There are numerous ways to generate income for a nonprofit organization. Starting at the lower levels, of what is commonly called the fundraising “pyramid,” there are small donors, who are generally recruited into an organization with direct mail.  There are ongoing direct mail programs, electronic web-based programs, monthly giving programs, major gift giving programs, events, corporate and foundation programs, and then there’s the whole planned gift area where supporters can tailor all kinds of instruments – from simple bequests to things like charitable gift annuities, charitable remainder trusts, and many more – to balance certain tax advantages with their philanthropic desires.

I am generally first asked to do something called a development audit or assessment.  I study what an organization has been doing to fund their programs, assess strengths and weaknesses, opportunities and threats, and evaluate how what they are doing or not doing is integrated with their communications and campaign functions.  The assessment flows into a development (fundraising plan) which I then help implement or provide continuing counsel on.  In many situations I write direct mail copy; in others I cultivate and solicit large donors or planned gifts.  An average day begins well before daybreak with telephone calls to Europe and Asia and ends late with similar conversations with clients on the west coast.  That’s what I do.

Contrary to the opinion of some, the point of Dartoid’s World is not to piss people off, although this does happen.  But also contrary to what some believe, I do have a life outside of work and darts and writing about darts. 

I was born the son of a poor black share cropper.  As you can imagine, growing up black in a white man’s world wasn’t easy.  Wait!  That’s Dartoid talking there and that line is stolen from a movie! 

I was actually born in 1953 so I am something like 35-years-old.  I was a swimmer as a kid and into college.  I attended the United States Military Academy at West Point but didn’t graduate (although I am an expert at shining shoes).  I was a political fundraiser for several years before switching over to the non-profit arena in the 1980s.  It was in 1980 that my wife, Marylou, and I were married – and that is the best thing that ever happened to me.  Next fall we’ll have been married for 30 years!  We have a daughter, Jami, who lives and works in Columbus, Ohio.  And we have always had a house full of golden retrievers.   

Darts is tough on relationships but I don’t really feel that the ways of Dartoid have had a negative effect on my marriage.  It’s true that after all these years Marylou still can’t understand how I or anyone can talk nonstop about darts for as long as a clock can run.  Although she loathes admitting it these days, she knows more about darts than most people I know who are involved in the game week in and week out.  Marylou has her special interests – music is one of them.  She probably has 3,000 CDs but I’ve only listened to maybe 10 of them.  She’s a writer and has written several novels – she’s currently working on a screen play and two books, one about George Harrison and the other a sort of adventure thriller about the endangered wildlife trade that actually has a strong darts theme.  What Marylou definitely appreciates is the need to take a break and that, for me, throwing darts and writing about it, is just something I need to do.  She used to come all the time to my league matches and the tournaments and she’s traveled all over the world with me.  But now-a-days our golden retriever, Bentley, refuses to let her follow me about on my travels.  Plus, as is the case for many, the smoke in darts halls is something she finds offensive. 

Yes, it’s true, I wrote a book.  It’s called It’s a Funny Game, Darts. Life.  I don’t know what my expectations were for the book.  From the outset, I told the publisher that I had no expectations, that I wasn’t in it to make money.  I suppose I just thought it sounded like a cool idea to have a book out there.  But what do people think when they get into something like this?  Probably there was a part of me that contemplated the fantastical.  Might I make millions?  Might a Hollywood producer call and offer me more millions for the movie rights? 

I just don’t know.  What I do know is to the extent that I may have harbored any expectations, or fleeting hopes, along such lines I did not realize any of them.  The book sits on a few shelves and that’s about it.  I think there’s a bunch in the publisher’s basement.  So, I guess, having no real expectations, I met them!

I’m not sure that any book about darts – certainly not the usual tutorials – has much of a chance to sell in any significant way.  There have been a few novels (and for my wife, I am optimistic that there is a market for a good well written novel with a darts theme intertwined), a boatload of tutorials and some things in between.  My book was a collection of Dartoid’s World columns but I’m not sure that there was the fodder between the covers necessary for success.  Certainly there was little there that had not already been widely circulated.  So when I think back on the whole book thing – and even the column – I sometimes think I should have started writing about poker.  I don’t know any more or less about poker than I do about darts – I once lost $400 on a hand of one-card Indian Poker — but neither, it seems, do a lot of the people who write and commentate on Texas Hold’em, and some of them are banking some serious spending cash.

For whatever reason, in terms of other people’s books, if there is a darts book published I am asked to review it. I guess I am asked to do this because people read what I write – so the author’s figure if I review their book, even if I trash it, people are going to go get the book and read it and agree or disagree with me.  So they see my involvement as free promotion.

There aren’t many reviewers of dart books.  There is my great friend, Patrick Chaplin, certainly.  He is asked quite frequently, possibly always.  There’s Superstars of Darts [www.starsofdarts.com] founder, Andy Fairclough.  There’s David King at Darts501 [www.darts501.com].  And of course there’s Jay Tomlinson from Bull’s Eye News, another great friend.  And then I guess there’s me.  If I was an aspiring darts book author I’d be afraid to send a review copy to any of us!

And I do continue to be an aspiring darts book author and there’s quite a bit on the horizon.  In due course, there will be another compilation of Dartoid’s World columns published.  There will be a book out soon called The Year in Darts – 2008.  I’ve been running a series this year reflecting back on the sport in 2008 and these columns will be accumulated in a new book.  There will be a book about the World Series of Darts.  The event will probably never happen again and I’ve written about 25 columns on it in 2006.  There’s another one in the works on the Professional Darts Corporation’s [PDC] Las Vegas Desert Classic.  And there is one that is ready to go to print now called A Brief History of Darts, for which Patrick Chaplin has written the Foreword.  And then there is my wife’s novel, on which I am collaborating a bit.  It will certainly be better than anything I’ve ever written because my wife is an actual real life writer who doesn’t suck, like me.

I haven’t had a storied darts career.  I’ve thrown darts in many countries and in a lot of remote and exotic out-of-this-world locations, but I am far, far from a professional.  I know what to do.  I just can’t do it consistently.  These days I don’t play league at all.  I don’t practice.  I might throw for a week or so before a tournament.  I still get to tournaments every month or so.  To the extent I have had a “career” it all began– just as Dartoid and Dartoid’s World, by accident. 

I was given a dartboard – one of those cheapo paper-wound dartboards – when I was something like 10-years-old.  It had a baseball game on the back.  I had no idea what was going on.  I would just throw handfuls of darts at the bulls-eye.  I could stick a dozen of them in there at a time.  It beat doing homework.

About 20 years ago I was waiting with my wife and another couple in the bar in a restaurant while a table was being made ready.  There was a couple playing darts against another couple and my friend’s wife asked if I wanted to team up and take on the winner.  I said, I knew nothing about darts.  She said she’d tell me what to do.  So that’s what she did and that’s what I did – and we won!

We all went into the restaurant and I came out about an hour later to get a beer.  There was this little hairy guy behind the bar who asked me if I had ever thrown darts before and I sort of chuckled and said I had not.  He commented that it appeared earlier I knew my way around the board.   Probably I should mention that the little hairy guy was blind?

Seriously, his name turned out to be Chris James and we eventually became close friends.  He wasn’t just the bartender – he owned the whole joint, called Pizza Village in Yarmouthport on Cape Cod.  Chris told me he had a darts team that competed in a league.  He invited me to stop by some night and check it out.  A darts team?  A darts league?  I’d never heard anything so screwy in my life.  There wasn’t a chance in a million years that I was going to get involved in such nonsense.

About six months later though, well after midnight, I was driving by the place and there were some cars parked out front.  I figured, what the hell, I’d take a look – I’d grab a beer.  Inside there was a big match going on.  A couple of “D” level teams in the Cape Cod Dart League [CCDL] were going at it and they were having a great time.  A half-dozen beers later I was on the team.

We were called the Village Idiots and over a few years we advanced through the ranks, from “D” all the way to “A” – where we lost in the finals  

As I said, Chris and I became buddies pretty much straight away and he took me around to all the bars with boards – and there were dozens and dozens of them on the Cape.  We’d order a beer, play just one game, drink the beer, and head to the next bar.  On a few nights each week we’d hit lucks of the draw.  My addiction was beginning and Chris was my pusher.

So I played for several years in the CCDL and played in the MMDL for part of a season.  During this general period I was traveling to England for about a week each month so I substituted for a team there in Crowborough, East Sussex.  I’ve played league in Tampa, Virginia Beach, and Philadelphia – and was even on the league board in Philly for a month, or more technically, one meeting.  It was a bit by trial and error, but I learned pretty quickly that being a captain or a tournament organizer or a board member was not for me.  I just wanted to play.  And write.

