Running: The Autobiography (14 page)

Before Dad went to prison, there was no way they could have taken advantage of Mum, but when he went away they were like piranhas gathering in the water, just waiting and waiting. A few of them still occasionally come out of the woodwork, and Dad is a very forgiving person. It’s a good trait to have, and I admire him for it, but I think he’s too forgiving. Mum is a lot less forgiving these days. You fuck her over once, and that’s it.

But I think it’s much tougher being on the outside when your partner’s in prison than being the one banged up. On the outside, you have to deal with the mess of life. Inside, you get your three meals a day; everything is provided for. Dad said: ‘I stopped worrying about my kids, I stopped worrying about everything. I had to because in there they’ll use it against you if they think you’re attached to something.’ So in the end he thought, well, I can’t run the business from here, I can’t look after the kids. Whereas my mum had to deal with everything – the lawyers, the problems, the family.

Managing relationships is never easy. Perhaps the first step is to understanding yourself better.

Working with Dr Steve Peters has made me more aware of
who I am and how my brain works, and however many sessions I have with him I’m never going to change my basic nature, and will probably always revert to type. It’s about managing my weaknesses, and standing up for myself. Being with Steve has also made me more aware of other characters in my life. Thanks largely to Steve, I feel that I am getting better now at managing relationships. For example, I know if I speak to Dad in a certain way he can get agitated, so I’m focusing on talking to him in a way that won’t worry him. The same is true with Mum.

Those people you’re closest to tend to pounce on things when you make a point. Sometimes you’re desperate to share stuff with people, but if it’s going to provoke a reaction that’s going to make you unhappy, you start to withdraw and keep important things to yourself. Sometimes people are just too close to you, and if you’re upset with something and you tell them, they just take it too personally or it causes them too much hurt. So you offload, and then you realise you’ve made the situation worse because now you’ve got to worry about the fact that they’re now worried about you. Bleedin’ difficult life, at times. Whoever said it was a bowl of cherries had obviously got off lightly.

We never really get together as a family now. Mum and Dad don’t talk much these days. He’s been away for so long that he couldn’t come out and expect everything to be the same as when he went in. But I say again: I think he has done unbelievably well since he was released.

So many people said to me: ‘It ain’t gonna be easy, he’s going to find it hard, it could take him ten years. He won’t be able to come out of the house.’ And for a while he was like that; he couldn’t come out of the house, he was scared of going down the shops. I thought, is he winding me up; is he really scared of going out for a bar of chocolate? But he said: ‘I’m just not
used to it; all this space and time, and people around me, I don’t know what to do with it.’ I was surprised that somebody as tough as him would say that. But now he’s adjusted and he’s here, there and everywhere. He’s got a lot of new friends.

He’s done a lot of reflecting in his time away, and has realised the lifestyle he was leading didn’t do him any favours. ‘Maybe I had low self-esteem myself,’ he said to me, ‘and I was trying to feed that by going out to clubs, and buying nice clothes and cars, but you can put a decent suit on and still feel like a bag of shite. Now I know that’s low self-esteem, and I don’t feel the need to dress up big or go clubbing.’ He’s calmed down a lot; people tend to come and see him at home, rather than them all going out together, and he’s got a nice little network of people. He loves his sport, his telly, his films, and it’s great that he’s enjoying his freedom.

He’s nearly 60 now, and he’s finally given up on his dreams of being a footballer. To be fair, he gave up on that a few years ago. He was playing in prison a while ago and he said he got the ball, tripped over and went, ref!, and then realised no one was near him. His knees had gone, and he realised the game was up.

12

HEROES

‘Bike at the gym, Fartlek session, a Swedish way of training – walking, running. No set distance, but I pushed myself hard enough so I felt it.’

I’ve always had my sporting heroes. When I was growing up, I played football, golf, tennis. But I was mad about snooker. I wasn’t so much into team games, though I did like a game of football and had trials for Spurs at one point. But I felt I was an individual within a team. I never saw football as a team game – I didn’t like to pass, was always greedy, always took on an extra man. I like to do something to excite myself, and that isn’t the sign of a great team player. So I’d excel more in one-to-one sports. Rather than play football at dinnertime, I’d go and play table tennis for an hour, and I’d try to play with the best in the school. I was the best player in my year apart from one kid, Paul Hudson, who played for England Schools. He was unbelievable.

