DARTS BABY!

A fable for World Championship season

To tell the story of how an eleven-month-old baby stormed the world of darts, we need to know what that baby was getting himself into.

When the great historians turn their attention to darts, what do they offer up?

Darts, we are told, was played right back in the Middle Ages.

The first name that comes up, is usually King Henry VIII. No really. He loved a game of darts. Was given a set, apparently, by Anne Boleyn.

We don’t know quite how good Henry was at the ‘arrers’, but you suspect some of his court hands may have been prepared to ‘throw a game’ against him. I would suggest, with the safety of writing 500 years after his death, that he was rubbish. Partly because his fingers were slippery from throwing chicken legs over his shoulder.

But that was just the first era. The historians would point to the next important era for darts as the 1970s into the ‘80s. Televised events on colour TV. This raises memorable names for those of a certain age. Yer Eric Bristows, yer Jocky Wilsons, yer John Lowes, and of course the peerless commentary of the colourful, Cambridge-educated Northumberland miner’s son Sid Waddell.

It would take years to collate his best lines, but perhaps the most famous remains:

“When Alexander of Macedonia was 33 he cried salt tears because there were no more worlds to conquer. Bristow’s only 27!”

It wasn’t all whimsical prose at that time though. Darts, a pub game lest we forget, had the reputation for beer bellies, smoking and sweaty men. Darts has never fully shaken off that rep. Its best chance is now.

It is only fair these historians distinguish between modern darts eras, so it’s apt Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor era is recognised, from the 1990s through two decades. Sixteen times he was world champion, sixteen times, a record of concentration, professionalism and sheer accuracy so extraordinary that he was oft compared to other sporting greats, then shot down for not being an Olympic athlete.

With regard to Taylor’s nickname. Legend has it, and I was genuinely told by someone involved, that his walk on music, the immensely irritating global number one hit ‘The Power’ by Snap, was a pressurised half-arsed choice by a stressed TV producer, as they needed to sort music to pump out to darts fans packed into the venue.

The song must have driven him quietly mad. But he was certainly the fully-charged force of darts for a long time.

The history-tellers can then talk about those who scrapped to be ‘top boy’ on the oche for the next decade, which produced a wider range of world champs in a sport that was thriving on TV, and had become the new ‘big night out’, full of football chants, fancy dress and plenty of beer, though no longer on the stage, where players now sipped water form bottles enigmatically.

What players? Yer Adrian ‘Jackpot’ Lewises, yer Peter ‘Snakebite’ Wrights, and of course, yer ‘Mighty’ Michael Van Gerwens. There is a strong Dutch presence in the game which first stemmed from being able to receive BBC darts transmissions from the UK, the ‘flat’ landscape facilitating this. Again, this is true.

Halcyon days for darts. But things got better one Christmas. Last Christmas in fact. Last Christmas I gave you my dart, you could say.

The game changed. Thanks to a teenage sensation, a cliche I have afforded myself, because it’s actually a really accurate two-word summary. His name was Luke Littler. Or, to use SDNP (Standard Darts Naming Process), Luke ‘The Nuke’ Littler.

He single-handedly (the right hand, that he threw with) took darts to a new, much wider audience. Into new households, on to new devices, into new countries…and on to news bulletins.

For historical accuracy, scholars of media should be aware this led to some well-bred media types grappling with heir preconceptions of darts, carefully trying to navigate the tightrope of patronising darts fans, as they shared the astonishing news that a ‘boy from nowhere’, 16 years of age, was beating everyone.

Not only beating them, he was thrashing them. Seemingly effortlessly, with the confidence and arrogance of youth. These were extraordinary times. The players left annihilated at the oche were caught between the chastening humiliation and the awe at the kid, which led to the positive realisation he was ‘good for darts’.

Meanwhile Littler was being praised for eating pizza and other fast food, which felt like maybe it wasn’t that incredible or a reason for celebration. He looked bemused at the fuss. But they needed another angle. Because it was the same news people, with the same report, every night. The wonder kid making ‘em talk about darts.

The final drew a record-breaking TV audience. And the darting gods had conjured up something delicious. An opponent named Luke. What are the chances? Actually don’t try and work them out. Let’s plough on. It was of course ‘Cool Hand’ Luke Humphries.