Everybody has their thing.  That’s just life.  People are naturally attracted to what they enjoy most and do the best.  Some enjoy organizing tournaments like Chris Bender.  He does a phenomenal job in Virginia Beach.  Chris and I had some great league battles and we’ve partnered before, like you and I have, George, but, also like you and I, we were horribly unsuccessful!  Others find enjoyment in other aspects of the game.

Although I haven’t gravitated towards some sort of leadership role – as a captain, board member, or organizer – and while I am certainly not a professional, I have a deep appreciation for what goes into attaining and performing in these roles and great respect for the dedication and hard work that goes into performing them well. 

I have to resist the temptation to contemplate “who contributes the most” to darts because to so or to try to indentify just a few among so very many who contribute so much, would by definition almost ensure that many people who should be recognized are missed in the process.  I have already mentioned Chris Bender.  He is a great shooter, has been a great captain, runs super tournaments in Virginia Beach along with his wife, Linda, and all this obviously impresses me.  There are dozens of others who come to mind like, for instance, Pete Citera in Chicago.  But there are so many people who have made and are making a difference that just to mention Chris and Pete is to be unfair to others.  I could say that John Lowe and the late Barry Twomlow are, in my opinion, the two greatest worldwide ambassadors of our sport.  What Patrick Chaplin has been contributing to the historical record will not be fully appreciated for how amazing it is for years and decades to come.  But where does mentioning these people – something I should not have done – leave Phil Taylor, Eric Bristow, John Part,  Tommy Cox, Dick Alix, Sid Waddell, and an endless list of others?  I observed what Chris White and Rob Heckman just did to help government officials and organizers in Shanghai put together a phenomenal tournament. What they are giving to the sport is not appreciated at the moment, not in the slightest.  I do have a column in the works about this tournament and I plan to highlight their role – but to name Chris and Rob, or any of the others I have mentioned, is really quite disrespectful to so many more.  

The name that leaps to mind as to who, at least in America, might have the greatest impact on the sport were they to chuck it all tomorrow, is Jay Tomlinson.  Jay publishes the only magazine about darts in the United States, and has for years.  It’s one of the few darts magazines that exist in the world and if the darts community woke up tomorrow and Jay was gone, one must wonder who would fill that void.

Somebody else, who has had a massive impact, which many people are not aware of – because he is a very quiet and unassuming individual – is Glenn Remick, head of the American Darters Association (ADA).  [Paul did this interview the day that Glenn died, before he knew of the loss.]  He was largely responsible for the bylaws of the NDA and advises them.  He was integral to the ADO in earlier days.  He’s been around since the fledgling days of the MMDL.  He is a promoter’s promoter, but only associated with the ADA by most people today.  If Glenn hung it up there would be a huge vacancy.  On the other hand, I know that Glenn has long been training his very capable son, Karl, to someday fill his shoes.

Stacy Bromberg has for years stood head and shoulders above all the American lady darts players.  But if she retires tomorrow – and while her accomplishments will stand forever – someone else will step up.  The same thing applies to Phil Taylor.  It was the same in the days after Eric Bristow tore up the darts scene. Darts will go on and it will continue to grow.  This is because there will always be players and from this pool there will always be extraordinary players – and those who have a knack for driving the critical infrastructure that all of darts stands on.

Second to the product itself – the actual sport – players are the most important thing to darts.  Everybody else just makes it better.  All the credit in the word is due the Barry Hearn’s and Jay Tomlinson’s and Glenn Remick’s of the world and the multitudes of others but without the players the sport of darts would not exist.  Everybody else just facilitates.

Those people who are captains, board members, tournament directors, officials, product sales people, sponsors, and promoters – have pretty much all come from the ranks of the players.  As I have already said: people gravitate towards what they enjoy and do best.  And so I come back to the product…

If darts wasn’t all that darts is – if it wasn’t power and precision, tense but relaxing, literally war among friends – and fundamentally, at least in my book, spiritual – there would be problems.  But because the product is so exceptional and the because players, both the old-timers and the new recruits, are so committed, if one of the people in the so-called hierarchy of darts were to drop off the map tomorrow, I have absolute confidence that just as they bubbled up from the ranks new leaders will emerge.

So what I am saying is that if darts wasn’t darts there wouldn’t be players.  But because darts is what it is, in every respect, there are players and participation is growing across the States and the world. 

How do Dartoid and Paul Seigel fit in to all this?  That’s one of darts’ great mysteries!  I suppose after all these years people come to me with questions because they know, quite possibly, I will share a perspective that is unique.  I suppose they read the Dartoid’s World column because, for the most part, it’s about the purity of the sport.  It’s fun.  It’s irreverent.  It’s self-depreciating.  It’s real.  And generally it’s constructed so there is an uncertainty as to what’s coming at the end of each sentence and paragraph – and usually a message.  I’d like to think people follow the column because they love darts and know that, whether we agree or disagree on a certain topic, they have a kindred spirit out there – Dartoid – who is certain to make them think while also prompting a chuckle or two.

When it comes to the hierarchy of darts of what is important to darts, you must appreciate that Dartoid and Paul Seigel are nothing but bit players and neither of us take what we do seriously. 

The Dartoid’s World stories are true.  I lead an interesting life. So does Dartoid.

What Paul Seigel tries to do is find the similarities between the Dartoid character and the rank-and-file darts player and bring those thoughts and feelings – those commonalities – to life.  There are only a handful of bona fide professional darts players in the world and even they began as recreational shooters, just the way I did. 

I believe that there is a bit of Dartoid in all of us and what I try to do is help Dartoid speak in a voice that all darts enthusiasts can relate to. 

My worst darts experience?  Well, it pops into my head immediately.  I wrote about it.  The column was called “Ban Assholes!”  I was at a tournament, in a luck of the draw, and the guy I drew – it was one of those things that just happens – had absolutely no tournament experience.  The two people we were playing were experienced and, in fact, one of them was at various times quite highly ranked in the ADO point standings.

We were on 51 in the first leg and my partner was up.  He didn’t know what to do and I told him to throw the 19.  It wasn’t the yips or dartitis, but he couldn’t let the dart go.  He was just too nervous.  So this guy who was ranked was behind us going crazy.  “Throw the dart!” he’d yell.  “Doink, doink,” he’d follow up with, over and over, in very aggressive fashion, while pantomiming tossing his darts into the 19 and the double 16.

So finally, my partner lets his first dart fly and hits the 19.  He then struggles even worse with the finish and doesn’t really come close.  Our opponents quickly ended the leg and then the match.

There was actually much more to this incident and some of it, thankfully, I have forgotten.  What I vividly recall is how I felt – how during the moments this all occurred how embarrassed and disillusioned I was that somebody new to the game had to have that experience.  These feelings were compounded by the fact that the person responsible for what happed was someone who had been around the sport for a number of years.  The entire experience was the utter antithesis of everything that I, through Dartoid, try to do to get people involved and to experience the joy I have for the game.  Now, as it happens, this particular individual and I are friends today – but what happened happened.  Fortunately, I haven’t had many “worst” experiences.

The opposite is true when it comes to “best” experiences.  They are just so damn many.  I wouldn’t know how to begin to whittle the many down to a few, let alone just one.  Almost every time I go out – to a bar or a tournament, wherever – I have a flat-out wonderful time.  So on any given day I would have to say my best darts experience is the one I enjoyed most recently.  So today, right now, having just retuned from China, I must point to the Shanghai International Darts Open.  Even the PDC – and they put on some spectacular shows – could pick up a nugget or two from the guys who staged this event.  There were colorful dancing dragons.  There was confetti flying.  There were dancing girls.  An Olympic gold medal diving champion handed out some of the trophies.  There were participants from Malaysia, the Philippines, China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Japan, Thailand, Russia, England, New Zealand, the United States, Canada, and even Mongolia.  The thing was quite a sight. 

But Shanghai was just my most recent best experience.  Tomorrow night I am meeting up with three guys I have never met – Scott Groves, Joe VanVoorhees, and Lance Kent – to throw for a few hours in Arlington, before I catch my flight out of National Airport the next morning.  As sure as I am sitting here talking to you right now, I am positive that two mornings from now my answer to your question would be Arlington, not Shanghai.  I just love the game that much. 

I have a lot of memories but every time I go to throw darts I have a wonderful time.