I found sport easy. Anything with a ball was easy for me. I think you’ve either got a feel for a ball or you haven’t. So if I was going to kick a football or hit a tennis ball I’d instinctively know where to. Mum used to play tennis for fun with her mates, and Dad was a good semi-pro – he played for Leyton
Wingate and had trials for Arsenal and QPR when he was a youngster but never quite made it. Sport ran through the family. My granddad and his brothers were all boxers – the fighting O’Sullivans, they were called. I’ve never boxed, mind. I wouldn’t mind having a go. I don’t like fighting, but boxing is different – more of a science to it; science and ballet. I was never into fighting. That’s probably why I became a decent runner – because I’d always run a mile from a fight. Not surprisingly, my heroes tend to be individuals rather than team players.

Snooker heroes:

Jimmy White, Steve Davis & Stephen Hendry

My first hero was Jimmy White, the most exciting snooker player of my childhood. Then the more I got into snooker, the more I wanted to be a winner and Steve ‘the Nugget’ Davis became my hero. I loved Jimmy – he was the people’s favourite, the great entertainer, and hugely successful. But in the end he always fell just short – six world finals, all of them lost. I was so disappointed that I thought maybe I should make Steve Davis my role model instead because I wanted to be a winner. If I’ve got to become robotic and play like the Nugget to win, that’s what I’ll do, I told myself. He became known as Steve ‘Interesting’ Davis – that was a
Spitting Image
piss-take. He might have looked boring compared to Jimmy, but actually he was more aggressive than most of the other players of his time. Some of the players of his generation were so slow – Terry Griffiths and Cliff Thorburn were both great players, but I could get a quick 10-kilometre run in while they were considering a shot.

I was always a fast player because my brain worked quickly, but my style became robotic. I wouldn’t move, kept everything still and just copied how the Nugget walked into shot, how
his hips were, how his left leg was bent, how his right shoulder was over his right leg, how his left arm was bent, how far he was from the ball, how straight his arm was. I watched every bit, and mimicked it all. And I became more consistent, more machine-like, even though I was still fast. I still played the open game Jimmy White played, but I was more deliberate in my technique. As a junior I think my technique was as perfect as it could be. I’ve managed to get a few faults in my game since I was 16, and they’ve held me back a bit and stopped me being as consistent as I used to be.

So Davis was my first sporting hero. Then Stephen Hendry came along. I started to watch what he did and to mimic him. Where Davis was rigid, Hendry had that stillness but he was also a much more floaty player. Rather than punch balls in, he caressed them in, and he had more of a feel for break building. He was lighter in his approach, more delicate. He didn’t have the greatest cue power, but around the black spot he could manufacture shots that nobody had ever seen, and as far as I’m concerned there’s never been a better long-ball potter, especially under pressure. Under pressure, he’s the best sportsman I’ve seen. So he was my biggest teacher. I played him lots of times and he taught me how to become a winner. Until then I was more likely to say: ‘Well, I’ll play that ball safe, just in case I make a mistake’, but to do that against Hendry was the biggest mistake you could make. I’d try to put a red safe and leave the white on the cushion and two shots later he’s got the red off the cushion, potted it and is on his way to clearing up. And he was the only one who played such audacious shots. I thought, if he’s doing it and he keeps winning, he’s obviously doing the right thing and the rest of us are doing it wrong.

In 2002 we had a ridiculous falling-out, and he didn’t speak to me for three years. That hurt because he was my hero. But
it was entirely my fault. Well, my fault and my mate the boxer Naseem Hamed’s.

I was down watching Naz training and he said, when you play you’ve got to say I’m the best, I’m this, I’m that, and I was like, well, it’s not me. Then I thought, well, maybe he’s right and I’m wrong and I need to start being like Naz. The end result was I questioned Stephen’s sportsmanship over a ball that had been called a miss ages ago (mad, because he’s the best sportsman in the world), and announced in a press conference that I was going to send him back to his sad little life in Scotland. Jesus, I blush just remembering it. As soon as I said it I thought, what am I doing, I love Hendry, he’s my hero. But I was listening too much to the advice of other people. It worked for Naz, who was brilliant at talking himself up, but it just wasn’t me. Then when I told Naz what I’d said, he went: ‘Oh no, what d’you go and say that for?’ Even though Naz got me in shit, and not for the first time, I love him – his heart’s in the right place, and he loves me and his family love me. Having said that, I’d never listen to him again, never go to a mosque with him again, never have a pep talk from him again. I’ll have a bit of grub with him, but that’s about it. He’s huge these days – physically, that is. He looks like an Easter egg in boots.

