Introduction to John's 9-Darter

This chapter is included in this John Lowe interview section because it is a part of not only dart history, but sports history. John refers to the perfect 9-darter throughout this interview and it is important to understand what John Lowe did, why this was unprecedented in sports history, and the impact of that in 1984. Most of us can only imagine the joy and the pride that John Lowe felt with his perfect televised '501 game accomplishment.

So, in his own words, here is the story of John Lowe's "Nine Little Wonders". This is reprinted with John Lowe's permission from his book "The John Lowe Story, Inside Pro Darts with the World Champion".

Nine Little Wonders

The headlines in The Sunday Times in December, 1984 read: 'Wobbly Belly Lowe beats the all'. Next to my own picture were those of Seve Ballesteros and John McEnroe. The article was saying that what really makes a sportsman great is money and not how many champinships he has won.

This is right, though I don't like admitting it. At the time of writing, I have won the British Pentathlon nine times, yet the national press makes very little of that. I don't know of anyone else who has won a prestigious title nine times in eleven years.

But on October 13, 1984, I threw nine perfect darts in two-and-a-half-minutes and earned £102,000 as a result. The feat made the pages of over 500 newspapers: it was even featured on "News at Ten" and was shown on American and Canadian TV networks, and I was given a civic reception. It made me secure for the rest of my life. But don't be misled: it was not the achievement of the perfect game that brought this avalanche of publicity, but the money that went with it. That made John Lowe 'great'.

At this juncture, let me take you back in time to the day I put one foot over the threshold of this Aladdin's cave. I shall try to give you an idea of the memories now imprinted on my mind. I arrived at the Holiday Inn, Slough, for the MFI World Matchplay on October 12, 1984.

To say I was tired would be like saying the Getts had a few bob! I'd spent the previous two days having a great time in Norwich with my good friends, Eddie Harvey and John Carmichael. The night before I had to travel to Slough, we attended the opening of a new restaurant/disco, but I had intended to be in bed by midnight, as the following day's journey was to be long and tedious. But intentions are one thing, actions another. You've heard of one for the road? Well, this one was for Watling Street, the longest road in Britain!

I had three hours sleep that night. In the morning I fumbled my way downstairs, said goodbye to Marie, Eddie's wife, hurled some abuse at Eddie for keeping me out late, then left for Slough. I arrived at 1 p.m. to find the lads at the bar. Garry Churnside, a good friend of mine from Australia, had flown in to watch the tournament and was busy telling me how one of the Aussies, preferably Russell Stuart, was going to win. I had a little bet that he would not make it through the first round. (Russell had to play Mike Gregory, and Terry O'Dea faced the Bristow Kid.)

I arrived at the venue at four o'clock, and came across the usual scene of Bristow playing alongside three or four others, and Jocky Wilson and Mike Gregory on another board. Cliff Lazarenko was having a quiet drink and there were managers trying to look important, dotted around the room.

I was not in the mood for the wind-up game, so I spent a contented couple of hours with Cliff and Garry without throwing a dart. When I looked up, Keith Deller was hitting the treble twenty like it was a bucket. I could hear him asking Bristow how many points were awarded for winning the Masters. (Keith is obsessed with ranking points.)

Nicky Verachal was downing a Jack Daniels out of a Las Vegas tankard: Gregory was sitting with his wife, very much the proper family man; Jocky was holding his teeth up to someone who was trying to take his photograph; Ken Glidle, chairman of the BDO, was forcing the last of the champagne and chicken from the opening reception down his throat; and O'Dea was praising the Aussie cricket team and criticizing Arsenal in the same big breath.

The room hummed with excitement. Everyone knew this was the biggest event in world darts. The winner would collect £12,000, but more importantly even the first-round loser would pick up £1000. That's what made it the best tournament around.

At last it was time to begin the inaugural matchplay. The games began predictably enough, but then Garry came running into the practice room and told me it looked as if my bets were going down the pan. Bristow was losing. Ten minutes later Garry was back: Bristow had been beaten by O'Dea. I admit that I was very pleased; the trouble was I didn't dare show it. I had to hold on to my concentration. Besides, it was only the best of three sets and I had to play last against Verachal. But I congratulated Terry and bought him a drink. A few minutes later, there was call for a double Australian celebration, with Stuart having beaten Jocky Wilson. Garry was having a ball. This was some tournament - there were only four seeds, and two of them had gone already.

My turn came at around nine o'clock that evening. Nicky was no pushover, but I just managed to win. Now I could say I was really pleased for Terry and Russell. The next day we had to be at the venue for 10:30AM, so I was very happy to get to bed that night. I recall Terry saying it would be an unlucky day for someone as it was the 13th. I related the story of my motorbike escapade - the 13th had certainly not been my unlucky day then.

