It will be one of the great quiz questions in the post Covid-19 world: which sport thrived through the lockdown and attracted global audiences without breaking any rules?
The answer is darts which has proved its entertainment value in the last few days with the antics of personalities such as world champion Scot, Peter Wright, who has imprinted the letters NHS on his trademark mohican haircut; and England’s Luke Woodhouse, who threw the PDC ‘Home Tour’ competition’s first perfect nine-dart finish – in his kitchen – during a 5-0 victory over Wales’ Gerwyn Price at the weekend.
The fashion in which these performers, alongside Gary Anderson and John Henderson, have responded to the current social isolation, surely demonstrates how the oche is the perfect place for Scots to chase double and treble dreams with arrows in their hands.
There was, of course, one man who was the unwitting catalyst for this trend and it’s strange to think that, if he had been spared, Jocky Wilson would have been celebrating his 70th birthday in the last few weeks.
The little fellow died eight years ago, but if you ever doubted that he was a genuine Scottish sporting hero, you should have been trying to deliver a football match report over the telephone in a public bar in Paisley on a winter’s evening in 1989.
I recall being threatened with all manner of blood-curdling assaults if I didn’t shift my posterior, finish my call, and continue to let the punters marvel at Wilson locking horns with Eric Bristow in one of the classic Scotland v England confrontations.
This was in the days before Sky and giant screens in every corner of every hostelry. Instead, there was a pokey wee set, next to the cigarette machine in the west of Scotland snug, but by the time the match finished, there must have been 100 of us roaring on the efforts of our compatriot as if he was our brother, while he won the world title.
At this distance, it might be difficult to explain his popularity, even as the knock-kneed, pot-bellied little Fifer with a flair for flinging arrows was demolishing opponents.
Yet this redoubtable character – who walked away from the sport in the 1990s – was honest to his family and his mates and resisted the blandishments of those who wanted to tempt him back to the oche, arguing that he had done all he wanted to do and had no desire to be involved in some sort of freak show.
He quit on his own terms, content with his prizes. And why shouldn’t he have been? After all, how many other Scots can claim a brace of world titles, four British championships and myriad other competitive successes?
These plaudits were all the more noteworthy, because Wilson suffered a turbulent childhood, from which it would have been easy for him to seek refuge in self-pity and the bottle. On the contrary, he stepped on to centre stage in his own inimitable style.
Scottish sports aficionados have always been able to empathise with these fragile, occasionally tortured souls. Wright had to suffer many last-gasp defeats before finally being crowned king of the world. So, too, Anderson has flirted with tristesse while pursuing triumph. Henderson, for his part, is unlikely to appear in any analysis of the body beautiful, but the Huntly player oozes personality and passion for his craft.
The same was true of Wilson in his glory days. There was nothing fake about the man whose story struck a chord with so many fans. As he bowed out, he lamented the fact he had a thousand so-called friends and could fit the genuine ones into a phone box.
But what memories he left behind for his colleagues to follow. On the oche, he sometimes smoked as if there was no tomorrow, but the capacity for prodigious exploits never deserted him. And who will ever forget his impromptu appearance on Top of the Pops, when his face was unfurled instead of the soul singer, Jackie Wilson, giving Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ cover of Van Morrison’s tribute song a new twist.
Somehow, these incidents simply heightened the affection many of us felt for him. There was nobody pulling the strings, nobody dictating what we could or couldn’t ask Jocky, and nary a whiff of PR spin about his existence.
Instead, we could marvel at his essential joie de vivre when he was in his pomp, nailing 180s, aspiring to nine and 10-dart finishes, and generally bringing some of the glitz to the oche which Ian Botham and Seve Ballesteros did in cricker and golf.
Yes, this Wilson was a wizard. Thank heavens, in the current lockdown, that the next generation of darts maestros are providing plenty of Home Tour comforts.