The soft-tip “invasion?”  I’ve followed the progress of electronic darts for a long time.  Dartoid used to go after it quite regularly as impure and bad for all humanity.  But both of us have come full circle.  I’ve now spent a fair bit of time with Medalist’s Lee Pepperd and even went to Las Vegas this year to get a sense of the NDA’s Team Dart extravaganza.  The bottom line is that I now think the electronic game – and particularly the way many of the tournaments are structured, offering a degree of parity – is a benefit to the sport.  It’s bringing in new blood. 

At the end of the day people can say all they want about the size of the doubles and triples, bounce outs counting, the Freeze Rule,” electronic scoring, having to shove quarters into the machines, and all the rest – but the reality is that the playing field is the same field for everybody. 

So I think the electronic game contributes in a significant way to the bright future I see ahead for the sport. 

Something must be going right.  In fact, somewhere in a little room in Hollywood someone else must recognize this because you literally can’t punch a television remote these days or go to a movie – or even watch a commercial – without a dartboard appearing on the screen.  Of course, the board is usually hung about waist high or behind a file cabinet or something.  But there are definitely people in high places cognizant of the burgeoning popularity of the sport, both steel and soft.

In fact, what I’d like to do in my next life – or tomorrow, if Steven Spielberg is reading this – is be a consultant on hanging dartboards for Hollywood.  I think it would be a good gig.

Just what do I see for darts in my crystal ball?  My, what a question!  My crystal ball has beer on it…

I believe Barry Hearn will be successful in his bid to retire Olly Croft.  I believe this will lead to a unified darts world championship within the next five years.  I believe there will be a world champion from Asia before 2020 and that this individual will be from the Philippines.  I believe we will see the day that darts is a full-fledged Olympic sport.  And I would not believe any of this if I were not certain that with respectability comes respect and with respect comes progress – and that the day is not far away when darts is no longer associated with overweight deadbeats and drinking beer and smoking cigarettes and accorded the stature that I think, for the most part, it already deserves.  

What would I impart if was asked to speak to a room of beginners, people who knew very little about darts and were thinking of becoming involved?  As it happens, just a few weeks ago in China – along with Rob Heckman, Chris White, and David Fatum – I found myself in pretty much just this situation. 

The group assembled was all just starting out and they were asking for advice how to practice and so forth.  Rob, Chris, and David – all professional-level players – gave the kinds of answers one would expect.  And the answers were great.

My perspective is different.

My advice is to first determine what you want out of darts.  If you want to be the best in your league, or city, or country, or world champion someday there are certain things you must do.  But if you just want to go out and have a good time with friends there are different things you should do. 

In the first instance, of course, practice, more practice and practicing right is the most fundamental component of success.  Who am I telling this to?  The George Silberzahn!

If your goal, if your reason for becoming involved in darts, is to have a great night out with friends – just like you do shooting pool or playing foosball or playing the bar trivia game – then recognize that, for you, darts is entertainment.  You don’t have to get the best out of your darts.  You don’t have to purchase the newest set of darts on the market.  You don’t have to hold the dart correctly.  You don’t have to perfect technique.  You don’t have to understand the math.

All most people need to do is understand what darts means to them.  You have to appreciate why you’re involved – that you’re out to have a good time.  The fact is that a fair bit of improvement will come even if you do everything wrong!

My personal view is that a lot of the best players in the world struggle after they reach the upper levels because they are unable to relax the way that once came so naturally – when they were not taking the game so seriously.

Darts should be about friends and fun.  Maximums are great.  High outs are great.  Winning is great.  But Paul Seigel and Dartoid are not going to lose a wink of sleep after a night of throwing poorly.  We’re quite used to it anyway!

Our message is simple: embrace every minute of play and never lose the joy.  This is exactly what we intend to continue to do at the line and with our writing for as long as we are able.”

Where did I go wrong? Did I set my sights to high? I’m crushed; feel cheated; violated.

I’ve worked so hard at getting everything exactly right, and I included in my work everything that would be of interest to others. How could that work not be recognized?

I’d even checked flight times to, and hotel availability in, Copenhagen in anticipation for the trip I just knew I was going to take.

Then, this morning, I find out that someone named Herta Mueller won the Nobel Prize for literature. The Swedish Academy had passed over my book: “DARTS Beginning to End” in favor of hers? And she didn’t even mention darts in her work!!

It’s obvious the people at the Swedish Academy know nothing about darts or the importance of the game/sport to the well being of the world. What a travesty of justice!!

I’m contacted by many who have been at the game/sport of darts for a long time and are not happy with how well they play. They wish to rise to the next level, what ever they view as the next level to be for themselves. In fact, the dart game/sport is mostly populated by people who do not believe reading about darts is required. My guess is that 95% of those who have darts as part of their lives do not take it seriously enough to consider studying as part of the game. I do not mean study in the sense of formal education courses, far from it, after all I’m talking about a pass time game here. At least that is the case for many who have darts as part of their lives. There is nothing wrong with this mind set until and unless the person begins to think about getting better at it. When they begin to think about becoming a competitor, a dart shooter, is when they run into problems.

Flight School has been constructed to help dart nuts get the kinks out of their game and some of the kinks are above the shoulders. As many have pointed out, and wonder about, mind set and attitude has a lot to do with how well a person plays this game so those things are important for someone who wishes to perfect their game beyond being a league player.

Many miss the point of practice. They think spending a lot of time in front of a dart board will make them better at the game. This is true, to an extent, but as I point out in my book, with the results of a psychological study to support my view, once a person gets past the neophyte stage it gets more involved and the specific type of “practice” becomes very important. No less enjoyable, but critical to improvement. Missing this development element is what allows so many to stagnate at a certain level of play which no amount of dedication seems to help. They never get any better.

Some become impressed with how much they’ve improved, so fast, without doing anything but playing a lot and this is what leads to stagnation at a certain level. They play well enough to win against most players and even some shooters and so become complacent about not needing to learn any more about practice, or how to practice. They just believe they need to do more of it.

With FS I try to instill a mind set about practice and short cutting to just a couple of drills seems to by pass that, which means an important part of FS is missed, so it is less likely to provide full effect.

FS is not just a couple of “games” to play. It is a whole progress program which helps with mind set and preparation for stiffer competition. As I say, repeatedly, there are no short cuts, no easy ways, and no silver bullets to perfecting the way you do it.

The Margin of Victory

The most satisfying and clarifying part of a winning effort comes after the actual event -and sometimes long after. It shows up uninvited and unexpectedly.

Nothing particular on my mind and out of nowhere a recollection pops up, which becomes a review of an event. The review of the event revolves around a singular accomplishment within the moment. It becomes a ‘thing.’ And the fact that the ‘thing’ happened at all is more vivid than the event. My revelations occur during these recollections. It’s when I’m permitted to wonder at the ‘how’ of the ‘thing’ without concern for arrogance or pompousness. It’s when real appreciation of the ‘thing’ is realized.

When in competition, in a single elimination situation, there are moments when your ability to perform is sorely tested. There are as many of these winning effort moments as there are games played. But out of all the moments in the entire day or life time there is that one event, with that one moment, which becomes of particular note. It’s the moment when all the work which has been done in all three kinds of practices is drawn upon. It’s when you have one chance to make the shot at hand.

Here’s one of many recollections I’ve had. It’s one of those moments when I literally felt the crowd of spectators hold their collective breath for the less than half a second it took for the ‘thing’ to happen.  I don’t remember the where, or the who, or the when; only the ‘thing’. And the ‘thing’ wasn’t really all that unusual, but rather, ordinary. But it has crystallized for me the margin of victory between competitors at the game of darts.

I was involved in a very tight singles match in a later round of eliminations at a large, well attended, national tournament. You know how some of the best matches are played in the earlier rounds and there aren’t many spectators because everyone is still a competitor? Well, this one occurred after a whole bunch of competitors had become spectators but before those spectators had become customers at the restaurant. We were down to the deciding game, we were both banging away with good scores (we were on our game) and the preceding games had come down to who had the first dart at a double for the win – neither of us was in a missing mode. Need it – hit it, was what it what was. My competitor had just put himself on a double and was set to win on his next turn. My turn with forty to go (double twenty) – stuck the first dart just inside the wire of the double twenty – twenty left; switch focus to the double ten – find the hole – drive the dart into it, stuck the dart just inside the wire of the double ten (click) - ten left; switch focus up to the double five, find the hole, and ……… feel the spectators hold their breath!? Sense the tension the crowd was feeling? One dart left, just missed two in a row?

