Jonny McCambridge: Perhaps the strangest sporting story ever told

I’ve never been very good at sports.
Barney stares at me in stunned disbelief seconds after I throw the winning dartBarney stares at me in stunned disbelief seconds after I throw the winning dart
Barney stares at me in stunned disbelief seconds after I throw the winning dart

As a dedicated fan of most games I suppose I’ve always had a little stab of regret that I’ve never found a discipline that I can excel at.

I was a reasonably skilful soccer player in my teens, but my attempts at playing for a junior team were cut short when I was regularly overwhelmed by the physicality of bigger and stronger peers. Miserably hugging the left touchline of the pitch I was reduced to a state of terror by the piercing yells of ‘I’ll break your f******g legs McCambridge!’ (and that was from the players on my own team).

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The truth is that I never possessed the size, speed or basic competitive spirit which would make me proficient in any game.

And yet I have achieved one sporting triumph which I will remember with pride for as long as I still possess my memories and ability to reason. A result which defies all logic, which is so freakish that it can only be described as truly astonishing.

The year was 2011 and the sport was darts (yes I know some people don’t think it is a sport). All of the best players in the world of arrows had come to Northern Ireland for the Premier League. In that year, ahead of the Odyssey appearance, the organisers staged a small promotional event at the old House of Sport building in Belfast.

In attendance was Raymond van Barneveld, affectionately known to fans around the world as ‘Barney’. Barney is probably the most popular darts player in history and a five-time champion of the world.

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On this occasion the organisers wanted Barney to play a few short challenge legs against local fans and personalities. They had run into trouble finding a journalist prepared to face him and a local PR company asked if I would step in. I enthusiastically agreed.

There was just one problem, and one that I did not disclose. I am rubbish at darts. Since my childhood I’ve always had a fascination with the game but it never transferred to any aptitude at the oche.

By the time I agreed to face Barney I probably hadn’t thrown a dart in a couple of years. All the undeniable factors pointed to it being a massacre, rather than a match. I would have as good a chance of knocking out Carl Frampton, nut-megging Lionel Messi or outsprinting Usain Bolt as beating Barney on a dart board.

The format was that we were to play one leg of 501. Perhaps sensing my nerves, Barney gallantly allowed me to go first. I attempted to calm myself and adopted a darting pose. I threw my first arrow. It sailed high over the top of the board, impaling itself on a thin strip of rubber which had been erected to protect the wall. No score. My second dart went even higher, embedding itself in the wall itself. I took a moment and threw my third dart into the middle of the single 20 bed. I was delighted.

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At this point I can only assume that Barney had already decided I was not to be taken seriously because his own standard fell well below the normal and he threw poorly. Still, within a couple of turns, I was more than 100 points behind and he was well on his way to victory.

I think it was on my third visit that I hit a treble 20 and two singles for a score of 100. This was as good as it ever gets for me and I was thrilled that I had at least shown Barney and the small crowd that I had some level of competency. Idiotically I pumped my arms in the air and Barney laughed gallantly.

Then Barney moved to finish the match on his next turn. He left himself 32 and with his third dart aimed at double 16. His throw was true and the arrow bent the thin wire of the double bed. But it was on the wrong side of the wire. It could not have been any closer, but it was on the wrong side of the wire.

What happened next is so truly bizarre and unlikely that every single second of it is still stark in my memory, as if chipped there in solid stone. All I can say is that this is exactly how it happened.

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The scorer told me I needed 90 to win. I had never checked out a score this high in my life. I know I never will again.

Now, there are several ways to check out 90. The conventional route is to go treble 18, double 18. The flash route is to go for bullseye (50) and then tops (40). What happened next was neither conventional nor flash.

I aimed for the bull in the middle of the board. My dart sailed into the middle of the treble 17. In darting terms I wasn’t even in the right continent.

However, treble 17 is 51 and some quick subtraction told me I was now left with 39. I still had a chance. I knew that if I could hit single 7 I would have a shot at double 16 to win. I aimed at single 7 ... and my dart flew into the treble 7.

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This was now approaching a level of high farce and I was so disorientated that I could no longer compute what my score was. Barney whispered in my ear that I had 18 left.

It took me several seconds to locate the 9 bed in the board. I steadied myself and, without thinking about it, released my last dart.

In that tiny moment all the planets were aligned. The arrow soared like Poseidon’s trident ... straight into the middle of the double 9 bed. Nobody, not even Barney, could have thrown it better.

There was a moment of stunned confusion before the crowd realised what had happened. I had won, I had somehow beaten Barney. I had thrown one of the worst checkouts ever and managed to beat one of the best players ever. There was a smattering of applause and laughter from the spectators.

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Barney was charitable with his time and posed for photographs with me afterwards. The truth is that over a short single leg a very bad darts players can beat a very good darts player with a little bit of luck. But I was a very, very bad darts player and I had beaten a great. There is no logic which can explain it.

There are moments in life which are not meant to be understood, merely savoured.

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