Poor old Luke, of the Humphries variety, wasn’t given half the credit he deserved for charging to the final. He won. The darts romanticists didn’t get their happy ending, but the story had been one for folklore. For fables even. Like this one.

Mr Humphries was the deserving world champion. The best player on the planet. For now at least. Because we had seen the future. The kid who took darts to places it had never reached before.

Will Luke The Nuke dominate the sport for decades? Not so fast. You may not be aware of a new force. From Stoke-on-Trent, a gobsmacking new talent was emerging.

A (very) young phenomenon, a chappy in a nappy, a dartist with a dummy, the babygrower thrower.

Brace yourself, for DARTS BABY!

*

Stoke. The spiritual home of darts, apart from Hampton Court.

In a two-up, two-down, the telly was on.

And out of the telly came the sound of the darts.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

One hundred and eiiiiiiiighhtttttyyyy!

Off the wire!

That’s a good marker.

Yeeeeeeessss. I can’t speak! I can’t even spaaaaaake.

There was so much darts at this time of year, even the darts fans struggled to watch it all.

And those darts fans including Mason and Beth Tanner. Parents of Alfie Tanner.

Alfie was a baby. And he’d do most baby things. Like crawl around and gurgle and look quizzically at certain people in the supermarket aisles. Children and animals know.

But he was also absorbing an unusual interest for a pre-schooler. Darts.

When it was on, he would sit in front of the TV in his nappy. Absorbed. Thankfully it was easy to see over his head. He’d throw his rattle at the TV sometimes, mercifully made of light plastic.

He’d always do it with his left hand. A southpaw rattle thrower. Wouldn’t usually miss the telly though. He’d also appear to smile knowingly as certain lines form the commentators, and nod appreciatively at a good ‘outshot’. Occasionally clapping.

Mr and Mrs Tanner found this cute, but didn’t think much of it. That’s just what babies do, right? Absorb things. In their own little world.

But it became the talk of the family, from grandparents to uncles and aunties, that Alfie enjoyed the arrers. With a couple of months until Christmas, Mrs Tanner, who had the only online shopping account because Mr Tanner was mainly rubbish on the internet, confidently bought a little children’s dart board. With soft, non-sharp tips. No honestly, don’t worry.

But one day late in November, they took their eye off the ball. Well, the bullseye as it happens. The bullseye on the kid’s dartboard, in wrapping paper already, under the Christmas tree they’d put up that very day, because of the peer pressure from adverts, where 50 per cent of people were having the perfect Christmas, and 50 per cent were on the streets. Nobody on the adverts was having an okay Christmas, or disappointing, stressful, mildly depressing Christmas.

Alfie sensed his parents both disappear from the room, and crawled at Brian Jacks pace to the tree. Who’s Brian Jacks? He was a judo player from the ‘80s, who used to do really fast squat thrusts on a multi-sport programme called Superstars. You’re welcome!

Alfie seemed to instinctively know there was a dart board in there, and a set of darts, though maybe he’d spied the wrapping process, while feigning some interest in a programme for the under-fives on CBeebies, which in fairness is the best channel in broadcasting history, but not his thing. Never underestimate a baby. And never underestimate a darts baby!!

The wrapping came off in seconds. At the sound of rustling, Mrs Tanner rushed back in first, panicked from the bat-like hearing of most mothers. She didn’t know whether to be shocked, still panicked, amused, worried, or all four. But that wasn’t the biggest shock for Mr and Mrs Tanner. Because Alfie handed the board to Mr Tanner. And then pointed to the gap between two chairs.

Mr Tanner hung it between the chairs and offered a futile. “It’s not for now Alfie; it’s for Christmas mate.” The telly was on the sports channel, and on the sports channel there was a trailer. For the World Darts Championship in December.

Alfie crawled to the darts, still on the discarded paper in front of one of the chairs and crawled back. His little blankie was on the sofa. He grabbed that and placed it on the floor, a few yards from the dartboard. Neatly.

Mr and Mrs Tanner were looking at each other, down to Alfie, then to each other again, wondering if, and probably when, to stage an intervention. But should anyone really stop the darts? Is that fair? They pondered until the most shocking moment yet.

