By Elliott West
“I have been a fighter all my life”.
Alex Higgins
Introduction
The year was 1972, David Bowie’s song “Changes” was playing on the radio and a miner’s strike was causing the Heath government a political headache. In an attic room in a Birmingham boarding house called ‘The Pebbles’, lies a 22-year-old Belfastian on an unmade and crumbled bed. A cigarette burning in a heaped ashtray full of cigarette buts, clothes strewn across the floor and an empty bottle of vodka, discharged on the bedside cabinet. A waft of cooking chips comes through the open window from the fish and chips next door and a rattle of beer barrels as the drayman lowers the barrels into the Selly Park Tavern cellar. Unbeknown to the hustle and bustle of the busy road outside, a future snooker champion is in their midst. The man in question is Alex Higgins.
With a smear of six o’clock shadow across his face, hair ruffled and grey bags under his eyes, Alex Higgins is weathered from hours of train journeys and a life of living out of a suitcase. His cue case sits lonely in the corner of the room with a well-worn beer towel tied to its handle. A snooker player enveloped by a shrowd of loneliness, away from his beloved Belfast, trying to earn an honest crust in a snooker world that offered little monetary returns and was wary of a new kid on the block. A world of dark, smoke-filled rooms where beer and cigarettes were the currency, offset with a splash of bow ties and waistcoats.
The Road to Success
Alex Higgins turned professional in 1971 at a time when snooker was dying a slow death. A snooker era where there were only a handful of professional players and the game was played behind closed doors. The flicker of a burning light is kept alive by the avid fans, giving up their precious time after a hard day’s work to witness this snooker magic in action. Enter stage right, a lanky individual with kipper-coloured fingers tattooed with fast-pace of the fast-paced hedonism of nightclubs and the hair of the dog alcoholic cocktail that took the edge off the pounding hangover. A rebel without a cause, a product of the Jampot billiard hall in the Donegal Road where he survived off Mars bars, Coke and Player’s Extra. A man who is arrogant, abrasive and cocky. Yet someone who has ultimate self-belief, forever telling himself and others that he is the best of the best, fearless and inventive, testing and challenging the status quo with his refreshing and innovative style of play. A man on a mission, accompanied by a headwaiter from Oswaldtwistle, his friend Bernard.
Making your Mark
In February 1972, Steve Davis was fourteen, Jimmy White was nine, Terry Griffiths, a postman in Llanelli and Dennis Taylor was driving a television rental van in Blackburn. Meanwhile, Alex Higgins left his flaky painted boarding house and crossed the traffic-strewn road to go to the lion’s lair, the Selly Park British Legion Club where the 1972 Park Drive World Snooker Championship was being held this year. This tournament had no fixed abode at this time and unlike the 17-day duration of the modern era, was the ultimate snooker marathon, lasting from March 1971 to 26 February 1972. Alex’s opponent in the final was the debonair and suave John Spencer from Radcliffe. The reigning champion who had cast Gary Owen aside in 1969 and beaten Warren Simpson in Sydney, Australia the previous year. This final was devoid of all the luxuries of the Crucible today. Dank, cramped and at one point fed by electricity from a generator due to a power cut caused by the ongoing miner’s strike, this venue was far from being a snooker palace. The seating area was primitive, with wooden boards resting on beer barrels. Yet even in a period of inadequacies, the spirit of snooker always champions.
Amidst the beer-stained carpet, stale cigarette smoke and the toilet you only went to when you were desperate, a small audience witnessed the protagonist taking on the establishment. A player who twitched, swore and writhed in his moment of angst, producing a formula of snooker that blew your mind. It was unconventional, frenzied and off the cuff. Potting balls that seemed impossible. A genius in the making, playing in ramshackles. These laughable amateurish conditions didn’t phase the man from Belfast. He chalked his cue and swigged his pints of Guinness as he always did, twisting and turning around the groaning table that looked like it fought with Muhammad Ali. Higgins was the underdog with so much to prove. Against an opponent who had the pedigree and was widely tipped to win. A battle of minds and style.
This was a final that would last six days. The first day ended at 6-6, then 9-9, Spencer going ahead 13-11, 18-18, 21-21. Higgins then began to flow and strided ahead, taking six consecutive frames to make it 27-21. Tragedy struck on day five when John Spencer was stuck in a lift due to a power cut and the start of play was delayed by ten minutes. Alex won the first frame but then lost the next four to make it 27-21 to Spencer.
The Final Lap
Higgins did all the running on the final day of play. That was despite Spencer producing his third-century break of 123 in the 62nd frame of the penultimate session. At 35-31, it was still too close to call but again Alex answered the call, winning the match, 140-1 and a 37-31 victory. Although not recognised at the time, this was a defining moment in snooker. Beyond the measly £480 in prize money, 6000 cigarettes and a trophy presented by John Pulman, lay a dawn of a new age. Higgins became the youngest player to win the title and the first qualifier, having had to win two qualifying matches just to enter. A victory that was devoid of press interest, making just 90 words in the match report in The Times newspaper.
Afterthoughts
Alex’s win in 1972 may not have the same impact it did a decade later when he raised the trophy again after defeating Ray Reardon. Yet it was a monumental moment in snooker history. A moment when the ground beneath him shook, paving the way for a different brand of snooker that Jimmy White, Tony Drago and Ronnie O’Sullivan would adopt. Higgins could achieve the impossible, potting his way out of trouble. He made the balls surrender in submission and pulverized the cushions like a pinball machine. He stayed still on the shot but twitched afterwards, playing most of his magic when he was sozzled. A player who fell in love with snooker but was ultimately devoured by his demons. A victim of success but a rare genius all the same.