I played Hendry in the semi-final of the World Championship in 2002, and it was a brilliant game, 12-12, and then I went 13-12 up and I had a red with the rest. I was shaking, and I missed the red, and he won five frames on the trot to beat me 17-13. I came off thinking he raised his game when I bottled it. The closer he got to the winning line, the more he went for his shots, the more aggressive he became.

That’s what made Hendry unique. Even if you look at a great talent like Judd Trump, he sometimes plays more of a percentage
game when he gets into a winning position, turning down shots that he would normally go for. He has a tendency to screw back to baulk just in case he misses when the pressure’s on. Hendry was the opposite, and that was really intimidating. He was a train with no brakes, and at his peak matches were over almost before they’d started.

The difference between Hendry and Judd Trump, as he is now, is that Hendry went for it when it mattered. Hendry was 18 when he won his first world-ranking event and 21 when he won his first world title, and his record is unequalled. Judd is a good player, and he has won the UK, but he’s got a long way to go before he starts even to glance at Hendry’s record. Selby is a very good match player. Ding is a good player, but I think he’s got a mental issue that stops him winning as many tournaments as he should do. I love Ding. In the Masters in 2008, he burst into tears when he was playing me in the final. I hated seeing him like that. He’s a fantastic talent, but it’s all about doing it in the final stages of the big matches, and that’s where Hendry would have anybody. Tiger Woods, Roger Federer and darts player Phil Taylor are the only three sportsmen you could put in that bracket; when the pressure was really on, they went up a gear.

Tennis heroes:

Roger Federer & Serena Williams

Roger Federer is another of my heroes. It’s the ease and grace with which he plays. Look at his rivals – Novak Djokovic, Rafa Nadal and Andy Murray are all amazingly good players, but they rely more on their athleticism so eventually their body will break down. Federer played so much within himself that he avoided injuries. He never spent much time on the court – it
was always 6-0, 6-1, 6-2, and it was effortless. In all sport, it’s a huge advantage if you can kill a game off early and conserve energy. He’s light on his feet, incredibly graceful. He’s the only non-grunting tennis champion I can remember. Even now, when he’s past his peak, he still gets to semi-finals and finals of grand slams, which is an amazing achievement. To be ranked third or fourth in the world at 32 is another great achievement. And he has broken so many records throughout his career – more than 300 weeks at number one in the world, a gob-smacking 237 consecutive weeks at number one from 2004 to 2008, 17 grand slam victories and (hopefully) still counting, seven Wimbledon titles (along with Pete Sampras).

He never bottled it. Even when he got beaten, they’d nearly always be great matches with both players giving their best. When he lost to Rafa Nadal at Wimbledon in 2008 over five huge sets it was one of the greatest matches ever.

Tennis is my favourite sport to watch on telly – you get all the angles, the rallies. Golf is the worst to watch on the telly. They hit a ball and if you’re lucky you see it land, and that’s it. I like watching boxing, too. But really I watch for the players, not the sport. I’ll watch Federer, Djokovic, Serena Williams, but not just anyone.

I love Serena Williams: she’s the queen. What a record she’s got, too. For me, it’s not just about ability or style, it’s about maintaining that standard over a career. That’s what makes a player truly great. Serena has had so many problems with injury and illness, and personal tragedy in her life when her sister was killed, and then there were the critics who said that the Williams sisters were just part-timers and didn’t really care about the game (like they’d said about me) and each time she would battle back and prove them wrong. Perhaps I shouldn’t separate them – the Williams sisters are heroes of mine, Serena and Venus.