For that brief instant, tension literally filled the air but I was not involved in it. I was more an observer than participant. My competitor had that second in which he averted his eyes, suppressed the hope I would miss so he wouldn’t jinx the situation, but allowed just a glimmer to rise of the prospect he could get a shot at the win. It was that interminable moment through which dart shooters suffer, and it goes on for what seems like minutes, while you are awaiting the outcome of the ‘thing.’

The realization that ‘thing’ brought me is that out of all the games contested during a tournament there will be one which will be different. There will be one which meets the “test” level. There will be your “test” shot.

There were times when I knew the dart in my hand would be the last one I’d shoot in that round of that event in that tournament. I’d either continue in the competition or I’d be out of it. After all that had gone before it, there was that one dart which would decide the outcome of the entire effort.

The appreciation of what it takes to do the ‘thing’ and achieve the accomplishment prompts me to wonder at it. It’s not just the difficulty of the ‘thing,’ it’s the ‘thing’ in the moment, under those circumstances, in that situation.

I was able to pass the test. I was able to put the dart in the hole, when everything rode on the performance in that instant, that puts a smile on my face in the quiet of my den, over my snifter of twenty year old port, where there is only me.

That’s the margin of victory in darts.

I’ll take that kid

I joined a team in Philly in 1973, through Bob Thiede. It was the Manor Bar.

Bob Thiede; Lenny Craig, Dick Yost, Norm Finley, Bud McDonald, John Sheridan, Lenny Macy, Charles Ochichnowski, Bob Miller, Bill Samuels, Mac Namara were on the roster. This was a pretty good bunch of players.

I’d seen a few Philly players at tournaments and some in a couple of bars where I’d been “visiting.” I had some luck finding people to play against in a couple of places so I thought I’d try going over to Philly again. There were so many bars and dart players over there in Philly that I figured this could be a pretty good pond in which to fish. Not so many people knew me so I might have some fun.

Here’s something you should know about me augmenting my income through darts. It was sort of like fresh water fishing as opposed to salt water fishing. In fresh water you can pretty much narrow down which kind of fish you are likely to hook if you pay attention to some things. If trout is your kind of fish you start looking in trout streams, for bass you look in lakes, for catfish you look in slow moving mucky water and so forth. In salt water if you stay “inside:” that’s inlets, sounds and marshes, you can pretty much limit the kinds of fish you might hook, but if you go outside you are limited to bottom fishing or trolling to try for specific types of fish. In salt water, out side, you never know what will jump on your hook. OK, you get my drift. So – there is a certain level of dart player I liked to find when fishing for darts players. The intention was not to pump up my ego or work on my emotional practice, it was to pick up a few bucks and I wanted to do it at as little risk as possible. I needed to select the pond carefully since each pond has a big fish in it and that fish was my target but I didn’t want a shark in the way. Plus, in smaller towns, the word got around pretty fast and return trips to the pond might be spoiled. I didn’t figure Philly as one big pond, but as a bunch of smaller ones, neighborhood ponds, where I might be able to go fishing for a very long time.

Getting the fish to nibble at my bait was an art. The life of a darts fisher is limited in any case, because as soon as you are recognizable the game is up; the word gets around very fast. Winning at prestigious tournaments didn’t help with keeping under the radar and I had been doing that, but they were all out of town and Philly darts people knew very little outside of what happened in their neighborhood if it didn’t have anything to do with someone known in the neighborhood, so I had been able to skate out of sight. Just another guy that showed up and got lucky then disappeared again. No one knows where he’s from, no body cares.

Self preservation required me to be adept at not making those who lost to me angry at me, which is a skill all to itself. I say this because I liked the game and the people in it and wished to be involved in league and social play on an ongoing basis if I couldn’t “fish” anymore. Sort of having my cake and eating too.

I certainly wanted to avoid playing against the best people at the game. That would have been counter to my goal and put winning at risk unnecessarily.

Knowing all the above, it’s Saturday, I’m heading for Philly to see what I can drum up so I figure I’ll stop in the Manor Bar to check it out.

Hard to find a parking place; they must be giving away beer in this place. (I found out later there was some kind of tournament being played) It looks promising, I’m thinking. In I walk. Nice place, pretty clean and lots of people at the bar and dart cases all over the bar too. These are dart people!! A couple of dart boards but no one playing. This is looking better all time. I take a seat and look around. A few stools down is some guy named Ray Fischer I’ve met at a couple of tournaments. I figured that meant the end for my fishing trip since this guy was one of the best in the country. As I looked around I noticed there were a number of guys in that place that were highly ranked country wide. At that time the center of dart expertise in America was the Delaware Valley (Philly and its suburbs, which included Southern Jersey). The guys in Philly thought it only included Philly. I was going to get a coke and then quietly head for some other place. I nodded in recognition to Ray.

Ray was the butt of some good natured ribbing going on. A group of guys wanted to play for some money, partners, and as they were picking who would be partners they kept at Ray to pick somebody. Afraid to lose; worried the moths will get out of your wallet; no body wants to be your partner? These kinds of things were being tossed around amid raucous rounds of laughter. After a couple of minutes it didn’t look as though Ray was enjoying it all that much. We caught eyes and Ray mouthed, “Want to play?” A quick glance told me no one saw the exchange. Here was Ray Fischer, one of the best, asking me if I wanted to be his partner against this collection of high powered shooters. How could a guy not jump at that chance? I nodded. Ray waited a few minutes and then he said, in a nice strong voice, “OK, I’ll take that kid,” and he nodded in my direction.

You’re probably ahead of me on this, but. My name was never mentioned. The others there didn’t recognize me. They didn’t think of me as anyone to be particularly concerned about. After all, I wasn’t from Philly, and they didn’t know me, so how good could I be?

We played, and as with a lot of neighborhood bars, especially one owned by a dart player, (this one was owned by Charlie Young, one of the better players) people would borrow money from the owner and put an IOU in the cash register to be paid later. As teams would either run out of money, or run up enough IOUs, they dropped out. We were playing heads up, teams, winner kept the board, loser got back in line to challenge.

It got late; it was nearly time for Charlie to close, although if dart activity was hot and heavy he’d just lock the door and the play would continue. Someone asked Charlie for some more cash to get into the next game and Charlie says, “I gotta close.” This was out of the ordinary. Charlie explained: “There isn’t any more cash in the register, only IOUs, and looked over at Ray and I. No mystery where all the money was. It was there with the two guys with the big grins on their faces.

Two things ended when Charlie had to close on time: the dart matches that night, and my ability to wander around in N.E. Philly unnoticed on fishing trips. That part of Philly was really a big little town. 

Befriending Jim White

Camden New Jersey is a city which has changed a lot and like all the other cities, neighborhoods are bounded by streets. Most of the time they are four or five blocks in size, sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller, depending upon the city. As with about all neighborhoods, the demographics changed from one neighborhood to the next but in the sixties there weren’t all that many mixed neighborhoods. One is Italian, next might be Polish or Irish or Chinese or African American or some other ethnicity. And there were different kinds of bars within each neighborhood.

There were lots of places where a guy would go with a date or his wife or look for some female to meet. Nice places, clean places, places with dart teams and pool teams and shuffle board teams and like that. And there were Bars and Saloons, which also had the same types of games in them, but a guy would never think of taking a “nice” girl or wife into such a place. These were rough and tumble joints, mostly. They were rough and tumble mainly because of one element of society which frequents these places. The street wise types, the muscle beer types and the motor cycle gang types and the just plain gang types. One thing about the kinds of people who hung out in those places: they were gamblers. Not to suggest that there wasn’t gambling in all the other bars and taverns but these folks would bet on anything, anytime, and they had no sense about money. That was the distinguishing feature most of them shared. They would collect their weekly pay from what ever they were doing, mostly payday was Friday but sometimes Saturday, depending on if they worked Saturday, because if it were any other day a number of them wouldn’t show up for work the following day.  In they come with their cash or check and first things first would pay off their bar bill. The owners of the bars knew their clientele and that was a condition of letting a person run a bar bill. By the time they left the bar on payday a goodly percentage of them would have little or no money left. They’d spend it on over drinking and buying others drinks and betting on about every game that was in the bar or on sports pools. If they couldn’t play the game they’d start betting on those who were, if it were a decent match.

So, given this information, what’s a simple guy who loves to play the game of darts for fun, and sometimes use money as a way to keep score of who won the most games, to do? Not a lot of the upper level darts guys frequented these rough and tumble places so the poor things in these places were left to pass their money around to each other. Someone had to help with this situation and being the Good Samaritan that I was I accepted that responsibility.

