Darts

I’ve never really been interested in the game “darts”. However, when the opportunity to take part in this pub “sport” recently presented itself, I thought I might as well have a go. You basically have to throw three darts at a board, and depending on where they land you get a certain amount of points. And that’s all there is to it, really.

You may well protest that it is not a “sport” at all. I thought this too – but after thinking about it logically, I changed my mind. This is basically how I worked it out:

1. I am rubbish at sports.
2. I am rubbish at darts.
3. Therefore, darts must be a sport.

The numbers (that tell you how much a segment on the board is worth) are all over the place – there is no rhyme or reason to the way they are arranged, and no one seems to have a problem with this except me. The middle (!) of the dartboard isn’t even worth the most points. At least in archery they have the sense to make the middle worth loads because it’s a) really small and b) right in the middle. Archers may not be perfect in many ways (for example, they haven’t realised that you can get guns now) but at least they know how to put together a good scoring system. Whoever made darts evidently designed the board after a long night of drinking, and had reached that point where you just love everyone and so decided to scatter the numbers anywhere so at least the most shit player could sometimes land a ‘17’ by accident now and then. In other words, players like me.

Anyway. I was throwing my darts at the board in my customary, haphazard way, when I noticed a craggy old man drinking at a table nearby. He was smiling at me. His expression was kind and careworn, but with perhaps a hint of quiet rage that was tucked away somewhere in the folds of his leathery face. I got the feeling that he wanted to look after me, but yet that process would involve a beating at some stage. I smiled back and continued to play.

After a while he got up, came over to me and just stood a couple of feet away, still nursing his pint and…well, watching. Watching - with eyes that has seen a thousand games of darts. Sipping his beer with a mouth that had sipped a thousand pints. He didn’t say anything, he just watched.

It was getting late, and the pub had become quite full and noisy. The old man decided to lean over and say something to me. Above the pub PA system, and the general hubbub, I could just about hear him say:

“Championship darts.”

What on earth? What could that mean? I thought for several seconds, looking at his inscrutable face and trying to guess what he meant. Championship? Was this some kind of mysterious portent? Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all? Maybe he had observed the rapid progress I was making – the grace with which I had mastered the basic elements of the game in merely half an hour! I thought that I had better get him to repeat it.

“Sorry?” I said.

“Yer rubbish at darts,” he said.

Chris