But if I had to choose it would obviously be Serena – so much power and passion, never knowing when she’s beaten. Also she’s like me in some ways. I think she’s a lovely girl who doesn’t like conflict, but sometimes finds herself in the middle of fights when she has been wronged. I always think of that time at the US Open final when she threatened to stuff the ball down the lines (wo)man’s throat. Well, obviously that ain’t a good thing to do, but think of the context – she had just wrongly called a foot fault, Serena was one set down, 6-5 down in the second set, 15-30. So the wrong call took her to 15-40, match point down. No wonder she went bonkers. Don’t get me wrong – ‘I swear to God I’m fucking going to take this ball and shove it down your fucking mouth’ is not a measured response. Definitely worth a bit of a fine. But it just shows how much it matters to her. Serena is 32, and still miles ahead of any of her rivals in the world. In 2013, she regained her world number one spot, and in doing so became the oldest number one in the history of the sport. Perhaps this is even more incredible than Federer’s achievement (though, having said that, he’s had the greater competition throughout his career). In 2003, she won the Serena slam – holding all four grand slams simultaneously. Serena has won 16 singles grand slam titles at the time of writing (plus 13 doubles and 2 mixed doubles), and my bet is as you’re reading this she’s already won more. Phenomenal.
And
she scrubs up nicely.

Running heroes:

Haile Gebrselassie, Tirunesh Dibaba, Kennenisa Bekele &

Mo Farah

As for runners, I loved Haile Gebrselassie. What a story and what a man. Like so many of the great Ethiopians, he learnt his
sport by running miles to and from school every day. He was one of 10 kids brought up by his parents in the hills of Asala, 160 miles south of Addis Ababa, and in the dry season he ran six miles to school and back every day. Things weren’t so easy in the rainy season. Then he couldn’t take a short cut across a river bed, and his round journey became 15 miles. Haile ran his first marathon when he was 15.

He’s an amazing role model – for the people of Ethiopia and the rest of the world. He won successive Olympic gold medals at 10,000 metres in Atlanta in 1996 then in Sydney in 2000. Perhaps even more amazing, he just continued running into his thirties and in 2008, at the age of 35, he broke the world record for a marathon in Berlin, recording 2 hours 3 minutes and 57 seconds. He broke his own record by 27 seconds. Incredible. Gebrselassie then went on to become a role model as a businessman, running hotels, gyms and garages, and giving hope to so many Ethiopians.

He grew up in absolute poverty and is now worth tens of millions of pounds. He gets at least £250,000 for every city marathon he runs in. But running has never become work to him. He just loves it, and every morning he puts on his shorts and runs into work. Now there’s a man who’s got the buzz.

The fella’s only 5’ 5” and he’s got superhuman strength and stamina. Apparently, he once ran 60 kilometres – he claimed it was just a nice little trot that took him four hours. Mad. Like my other heroes he dominated his sport for years. Decades in his case.

Kennenisa Bekele is also an incredible distance runner – which makes Mo Farah’s achievement in beating him at the 2012 Olympics in London even greater. Bekele comes from this tiny village about 80 kilometres from Addis Ababa called
Bekoji where nearly all the young kids dream of escaping poverty by becoming runners.

They all go running at the crack of dawn, coached by this little fella called Sentayehu Eshatu, a retired teacher, who has trained half a dozen gold medallists, including Bekele, Tirunesh Dibaba, Deratu Tulu, Fatima Roba and Kennenisa’s younger brother, Tariku Bekele. Kennenisa won silver and gold respectively at 5,000 and 10,000 metres in Athens in 2004, then followed up with double gold in Beijing. Ridiculous.

What I love about Kennenisa is the ease with which he raced. If they wanted to go fast, he’d go fast, if they wanted fast laps then slow laps, he was happy with that. It didn’t matter how the others wanted to run the race, he was always aware of what was going on, and knew where the threat was and knew when it was his time to go; and at his peak when he did go nobody was going with him. He didn’t even bother looking back. He knew nobody was going to get past him. That’s what separated him from the other runners. I watched him once in the world cross-country championships and his shoe came undone. He was in the lead, and had to stop and put his shoe on; it took him about 20 to 30 seconds, the others overtook him, then he just made his way back through the pack with such calm determination and won the race. I thought, he’s given everybody a 30-second start and still won the race so how much more has he got left in the tank? That was when I thought, this fella’s special. You just knew he’d be able to pull them back and maintain his pace to outsprint them at the end. And to think Mo Farah beat him at the 2012 London Olympics . . .