So it came to be that I walked into a bar in the Kramer Hill section of Camden New Jersey in 1970. I don’t remember the place’s name. There were two doors, one from the back parking lot and one from the street, on opposite sides of the building. From the back door entrance, as you entered, there was a dart board on the wall to the left, and a bar along the wall on the right. There were rest room entrances at the far end of the bar, booths along a wall that was half the length of the bar and one wall of the restrooms, with not much room between the bar stools and the booths. A pool table was directly ahead just off another wall, which was this side of the rest rooms.

Two guys at the bar, one on a stool the other standing and talking to the one seated. The one standing had that look of a wiry, quick and strong guy. His shoulders sloped and his arms were well tuned. He had that demeanor about him that shouted “Street Wise.”

Belly up to the bar, draught Bud, I say. This was no place to order a coke if you didn’t want to get noticed. I lit a Chesterfield, leaned on one elbow and turned my attention to the dart set up behind me.

“You play,” came from the guy standing? Yea, I like the game, you? “I’m on a team, in the league. I’m not as good as I used to be, I’ve been away from the game for a while.” Wanna play, I say? “Yea, I’m Jim,” he says. George, I say. Something about Jim that strikes me the right way. I like the guy. We play one game of everything counts for six innings and I win by a few points. “Want to play for something, Jim says” Sure, I say. A beer, I ask? “Yea,” Jim says. We play, I win and I see Jim is not very good at this. His stroke is short, his body lunges just a touch and he can’t group his darts worth a hill of beans. Since I’m such a nice guy, and I like this guy, I decide to put my fishing pole away. I back off enough to have the games go back and forth. “You’re good at darts, huh, Jim says?” Since I’m being nice, Yea, I am, I say. Some how, Jim sized the situation up, an instinct from the street I guess. “Looking for a money game, huh?” I nod, not so’s anybody should know, I say and smile. We connected.

Anybody come in here that plays for a few bucks that I should know about, I say? “Some, Jim says. Maybe somebody will show up.” We talk about the league, and Len Craig and other people for a while.” Jim looks past my shoulder and says “Here come a couple of guys who play a lot in here.” I cast a casual glimpse and we continue talking while the two guys get into a dart game. Jim tells me he knows them by sight but hasn’t played them. Jim says, “Wanna try ‘em?” Partners, I say.

Jim gets us into the game. We play a couple of games for drinks and it looks like we need to call games which favor having one strong partner so I suggest that to Jim, quietly. After a few more games which go back and forth I quietly ask Jim which one will go for a few games single O. Jim tells me. We’re partners all night, right, I say? And we both know how we want this to work. I’ll get to the right guy eventually and we’ll split the winnings.   “How about we play for a buck a game, Jim asks?”

I’ve been playing a reserved game, winning when I had to, letting Jim win the game for us when he could, just pacing and sizing things up. Like, which innings does this guy prefer and which games does he rather play. I’m nibbling on my beer, back turned to the board, when I hear voices rise. Jim and the two guys have a disagreement over a shot which was made, or not, and eyes became locked over the exchange. Now I didn’t want to lose a chance at a few bucks and this set up was too good to lose. I could beat this guy without even breaking a sweat so I had to resolve this quickly. Jim had the darts in his hand and I saw him put them down while looking at one of the guys. I knew what was coming. Both those guys were bristled. Not a good thing.

I step about half way toward the other team. I got this Jim, don’t worry about it, I say. I turned to the two guys and Jim stalked off to the bar far enough to be out of reach but close enough to where he could get right back if needed. I learned what the disagreement was, understood I could handle the situation and let them have their way. I took my turn, made the shot, a difficult one it was, and that ended the game.

We played only a couple of more games before the other’s quit playing and left the bar. Jim and I split the few bucks we had, got a couple of more beers and then I left, saying I had a few more stops to make before I called it a night.

Not being one to shirk my responsibilities I returned to that bar again the next week. Jim was there. He greeted me like some long lost brother. There were maybe a dozen people in the place and he told everyone; “this is George and he’s my friend,” he guided me to one of the booths. He instructed the barmaid: “George doesn’t pay for anything tonight.” Wow, because we won a few dollars? This is strange. Great, but strange.

We sat and began talking, well, me mostly listening. Jim unloaded. He was the King of Kramer Hill he told me. He owned this place, he said in a matter of fact tone. One of the women at the bar got up and headed toward the rest rooms. The distance from the booth table to the bar was only a couple of feet, and as she got even with us Jim planted his foot against the bar, blocking her way. “You want a girl tonight, he asked me?” I didn’t know what to say. Jim didn’t wait; “How ‘bout her. She looks good, huh?” This woman was with some dude at the bar so I knew this was going to get real bad, real fast. I looked up at the woman. She was standing stark still her hands just above Jim’s leg, but not touching. She had a frightened look on her face. Here comes the guy, and trouble. The guy walked the few feet down the bar, in our direction, but just as he got close to where we were Jim stopped him. And me. All Jim did was look at the guy and say; “Sit your ass back down.” The guy backed to his stool and sat. The woman stood without a movement.

In a flash I understood what he’d said. He owned this place – which had nothing to do proprietorship of this bar or Kramer Hill. Jim was a genuine bad ass. And I was his friend. Therefore what ever I wanted to do had his blessing. Oh, my God, how do I get out of this?

Thanks Jim, I appreciate this but I’m really not in the mood for it right now. I’m looking for some dart action. His reaction was something else. “Sure. That’s cool.” He dropped his foot, the woman forgot about going to the rest room, turned and walked straight out the back door with her guy right behind her. As if nothing happened Jim took up talking again. We’re low on beer here, he said and two showed up right quick. We visited in Jim’s “place” for an hour or so and I learned what he meant by what he’d said the first time we met. He had been away from darts for a while. Yea, in the slammer for murder was why he’d been away. He’d beaten some poor sap to death. Some how his conviction had been over turned and he was now out. It had been his second conviction. He told me some about his history and wasn’t bragging about it. He showed me his hands as he talked about why he couldn’t play darts all that well. The knuckles were all lumpy and a bit crooked. Got that way from punchin’ guys out, he explained. Seems he picked up money by helping collect over due “loans” once in a while, among other odd jobs kinds of things. He was telling me things which could have been true, but I knew for certain he was the genuine article.

As I sat listening I was wondering what had happened that put me on such a high scale with him. A dart game? Doesn’t seem likely. Then it struck me. I had told Jim I’d take care of a problem for him. Not in those exact words, of course, and certainly not with the intent that Jim attached to it. I’d been talking about handling the dart game situation and Jim thought I meant I would handle the two guys for him. I was protecting the King of Kramer Hill? What kind of bad ass did he think I was? And more importantly, how could I get out of there without him finding out what a mistake he’d made?

This was one time when being able to hustle really did come in handy. The ability to let someone believe what they wanted to believe, even without facts to support them, can be a blessing. I’ve not been back there.

Jim played one game for Apollo, the team which won the championship that year. Team members Bob Thiede, Joe Dick, and Jack Fletcher all averaged over 50 and Len Craig only averaged 49.91. Jim, in his game, shot 40, and nobody died.

Leaving Babe Kelly’s

Some years earlier Babe Kelly’s bar was a neat kind of place in a neat kind of city neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood where there were houses, not just row homes. Babe’s was easy to see, but hard to get to. Just as you leave the toll booths on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, in the far right lane, on the way to Philly not Babe’s, if you looked very closely down into the clutter of buildings you could just make out the little front window with the red and blue Pabst beer neon sign in it.

It was 1967. The little neighborhood had become an island of what used to be, surrounded by what it became.

Hick Wright, Lenny Craig, Norm Craig, Gordon Nelson, Bob Scarduzio, Ted Rzepski., J. Lassman, W. Kingsmore, and Larry Walker were the players on Babe’s team that year and they were winning everything in site. Even won the league championship.

My Team, Riverside Inn, played Babes team at Babe’s place. Needless to say, this being one of my early years in the “Big League” I was pumped that night. Just to be around those guys was exciting. Hick and Lenny were already legends in our dart world. The way our league was set up our team only played another team once per half season. That’s twice per season. And that made these matches a big deal event.

Hick was born old, I think. At least he was old when I met and played against him. Must have been in his sixties?! He is also memorable for me because I had managed a 64 point game, which was the highest in league history to that date, and that old man shot a 67 to beat me. And I had to watch. The other time someone did something like that to me it was a team mate of mine, Harold, Ducky, Dillon. I had a three game score of 172, again the highest of the league, and I watched Ducky shoot a staggering 183. Never before and never again did that happen. 