The following morning the practice area was noticeably quiet. Terry asked me the reason for this, but I didn't know." Well, have a look... who's not here?" he asked.

I understood then. Bristow was blissfully absent. My second round was against Deller. He was practicing and hitting the treble twenty with metronomic efficiency. We were the last game on, and I didn't expect to be playing before 1:30PM, so I perused the previous night's format by having a few drinks with Cliff before putting my flights in. I knew Keith was going to be tough, because he was sensing that, now both Bristow and Wilson were out, he could win if he could get rid of me. I was thinking the same thing about him. Anyway, it was a cracker of a game, hundreds being answered by hundreds. 180s replying to 180s. Then came the magic.

I threw 180 to start my leg of 501. I remember wondering what Dave Leaning was saying in the commentarty box. My next throw was crucial: I threw treble twenty, followed by treble twenty. But I was in trouble, because now the treble was not fully in view. One of the other darts had made the angle slightly wrong, yet over the top of danger my third dart went into the treble twenty to give another 180. My thoughts then were "That is the easy bit... can I do the hard bit?" Inwardly I felt I could do it; everything was right. Treble seventeen was my first target. I said to myself "Take your time, look at it ...go!" It was there. Now I wanted treble eighteen. Again I hit it, straight in the centre. Only one throw left for double eighteen and the first televised nine-dart game. At this point I was oblivious to the money; only the double eighteen mattered. The dart that was in the treble eighteen was angled upwards, obscuring my view of the double. Again I had to throw over. "Take your time," I told myself. "Nice and easy, Sinatra easy." Bang! I think my arm was in the air before the dart hit the double. I had done it! My feelings were unbelievable. I was shaking hands with everyone in sight. There was a blockage in my throat and something unmistakably wet in my eye. The place had gone mad.

Three minutes later, I had to get on with the job of beating Deller. Once that was over, I could really let my feelings go. When I left the stage, I was surrounded by TV cameras. Jim Rosenthal wanted a quick interview to go out on air a few minutes later. I told him I had to phone Diana, because if she saw it on television before I had a chance to ring she might have a heart attack. He begged me to do the interview, and reluctantly I agreed, but told him to make it quick. It was a very relaxed job for Jim, but not for me. I wanted to shout, sing, and to be honest, get steaming drunk. As soon as the interview was over, I dashed to the phone and called Diana, but her voice sounded dreadful. She had been ill, but surely this would cheer her up. "Di, I said, I've just beaten Keith Deller, and what do you think I've done?"

At that critical moment she asked me to hold on as she needed to rush to the toilet. When she returned, I told her: "I have just done a nine-dart game!"

Obviously, she didn't realize the importance of those words, or the money that came with them. "Di, do you know how much it was worth? £ 100,000!"

"Wow!" she replied. "Hold on a minute love," she added.

And back she ran to the toilet! This time I had to ring off because I was wanted by the TV people. Dicky Davies had rung to congratulate me and offer a bottle of champagne - a real gent is Dicky. The champers flowed that afternoon, although I knew I had to play Bob Anderson in the semi-final that evening. But who could have resisted a few glasses after what happened? The semi-final promised to be a good match. Bob had checked out from 151, 154 and 137 in his quarter-final. And when he was interviewed he made it clear that he thought I would ease up after winning all that money. Never was he so wrong! I wanted to win the competition to prove that I played for trophies as well as for money. Poor old Bob. Not only did I beat him four-zero, but I finished on 161, the highest (out) shot of the tournament. Bob's misery was complete when he was informed that his car had been stolen while we were playing.

That night, the champagne raged rather than flowed. I thought it was only right that all the officials, who after all, work voluntarily, should have something to remember their great moment by. So I asked Garry to ring the hotel and put some champagne on ice. We drank the lot, all £700 of it! I'm glad the cheque didn't bounce!

The final was a classic, two mates playing for keeps. On the morning of October 14, Cliff and I were having a drink as usual, and practicing on one of the the two boards. I asked Cliff if he wanted to share the first and second prizes. I thought I'd won enough to share the first and second prizes. I thought I'd won enough money and £9000 each sounded like a nice arrangement. Cliff said he would like to share, but had to confirm it with his manager, Dick Allix. Dick said no. He reckoned that I would be vulnerable after winning so much. He also moved Cliff on to the other practice board.

I thought that was pretty silly. I didn't care about the money anymore, but I was playing for pride and I had plenty of that. Although I was twice behind in the final, I came back to win by five sets to three. That night I celebrated on Irish coffee. Guess who joined me? Yes, Cliff Lazarenko, a truly great guy!

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