This ain’t no snooker heaven

The sound of snooker balls alerted Geraint Williams to the fact that he was dead.

 

Seconds earlier he had been alone in his bed, struggling to breathe, his lungs just giving up on him. Now here he was in a vast snooker hall, around him literally hundreds of games were taking place.

 

What was this? Geraint wondered, snooker heaven? In his youth, well his early twenties at least, Geraint had been a pro, seeded 123 in the world (out of 128 professionals). He had reached a quarter final once, though that had resulted in a ten-nil drubbing by Paul Hunter and it was shortly after that humiliation that he had decided to quit the sport and get a proper job.

 

He watched a nearby game for a while, oblivious to everything else, until he gradually became aware that he was being watched.

 

He turned around.

 

It was Death.  Death from the legend, Death the skeleton, Death with the long, thick cloak, Death carrying the scythe with which he severed lifelines and freed up mortal souls to leave the earthly realm.

 

Except this Death wasn’t carrying a scythe. He was carrying a snooker cue.

 

“What is this place?” Geraint asked. “This isn’t heaven, is it?”

 

“This is Nothing,” Death replied. “This is my realm, you are merely here momentarily, once I cut your lifeline you will pass on to the next realm, to your heaven, or wherever it is you go. I just wondered if you fancied a game before you passed on.”

 

“A game? Snooker? I haven’t played for years. I doubt I could grip a cue now, you know, arthritis. One of the curses of old age.”

 

“You have no arthritis here. The bodily form your soul takes is free from the imperfections of age, you will play like you did as a young man.”

 

“Well, that would be nice I guess. It’s been a while since I played, it would be good to be able to play like I used to.”

 

They went to the one empty table in the great hall, as if it was set aside especially for them.

 

Death was right. Geraint played with a freedom he hadn’t felt in thirty years. Within a few shots he was amongst the balls and made a 40 break and would have made more had he not run out of luck after splitting the pack. Yet Death wouldn’t let him win easily, he played a deathly safety game and slowly picked off the loose reds, until Geraint was suddenly twenty points behind.

 

He didn’t let it daunt him, though. He knew that he was playing well and was just waiting for another chance, which came eventually, and Geraint easily potted the last red and colours, up to the final black, which he missed. There followed a tricky period of safety play, but eventually Geraint got another chance and successfully slotted in a long pot.

 

“You played well,” Death said.

 

“Well, I was a good player in my time. That was a good game though, I never dreamt you’d be good at snooker.”

 

Death started to walk away.

 

“Wait,” Geraint said. “What happens to me?”

 

“To you?” Death said. “Why, you can play another game.” And with that Death was gone.

 

Geraint recognised the player who joined him. It was Nigel Trundells, another never-quite-made-it who’d been on the circuit at the same time he had.

 

“Where’s Death gone? Aren’t I supposed to go to heaven or something?”

“I’m afraid neither of us will make it to heaven.”

 

“Why not? Have we done something wrong?”

 

“Well, yes, but not in the way you mean. We both beat Death at snooker, so he won’t let us leave.”

 

Miraculously the balls on the table had re-set themselves and without asking whether Geraint wanted to play, Trundells broke off.

 

“Won’t let us leave? Why not?”

 

“Look around you. Death’s obsessed with snooker. He won’t let any top player go to heaven, he wants them here, where he can see them, playing snooker for the rest of eternity. It’s your shot by the way.”

 

Distractedly Geraint played a shot, a reckless stab at a long pot which went nowhere near the pocket. “But I’m not a top player, why would he want me here?”

 

“Any player good enough to beat him he deems worthy of retaining in his realm. And he’s a decent player, I’ve watched him. He plays a very tactical safety game, you did well to beat him.”

 

“But what’s the point?” Geraint gestured around the great hall. “There must be a hundred or more games going on at once. Why would Death want so many players? Why not just keep the best?”

 

Trundells began potting the loose reds, occasionally pausing to speak. “Death can focus on a thousand games at once, just as he can take a thousand lives simultaneously. Snooker’s his obsession; he breaks all the rules to keep us here. You may as well enjoy the game, the standard of the tables is immaculate, I’ve not had a single kick in the year or so I’ve been here.”

 

The two men played for a while, before swapping partners. As Geraint surveyed the room he recognised many of the players here, there were former world champions, Joe and Fred Davis, Alex Higgins, even Paul Hunter. But it wasn’t the famous names he was looking for, he was searching for Death. Eventually he spotted him, at the far end of the hall playing with another new soul, and went over to talk to him.