Hick wore an old cardigan sweater that had holes in the elbows. It was an ugly old thing all stretched and dangling. He kept a clump of masonry line chalk in the stretched out, frayed, right pocket of the thing and all around that pocket the sweater was covered with line chalk. I don’t think he ever had it cleaned. I think it was his lucky sweater like some athletes have sox or underwear or hat. Imposing stature and demeanor, a craggy lined face, piercing eyes all added to the field of intimidation that surrounded him, for a newbie like me.

That night was a tense thing for me. I got to shoot a couple of games even though I was a rookie on the team, but not without an attitude, mind you. I was respectful of these giants of the game and I wanted to shoot against Hick after the match but, the poor old thing had to leave before the match ended so he could get to bed. The match ran late and it was after midnight when it was finally over. Strangely there was no money games played. 

When Babe closed up, he really closed up. Bars on the windows, and inside the doors. He was a tough old codger, I’ll say. A bar owner all his life and saw many a hard situation. Someone asked him if he worried about being robbed what with being practically under the bridge and no street lights; and certainly no cops patrolled the area. He said his place could only be robbed over his dead body. A few years later I learned his place had been robbed. Just way he said it would have to be.

What with Babe closing, it being late, and me being excited about the whole match thing I didn’t realize I should have hit the men’s room before I started home. I’d hardly got started when I realized I was nearly in an emergency situation. This realization coincided with another realization. I was surrounded by neighborhoods where I would stand out very much were I to get out of my car. There were a lot of very angry people at that time and there were some of them who wouldn’t take kindly to me being in “their” neighborhood. Especially considering what I was in need of doing. A light in a window! Dim, and bluish, yea, and it indicated that the kind of facilities of which I was in need would be in that place with that neon sign. 

And a parking spot right in front of the place? This had to be divine intervention. Locked the car, mounted the two steps, opened the door and stepped inside. Really dingy in there. And smoke filled. It took a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust and when they did, I found there were multiple sets of eye boring into me. Quick like a bunny I found the men’s room sign and headed for it, feeling the eyes following me. Once inside, with the relief I so desperately needed occurring, my attention shifted to sounds coming from through the walls. Thump, thump, thump. There was something very familiar about those sounds. Darts!!! That was the sound of darts hitting a dartboard. Now, you can draw what ever conclusion from what I did next but, in retrospect, I’ve decided I had no common or any other kind of sense at that time. The siren’s call was too much for me.

I left the men’s room and walked along the bar, it was an oblong affair, passing turning heads and glaring eyes. The wall of the men’s room on one short end of the bar. My eyes were adjusted enough to see that the place was about half full of people who didn’t seem to be all that pleased I was in there. I walked along the long side on the men’s room side, rounded the corner to the other short side of the bar then walked the along the short side to the next corner and, against every bit of safety sense, walked past the door I should have been nearly running out, to where the darts were being shot at the other end of the bar. I’d walked all the way around the bar in this place which could be described, without exaggeration as dangerous!

The bar had drinks on it indicating the dart players took up the four seats so I stopped at the next one in line. The bar tender came to where I was. It was then I noticed he’d been following me in my trip around the bar. Not a word did he say. He seemed to be trying to figure out if I was insane or some real bad ass. Draught was all I said as I laid a buck on the bar and lit a Chesterfield. I turned my attention to the dart players. There were four of them playing partners and my intrusion didn’t seem to be alarming to them. I watched a few games without incident, but I did notice the bartender seemed to stay close to where I was.

Sizing up the dart situation took my attention completely off my environment. I was next to a dart board, with people playing who didn’t look as though they were all that good and they were playing for a dollar a team. I could use a couple of dollars I reasoned, so I went into lets get into this game mode. These kinds of things usually break up at about the time of night it was so I looked for the signal that my timing was right. It was. I’d just ordered a second beer when one of the players said he’d had enough and was heading out. Here was my opportunity. I’ll take his place if you want to keep playing, I say.

The guy who was leaving shot a glance at me, picked up his change, finished his drink in one gulp and walked out. The guy without a partner seemed confused about what to do. Not until later did it dawn on me that having a partner like me would be against all this guy’s instincts. Too much to handle. He explained that he’d better get on home and left. The player I’d identified as the “Big Fish” of the four seemed to weighing something. The guy who had been his partner made up his mind by saying it would be OK if Big Fish wanted to play heads up.

“We’ve been playing for money here,” came from Big Fish. I can play for a little, I say. “Half a buck a game,” Big Fish virtually demanded. OK, I say. We settled on three inning games and shot the cork. I was in good form. Win one, lose one, win two, lose one, win two and lose one and so on. We’d played for close to half an hour and things were working right along. I wasn’t leaving money on the bar since I didn’t want anyone to notice how it was going. The guy I was playing just seemed like any other dart player. We didn’t talk all that much but what there was seemed cordial enough. Along with sizing up how much money there was to get and considering raising the stakes if I could, I noticed that he wasn’t drinking much. I’d had three beers; they were little 5oz draughts, once the flow begins with that stuff it comes out as fast as it goes in so off to the men’s room I go. Again I was feeling all the eyes in the place following me but who cares, I’m winning some bucks. Once inside, as I leaned against the wall, the sounds from the bar came right through as though the wall wasn’t even there. A voice I hadn’t heard before asked, “How’re you doin’ with that boy?” Then the voice of the guy I’m playing answers. “I’m down some. That boy can play a bit.” Then the strange voice again. “Don’t you worry, he won’t get out of here with anything.”

Sense rushed in all at once. Where I was crashed in and something close to panic struck. When I walked back around the bar I was as calm as I had been when I made the trip the other way, as far as anyone could tell. We took up playing again only this time I was winning one and losing two. Without anyone noticing I took cigarettes from the pack and put them in my pocket. It took about fifteen minutes for everything to be right and the current game ended with me winning. I’ve got to run out to my car and get some cigarettes, I say. Half full glass of beer, money, and a crushed, empty, cigarette pack on the bar, out I went.

Flew is a way to explain how I drove from that place. Eyes in the mirror, foot on the floor. There must be a Dart God.

Meeting Wes Keys

Deep sea fishing takes patience. First you have to find a spot in the ocean that looks as though there are fish in it. Then you cast your lure and pull it through the spot, being careful not to frighten the fish away, always alert for a strike.

The usual spots where I went looking for fish had been pretty much empty for a couple of weeks and it was Sunday, the day that fish were hardly ever around, even during good times.  I’d heard of a couple of spots which were new to me, up along route 70, around Marlton, So I figured maybe I’d try there some time even though it was outside my usual area for trolling.

Something about South Jersey you should know. This area I’m talking about is due east of Philly, just across the Delaware River. First places you come to on the Jersey side are Gloucester or Camden or Pennsauken or Burlington, depending which bridge you cross. My home town, Gibbstown N.J., is about 20 miles or so south of Philly, and it had about 2500 people in it, (only three towns smaller anywhere around) one traffic light and three bars: Billy Burts, Cheeseman’s and Kenny’s. Gibbstown was on the southern most end of an area that ran about 50 miles north by 30 miles east where there are towns and towns and towns and more towns, and south or east from Gibbstown it was farms and orchards with ponds and lakes scattered about. As you drive in the area you cross from one town to another and there is hardly ever a sign that tells you which town you are in. This will give you some understanding of the density of people in the area. Traveling 10 miles was a long way through towns. And every town was a unique place but most of them seemed hooked together, there were no dividing spaces where there were no buildings. Some were tough kinds of places, like Gloucester & Camden, and others were a bit upper class, like Haddonfield & Audubon. This area is packed with people and bars. The time period I’m talking about was through the 1960s and the only dart game played in South Jersey was the American type of game. It wasn’t necessary to travel very far to find a bar and crowd that you’d never seen before.

So – it’s Sunday – I hadn’t found a game outside of league night for a while – what the hell - off I go looking for the places I’d      recently been told about. The town was named Marlton and was about 25 miles away. I drive up route 130 through Woodbury and to Ellisburg traffic circle in Belmawr and then on to rt. 70, and through Collingswood and Haddonfield to Marlton. Drive slowly; look for the places on both the left and right since I didn’t know where, exactly, they were. I know the names of the places but not what they look like or their addresses. I spot one. It’s on the right and I’m in the left lane and can’t get across the traffic in the right lane, of course, so I look for a place to do a U turn. As I go I spot one of the other places and it’s on the other side of the street, right where I’d be turning to. I make my U turn and come to the other place first. Since I’m here why not check this place out? 