Alfie stood up for the first time in his ten months outside of the womb. He swayed a little from side to side like a backing singer for a mid-tempo number, adding a little head wobble just because he could. And found his balance. All with three darts on his left hand.

A reminder. No detachable flights. No spiked tips. Safe for a baby? No, I still wouldn’t say so, it was questionable parenting. But Mr and Mrs Tanner were now in a state of shock, replaced by rising excitement that their 10-month-old baby was standing for the first time. Not only that, he was threatening to throw his first dart.

There’s only one thing to do in this situation for the modern human, and that’s start the filming on one’s phone, with a background of audio from sports channel and their own giggling close to the phone mic.

“Look at his little legs,” said Mrs Tanner, who got down on the beanbag beside him in a token gesture in case he fell, on to the soft carpet. But Alfie Tanner was steady, and planted his right foot close up to his blankie, almost nudging it forward with his tiny toes.

With a face of concentration and as steady as a world class sommelier, he metronomically pulled back his left dart, and hurled the dart, which possibly doesn’t do justice to the quality of his action. It wasn’t really a hurl. It was classier than that. The dart landed slightly to the left to the left of small bullseye. To the left? Why not dead centre? There was an immediate game plan.

Alfie switched his second dart from right to left hand and with the exact same, smooth action, he flighted the dart right next to the first one. Side by side. Mr Tanner managed to keep his hand from shaking. He’d exclaimed at the first dart, this was stunned him to silence, Alfie, without missing a beat or rushing it, used that steady left hand and world class action, to nestle the third dart for a strawberry design. Three bumps, packed together, all within the bull, as much as room would allow.

When you consider how some darts stars have made a living from the most ungainly, inexplicably ugly and science-defying grips, this was a thing of aesthetic beauty. Delivered by someone who had only been delivered ten months before.

“Oh my god! I can't speak.” shouted Mr Tanner. Before a stunned Mrs Tanner halted her excited clapping and octave-redefining “Well dooooooone Alfie”, to actually consider what she’d just seen.

In a two-up two-down in Stoke-on-Trent a darts legend had announced himself to an excited crowd of two people. The crowd was about to get bigger.

*

Mr Tanner wasn’t a prolific poster on social media, but on this occasion he felt a swift share of his hilarious little video on the amazing achievement of Alfie was something people needed to see, whether or not they knew the Tanners.

Check out Alfie’s first attempt at darts. Though the board was meant to be for Xmas. A shocked emoji. Lol.

He was going to post it to other platforms but got distracted. By Alfie’s second lot of three darts. All three landed around the treble twenty ‘bed’. Again, tightly-packed because the board was so small. It wasn’t designed for this kind of scoring. It was designed for normal children.

Then Alfie ‘switched’ down to the nineteen bed. Where he ended up in a vertical formation this time. Two single nineteens only? I hope standards aren’t slipping. Collecting his darts every time by crawling to and from the board with a giggle, reminding his parents that yes, he really is a baby not an ex-pro taking on all-comers for beer money down the pub.

Then Alfie started working his way around the board. From 1 to 20. Via the double segment. Each dart was in or near the outer ring, the ‘doubles’, and that they weren’t all in the doubles was more down to the tools than the workman. Or work baby.

It was a bit much for the Tanners to take in. It was getting a bit ‘Twilight Zone’. So Mrs Tanner staged an intervention. “Alfie let’s have some lunch; we can play darts again later.”

Alfie was stood up ready to throw, and dropped the darts to the floor, with a slightly incredulous quizzical look, the type a darts star might so when an opponent has just over-celebrated near their face, as if to say “Are you having a laugh? I’m getting on with my game here.”

But mashed avocado and banana was calling. The darts would have to wait. For now.

Social media waits for no man or baby.

*

The clip of Alfie went viral faster than a cat driving a tank.

You didn’t need to be a darts fan to love it. It was just so clickable. You know how it is. It was one of those clips that united people in their response. Which was partly “cute” and wow emojis. But something less welcome too. The ‘f’ word. Fake.

Naaaa bruv. This is deepfake shit.

AI doin’ its work – imagine of a baby could play like that!

First throw? Lols!! I reckon he was practicing all night. Lovin the AI though.