 

“I have a proposition for you,” he said.

 

Death looked up from the shot he was playing. “You have a proposition for Death, do you?”

 

“Yes, this is pointless, what sort of entertainment is this?” he gestured around the hall.

 

“Those are the best, the very best players. Most of them are better than you.”

 

“I’m not denying that. I’m just saying that there’s no challenge, they’re just tapping balls about for the sake of it. What you need is a tournament.”

 

“A tournament? But there things take planning, organisation, I have no time for such things. Besides, I have no prize to offer, there is no money here.”

 

“You have one prize. You could let the winner leave.”

 

“Leave.”

 

“Move on. To heaven, or hell or wherever it is deceased snooker players go.”

 

“Let my best players leave. Why would I do that?”

 

“Because it’ll be something worth playing for. The greatest prize ever. The greatest competition ever. Just think how well you’d have to play to win that prize. And don’t worry about organisation, I can do that.”

 

Death paused and when Death pauses you know it, time itself stops, the balls on the surrounding tables stopped moving, as if life itself was put on hold, though of course here, in Death’s realm, life was already on hold.

 

“I must confess, I do find that quite a lot of the time the players are just coasting.”

 

“Like an eternal practice session,” Geraint suggested.

 

Death nodded.

“So you agree then, a tournament, winner gets to leave.”

 

“I suppose in the name of good sport I must offer a prize such as you describe. Very well – but I will not let you benefit personally, you will be tournament referee and organiser.”

 

Geraint agreed, though in truth it was part of his plan to give himself a chance, albeit a remote chance, of leaving this place. Still, organising things was more interesting that tapping balls around for the rest of eternity, and he would certainly become popular with the other players as he was offering them a lifeline, well, a deathline, call it what you will.

 

The tournament was the biggest ever organised, either in Death’s realm or elsewhere. In total all 213 eligible players put their names forward. The tournament began with a series of best of nine-frame group matches, from which the best 128 players were selected for the tournament proper, a knockout tournament, the first round beginning with a best of 49 frames.

 

All of the early games took place simultaneously, at Death’s insistence, used as he was to a diverse focus. This meant that Geraint, as referee, scorer and general official was overseeing up to a hundred games simultaneously. Death helped him by giving him the temporary power to stop time, and even to replay time if necessary, but it was still a challenge to ensure that the games all proceeded smoothly without dispute.

 

Slowly the numbers left in the tournament dwindled, from 128 to 64 to 32 to 16, to the last eight and then to the final four. At Geraint’s insistence the semi-finals were held separately, and refereed properly in real-time.

 

The semi-final line-up was superb, some of the all-time greats: Joe Davis versus Alex Higgins and Fred Davis against Paul Hunter, in best of 199 frames.

 

The games were a challenge of concentration as much as skill, and although Higgins and Hunter took big leads, the Davis brothers both fought back. Joe Davis in particular impressed, enjoying the perfection of the tables and compiling century break after century break. Higgins eventually ran out of ideas and energy and lost by a clear dozen frames. In the other semi-final it went to the wire, with Paul Hunter beating the other Davis brother by a single frame.

 

For the final, a best of 219 frames affair, time stopped. Literally. Death gave up on the Earth below him, and for the first time in his existence focussed his attention on one thing and one thing alone, death was forgotten and the harvesting of souls was left to wait until the snooker was finished.

 

The mood in the hall was tense, with the prize for the winner almost too great to conceive. The tension got to both players and at times the snooker was sloppy, but the two great snooker brains soon adjusted to the nerves and those watching were treated to the finest display of snooker ever seen.  The two players, from different generations and with very different tactics and techniques, were extremely well matched, and neither player could build a substantial lead.

 

109 frames apiece the score stood at. Both players were drained, Geraint was close to exhaustion from his marathon stint of refereeing, even Death looked tense and taut. The match continued, and Joe Davis got the first opportunity, building a sixty break. A seemingly endless safety battle followed, but then Hunter made a rare mistake and suddenly the game was over. Joe Davis had won.

 

Though some may question whether Joe Davis is the best snooker player who ever lived, there was now no doubt that he was the best player who had ever died. He raised his cue aloft in exhausted celebration and Death approached to award the title – raising his own cue above his deathly shoulders, bringing it down to slice through the snooker player’s lifeline and free his soul for the next world.

 

“I enjoyed that”, Death said to Geraint, “let the next tournament begin immediately.”