Not very many cars in the lot and that’s not a good sign. It looks kind of dumpy but let’s see what we have here. Dirt parking lot, door in front on the street side, Schlitz beer neon sign in the window. Inside its sort of dingy, TV behind the bar, one person sitting at the bar, talks with the barmaid. It is early afternoon which is not really the best time for fishing. The dart board is on the other side of the bar where the rest rooms are. Yea, hi, just a coke I think, thanks: to the frumpy looking bar maid. She’s seen her better days. I light a Chesterfield; half the ash trays still have butts and ashes in them. The place smells like stale smoke and beer taps that need cleaning. It’s sort of like the joint is getting over a hang over from the night before. Like this is a night time place not used to daylight and doesn’t like it.

Nothing to do but drink, look at the TV, or talk to the barmaid or other guy. The guy at the bar has the appearance that most bar flies have at that time of day: rumpled clothes, needs a shave and probably a bath. Shot glass in front of him, half full, and a glass of beer, also half full. Looks like it might be a lively place on the right night what with tables over by the wall where the rest rooms are and a bumper pool table over there too. Shuffle board behind me along the wall on the street side. It’s a hang out kind of place.

I take my coke around to the dart board side of the bar. Search around for the light switch on the dart board. I’m told the bar maid will turn it on. Thanks, I give her. I shoot a handful and discover it really is early afternoon – my arm hardly works. I’d better throw some to get some kind of stroke. I could pretty much tell this place was not going to pay off. I killed twenty minutes and two cokes, and then headed for my car. There was another place just up the street, between where I was headed in the first place and this joint I was just leaving. I pulled in the lot, three cars, not looking good but who knows? Same act. Just a coke I think, thanks, to the bartender. There’s a dart league schedule on the wall by the dart board. Hope brightens. I recognized the names of a couple of the bars on the schedule, looks as though Thursday night is the night in this place. I could turn the dart board light on myself. Three guys at the bar, watching TV, one has a bottle of beer and the other two have shot glasses with what looks like water back. Heavy boozers in the afternoon are not dart shooters. The beer guy could be, so let’s go into the act. Walk to the dart board, turn on the light, shoot a few. Well, they feel better than they did in the other place. Coke is gone, order another one? No, maybe a small draught beer this time. Can’t drink coke all day, that stuff will get you so wired you can’t sleep. That’s supposed to be from the cocaine in it I think. After about another twenty minutes beer guy leaves. OK, that’s long enough here, lets go see if there is anything at the place I started for in the first place. Some body with too much money for the talent they have will probably walk in just after I leave: wouldn’t be the first time. I’m already thinking about a couple of other places I know of but it is just too early in the day for them, even considering the travel time to cover the miles and towns to get to where they are.

Let’s see what this place has to offer. Bigger, paved parking lot, and steps to climb to the door. Hey, the place looks kind of clean. Hi, no, I think I’ll just have a coke, thanks. Four guys are on the far side of the U shaped bar, dart board is on this side of bar. Two guys sitting at a table in front of the window about even with the u part of the bar. This looks like it might be one of those days, maybe I’ll just call it quits. But not just yet, maybe someone will come in.

Over to the dart board, find the light switch, shoot a couple of hands full and go back to my seat, which is at the bar about six or eight feet behind the oche. Nibble at the coke, wander back up to the board, putz with the darts, keep and eye on the guys on the other side of the bar because they’ve noticed what I’m doing. Back to my seat and look at the TV for a few minutes. Nibble some more at the coke and head back to the board. “Pardon me,” comes from the shorter guy at the table by the window. “Want to play a few games?” Sure, nothing much else to do, I say. You want to warm up? “Nah, I’m not very good so it won’t make much difference. “ Oh? OK. Want to shoot the cork to see who calls the game? “Huh? Yea, sure.” He is not as bad at this game as he seems to want me to believe. It shows, in the way he is so comfortable. I’ll give you one I say and I’m thinking: come close to the cork but don’t hit it. He misses outside my shot. Every thing counts for six innings, I ask? “Yea, sure.” I’ll go second, I say. “OK.” He shoots, two doubles, scores four, with one dart outside the scoring area, I shoot and hit four too, but one triple and one single with one dart outside the scoring area. He can group two, I can’t.  We take turns for the six innings, both hitting fours and fives; I have one dart missing most of the time. No sign of being able to group three darts from me, or him.  I never win by more than three points.

How about we skip the cork and just play loser first, I ask. “Alright with me, he says. You want to play for something, he asks?” Oh, I don’t know about that, I say. He shrugs, “makes it better to play for something.” Yea, I guess. How about a drink, I say? “I’m full of drinks, he says. Why not play for the price of a drink or a quarter a game?”

I like how this is going. It’s not so boring now. Well, I guess that would be better. I can only drink so many my self. I guess a quarter would be alright, I say. We play the same game again. This time he wins by two. “I got ya on that one,” he says with a big smile. I give him a quarter. You made a couple of good shots, I say. OK, same game, I ask? “How about three innings instead of six, he says?” Why not, I say. I shoot first and this game I win and again it’s by three. Gimme my quarter back, I say, and he smiles. “Same game” he says as he shoots first. I’m sizing him up for an increase to $.50 a game. We play for about fifteen minutes and then other guy at the table says, “Why don’t I get in the game too, no sense just sitting here?” The situation changes, big time.

Hmm, I think. I’m caught between the two of them. I’ve seen this before. I need to watch how this goes. I need to be very careful here. This could go a couple of different ways.

“OK,” says the blond haired guy (he’s the short one who got up first). Did I mention the blond haired guy spoke with an accent? Sounded like Swedish or something. “Shoot the cork, He says?” Sure, I say. No body introduces them self and nobody seems to mind that we don’t know each other’s name. I’m liking this more all the time.

We play a few games. The dark haired guy seems very comfortable around the board and his stroke is much smoother than the blonde’s. I’m about one quarter up when the dark haired guy says “Let’s make it fifty cents. No body’s getting hurt here.” Blondie says “OK with me.” I guess that would be alright, I say.

I’m still working on what’s happening here. And we play a few more games. I’m now about a dollar up. Blondie says “I got to go to men’s room,” and darky says “C’mon we don’t have to wait for him to come back.” Yea, I guess, I say.

We play two games he gets one I get one. Blondie comes back. “I’m tired of playing, I’m going to sit down and have a drink.”

It is now me and Darky playing three inning games for fifty cents a game. Ah so, this is the way this is going, I think. I win the next game and the next then lose the third. Darky is now hitting fives and sixes pretty steadily. “You play pretty well, huh, he asks?” I don’t do bad, I say, with just a bit of attitude. Darky hears what he wants. We play a few more games. “What do you say we make it a buck, he says?” I’ve seen seed money lost early before. I glance at the money on the bar by my coke. Sure, I say.

Now Darky has heard and seen exactly what he wants to hear and see. Darky walks to his table, sips from his drink and says something to Blondie softly enough that I can’t hear, while he looks out the window for a few seconds. We play a few more games and Darky is now hitting sixes and sevens and my coke now has more company, in the form of money. And now it’s the kind of money that doesn’t make noise when you drop it.

Darky walks over to Blondie, speaks to him softly enough that I can’t hear, while he looks out the window and takes a sip from his drink. He decides now is the time. I’m ready to be hauled in, hook firmly in my mouth. “You’re doing very good. How about two?” I take a drink from my coke and move the money on the bar around a bit with one finger, I can go for that, I say.

Darky is now getting down to it. He is hitting sixes, sevens, and eights in tight little groups of darts and my coke is getting more dollars for more company. He is winning games, and often. The ones he is losing are being lost by one, two or three points. He is just barely out of the money and only needs to improve on that one dart. He also knows I can’t keep this up and he just needs one more point to change the direction of the flow of money before he tries to raise the stakes.

Darky walks over to his shill, Blondie, sips his drink, looks out the window and speaks softly to Blondie. Blondie says something to him. Darky comes back to the board and makes a proposition. “You’re getting into me pretty good there, and we’re waiting for our dates to show up so how about giving me a chance to get my money back?” I touch the money around my coke. I can go for that, I say. “Two innings for five bucks?” Sure, I say. I have now been set up for the kill.

We get to playing; the only words exchanged are used to call the game. We’re playing winner calls the game and loser first. We play for maybe half an hour. Darky walks over to the table, takes a sip of his drink, looks out the window and speaks softly to Blondie. Blondie says something. Darky says “I’d like to stay here and clean you out but we have to go get our dates for dinner. You’re lucky you caught me at a bad time.” There’s nastiness to his tone.

As I toy a finger around in the money by my coke – It’s really too bad you have to go, I say.