The Tanners had got on board a rollercoaster without realising, both of their phones lighting up with messages, thousands upon thousands of shares and comments, increasingly with the word fake involved.

Alfie’s parents weren’t deep thinkers, let alone a deepfakers, so it didn’t occur to them that the presumption this was fake was saving them from another backlash – should a baby really being ripping open Xmas presents unattended, then playing darts?

There was one important man, certainly in the darts world, that didn’t dismiss the video as fake though.

Brian ‘Bunsen’ Turner, the man who invented TV darts, saved it, invented it again, jazzed it up, rebranded it. And made it a global hit. There wasn’t much that got past Bunsen, which for anyone who isn’t well versed in the world of Cockney is because he loved a ‘bunsen burner’, meaning ‘nice little earner’.

Brian’s son Nicky, who now ran the darts empire, or at least tried to run it while Brian stayed ‘hands on’, had sent him the clip.

“Look at this clip Dad. We’ve got our next superstar.’

“This is bloody amazing son.”

“Yeah, shame it’s fake.”

“No it’s not”

“Dad it’s fake mate. Love it tho.”

“It’s real.”

“Dad they said it was his first throw. Haaaa.”

“I don’t bloody care if he was practicing in the delivery room, he’s thrown those”

“Yeah alright Dad, listen I’ve got a bit of business, catch you later.”

“Son, bloody give yourself five seconds, do yourself favour and listen to me. That’s real.”

“Dad, he’s in a nappy, and he’s just thrown three bullseyes. On the same visit. Not even Luke Littler could do that.”

“Bobby George could son. Proved he could play after a broken back, stuck three together into the bull on his first practice throw. I was there son.”

“Dad, the kid’s probably not much more than a year old. Haaaaa.”

“Don’t tell me what’s real or not. I’ve got animal instinct. And I’ve been on the planet longer than you, Luke Littler and that baby put together. Get someone to get his parents on the line.”

“Dad seriously, take a day off.”

“Do it son. Don’t piss me off.”

“Dad the world champs are coming up, what you want him to play on a wildcard?”

There was silence. Then more silence.

There was a bit more silence.

“That’s the best idea you’ve had since I brought you into the firm. Never mind the teenage talent. We’ve got our Darts Baby!”

*

In a room tucked away at a half decent hotel in London, were five people and a dartboard. Well, four people, a baby and a dartboard.

The four people were in discussion. Mr and Mrs Tanner, Brian ‘Bunsen’ Turner, and his long-serving right-hand woman, Sally Pound. There were no flies on Sally, she’d seen and done it all before.

This was a bit different. Because as they talked, Alfie Tanner, still short of his first birthday by six weeks, was throwing darts. At a board over seven feet away.

The board was standard match-play height. And yet Alfie was finding the board with, and the right bits of the board, with looping throws, not only scoring heavily, but also doing the math, and calculating ‘outshots’ down from 501. Phenomenal. World class.

Mr and Mrs Tanner, who we’ve established aren’t always world class at safe and responsible parenting were rightly concerned in this care, about the switch to tungsten and proper spiked tips. Yet Alfie wasn’t just handling them with care, he was hitting big scores consistently.

“I’m worried his left arm is getting a bit bulky” said Mr Tanner, and there were definite signs of muscles forming in Alfie’s left arm that were unusual for a baby.

“I’m no doctor but this looks like good exercise to me,” said Bunsen. “Have you thought about introducing a few weights that he can lift with his right arm just to even them up?” he said, genuinely trying to help.

Bunsen had few concerns beyond what he called ‘The integrity of the World Championship’ and how to make this God-given sports and marketing opportunity go off perfectly. His speciality was the business of sports entertainment, and seizing the moment. There has never been a moment quite like this.

Nicky was in the Middle East on business, so Brian was in overdrive, like the old days, defying doctor’s orders and having his well-drilled team of organisers scurrying around, organising.

The World Championship was less than a week away, at Alexandra Palace in London. Ticket sales were unaffected by the news. Oh, did I not mention the news? That Alfie Tanner had been given a ‘wildcard’ to the first Preliminary round of the tournament and was first match on the opening evening.

Bunsen would usually want the main box office attraction on later in the evening, but made a concession in an attempt to be as fair as possible to Alfie and his sleep patterns.