You’re lucky I got to go, comes from Darky, with a bite to it.

I look him dead in the eyes - The only thing you got to do is remember that in order to hustle some body you have to be better than they are, I say.

Blondie and darky left. As I pulled out of the parking lot I was thinking about how really effective losing one and winning two is. On another day I learned from some people in Philly that Wes Keys and his money backer traveled all over Philly hustling and his big mouth got him in a lot of trouble. And hurt a bit.

Too bad they had dates that were supposed to show but then they had to leave to pick them up before I could find out just how much faith Blondie had in Darky.

Fishing on Sunday can be fun. Especially when you get to meet a Wes Keys.

Equal darts

How much of an advantage is playing from the first position? At the highest level of competition in steel tip 501, winning against the darts still occurs with some regularity due to the difficulty of the game and the exhaustive length of matches but in soft tip 501 this situation is becoming a detriment to the game, as I believe it will to steel tip eventually.

Way back the game being played was 301 and as the skill level of shooters increased something had to be done about the advantage of playing from the first position so the folks in UK lengthened the game to 501. Next they lengthened the game to 1001, and in some instances 3001, but soon dropped that approach in favor of extending the length of matches by playing more games of 501. They are still looking for a way to overcome the advantage of going first while testing the ability and consistency of the competitors.

The way a high level competitor gauges how well they play is different in soft tip than in steel tip.

For comparison’s sake we’ll leave how ending the game is accomplished (D in D out, O in D out, O in O out) out of this and concentrate on the part of the game of getting the score down.

When competing in steel tip its how many big scores you make that defines whether you get first chance at the win. When competing in soft tip its how many darts you miss that defines whether you get first chance at the win. This may sound the same but it is not. Three turns is the best it gets in steel tip: 180; 180; 141 and four turns is as good as it gets in soft tip: 150;150;150; 51.

Why not go for a three turn game in soft tip? The bull’s eye is large enough that it is much easier to hit eleven consecutive bulls’ eyes than to hit eight consecutive triples. The bulls’ eye is so much easier to hit than the triple twenty that it has become the preferred scoring area. A top shooter, on their game, is as likely to hit a perfect game as not. A solution might be to play split bull so scoring 50 becomes much more difficult because the double bull is only about the size of a dime but that has not been the way things have gone so far. So the situation for soft tip competitors remains, and a shooter who decides to go for a three turn game will put themselves at to much of a disadvantage to take a chance.

In steel tip, the battle seems to have gotten to how, when and which person shoots for the bull to decide who gets the advantage of going first. It’s a sign of how competitors see the significance of being first which is a measure of the skill level of the competitors. This battle occurs at tournaments but not so much in league play in America. The skill level of local players hasn’t risen to the point where going first really shows its advantage. Finishing 501 where each competitor has two or three turns at the double negates the advantage of going first. Being the first at the double is only an advantage if the person hits the double. Once a competitor going first misses the double, it becomes a struggle to see who can hit the thing and having been the one who first had the opportunity is not significant.

Back to defining who gets first chance at the win through skill at scoring. In soft tip the difference is, more often all the time, one dart; the one which misses the bull. It is important to not miss a dart in soft tip because the likelihood of competitors both having that level of skill is common.

In steel tip the difference is, most often, hitting a big score one more time than the competitor because the likelihood of both competitors having that level of skill is limited by the highest scoring area, triple twenty, being as difficult as it is. Hence – the measure in soft tip is how many darts you miss and the measure in steel tip is how many darts you hit.

This means the separation between winner and loser in soft tip is much narrower than in steel tip. Between two equally skillful, high level competitors, being first becomes nearly the deciding factor for who wins and has begun eroding the whole thing about who is better at the game. Steel tip may be facing this same situation in the not to distant future and may already have at the professional level.

I believe being first should not be so important to the outcome of a contest. The determinant for winner or loser should be skill at the entire game. There are many more people capable of soft tip four turn games than there are those capable of three turn games in steel tip so this detriment to competition is more pronounced in soft tip.  

So- what would happen to competition if we were to eliminate the advantage of going first? I submit this would be a very interesting prospect. The fact that the person being second in order of play would have the opportunity to tie, or beat, the person in the first position, because they used fewer darts to reduce their score to zero, would add a level of drama to competition which is currently not there. This would make the contest much more interesting, don’t you think?

Now to explore how, or if, this could even be done. Let’s start with soft tip since that is the game most in need. The current machines can not accommodate the change; they are programmed so that as soon as a score is reduced to zero the game is over. This makes the difficulty and cost of reprogramming the computer an obstacle. Before considering the reprogramming obstacle a conversation needs to begin concerning whether soft tip people would even want the change to occur, and that conversation might be very trying.

The concept of equal darts is not one which very many people have ever heard of, let alone considered playing. The situation of having ties, where the whole game would need to be re-played, is foreign, and as with everything different there will be those who will object on those grounds alone. It’s always been this way so that’s how it should always remain will certainly be the mantra of many.  But the conversation should begin. In soft tip there may even be a chance equal darts could be added as another option programmed into the machine. After all, soft tip is American and Americans are into changing and modifying and trying to improve things.

The situation with steel tip is better – and worse. There is no machine to change and no cost involved so the switch to equal darts would only take the will of the people playing the game, and this it the better part. But - there is that ‘tradition’ thing that so many people get hung up about, which is the worse part. I imagine there will be a whole bunch of people who will reject any such change out of hand simply because it is not how the game is played. Any attempt to improve/ change the game will be met with resistance but I believe the removal of the advantage of going first should be discussed. Or, to put this another way, the person using the fewest darts should win the game.

Just think how the out shot thinking would change. For an example: with both competitors having fifty left how would your approach change if you were shooting first?

Where do you stand? Do you think it is better to try to improve the game or stick with the game the way it is? Are you even willing to consider such a thing as equal darts?

My feet hurt – I gotta sidown

I recently bought a new pair of walking shoes. I do this every seven or eight years, whether I need them or not.

Since I’ve been seventeen I’ve worn shoes sized 8 ½ D. So imagine my surprise when the sales person asked if I would mind if she measured, after I said 8 ½ is the size shoe I wanted, just to be sure. I bit my tongue and said nothing, but – this person doesn’t think I know what size shoe I wear? Give me a break!

Surprise!! I looked at the measuring thingy and it showed my foot was size 9 ½?! The sales person looked up at me as I absorbed the news that I really didn’t know what size shoe I wear. She said she’d get the size I needed and be right back. There’s a trick to this – for sure! Feet don’t suddenly get bigger. It’s probably that they charge by the size now, or the shoes are made according to some model where every ones’ feet are smaller, or something. You can’t trust shoe sales people.

I again bit my tongue (I was getting tired of this exercise).  She could tell I was, ah – quizzical, and explained, in a non demeaning tone, that this happens quite often where a person’s arch weakens, the arch flattens out, and the foot gets longer. I took my teeth off my tongue.

A person’s feet can get bigger as you get older? Who knew?

So - what’s this got to do with darts you ask? OK, fair question.

I talk about eliminating distractions from the job at hand while on the oche and it doesn’t matter what the distraction is. One of the reasons I’ve quit playing darts so much is the bottom of my feet have hurt after standing for a period of time; which became a huge distraction. ‘Course the fact that my darts started flying like sausages (stolen from Dartoid), and I don’t feel like doing anything about it, has something to do with it too.

It wasn’t super disabling pain, just the nagging; - my feet are sore - kind of discomfort. I got to thinking about where I can find a seat and this gets in the way of wanting to compete or even watching darts matches. It interferes with being able to enjoy the competition because finding a seat where you can actually see what’s going on is not an easy thing to do. Which is certainly the case when watching LODs and tournaments.

Put this together with my observation that quite a few dart people who are a bit long in the tooth appear to be quite often looking for a place to sit and you come up with the answer to the “what’s this got to do with darts” question.

So - maybe as your longevity gets longer your feet do too, your shoes don’t fit and your feet hurt? Or maybe it really doesn’t have anything to do with longevity and it’s just that a person gets afflicted with plantar faciitis. Now there is name that’ll scare a person silly but isn’t really all that serious. We all have these plantars in our feet. It’s a ligament like band running from your heel to the ball of your foot. If your foot flattens too much or if it flattens too little the plantar can swell or ache and make a person downright bitchy, and distracted. But lucky for us dart nuts it is a distraction which can be eliminated without much hassle, most of the time. Get some shoes that fit your feet and go walking so your feet can fix themselves. They do that you know? ‘Course there are those times when it might be something more and a doctor needs to be involved but I’ll leave that alone.