Ticket sales were unaffected, because the tournament had already sold out months ago. Darts has never been more popular, and the players can thank Bunsen for that. But he winced at the thought he could have sold the place out many times over for this opening night. Darts baby had become a massive news story, way beyond Britain.

The media were camped outside the hotel, which at least meant they weren’t camped outside the Tanners two-up, two-down. Though there were still a handful of tabloid journalists in their street looking for online stories from neighbours about the Tanners.

There was more than a little controversy.

Many people were horrified that a baby was being exploited like this, their words not mine, I’m just telling the story. They said a baby’s place should be in a play pen or being walked through a park in a pushchair, not being effectively put to work.

In this binary world, the other view was that this was brilliant, fun and exciting. Snowflakes should just shut up and stop spoiling the fun. That Darts Baby clearly loved it. Again, not my words.

Do I think a baby should be playing darts in the World Championship? No, not really. But it’s where we are.

The story was a pre-Christmas gift for anyone needing a debate. Interesting, timely and often robust. From those awful daytime TV shows and news segments that need a 50/50 debate. And social media of course, where there was a cyber ocean of keyboard-on-keyboard rage, ranting and righteousness. Over darts. Which was good for darts. And good for Bunsen.

The media, who woke up to darts the previous year and gave us the spectacle of the middle classes people trying to cover the ultimate working-class pastime, were chugging from this news-well with an unquenchable thirst.

But the water wasn’t perfect. Alfie couldn’t yet talk. So Mr and Mrs Tanner talked themselves hoarse. Along with other family members, darts pundits, news reporters and anyone who looked like they had an opinion. These days, everyone.

While Bunsen was pondering when the talking would start and wondering whether he could offer Alfie up as one-on-one exclusive for his first interview when the words arrived next year, the four adults were stopped in their tracks, along with a hotel waitress bringing in a tray of teas and a bottle of milk that had been warmed up.

Because Alfie was throwing some darts, admittedly not quite with his usual accuracy….with his right hand.

“An ambidextrous fackin’ darts baby. I can’t even speak!” said Bunsen, rubbing his hands.

*

Mid-December. The Alexandra Palace. Ally Pally. A dartboard. 95 of the world’s top dart players. Plus one ‘darts baby’.

Thousands of darts fans. Dressed as Teletubbies (yes still), aliens, Robin Hoods, Maid Marians, pencils, sharks and speedboats. Ok I made that last one up. Maybe next year.

But the main theme, naturally, was inspired by darts baby. Darts baby mania had arrived. Giant nappies (slightly disconcertingly) baby grows, rattles, dummies. And signs. On whiteboards with marker pens.

Yeah Baby!

Oooo baby I love your slay

Don’t cry, it’s a bullseye

and of course,

Friday, Saturday, nappy days!

The television producers had faced the pressures of more attention, more viewers, more bosses watching, more critics and a player who might conceivably literally shit itself within the first few moments of action. Notwithstanding the fact several older players have come close, still literally, in recent years.

The last thing to be sorted felt like it had needed attention a few days earlier. Alfie’s all-important walk out song. In this a case, and it’s not always like this, the nickname proceeded the song.

It needed to be something to fire up the crowd to 12 out of ten. 11 wouldn’t be enough. Something to stare down Freed from Desire and Sweet Caroline and something of course that featured the word baby. They only had thousands of tunes to choose from.

And this led to a debate. That they didn’t have time for. A decision had to be made.

Executive director Brenton Shearsmith never usually muddied his hands with walk-on music. But loved to pull rank when he fancied, and then rock back in his chair with hands at back of his head like he had just finished recording a Beatles album.

He loved the theatre of it, did Brenton. When asked about ‘running orders’ close to transmission time, Brenton would point to his temple and say, “It’s all in there” enjoying the nervousness of his producers when he could have just fucking well told them.

But it was such a well-oiled, slick machine, it always got on-air fine, and off-air fine, and the TV darts coverage was a huge reason the sport had become so popular. It was colourful, it was vibrant, and now it had more new viewers.

Brenton announced he was making the decision on Alfie Tanner’s walk-on music.

And after a pause he regaled his team with it.

“All right stop, collaborate and listen,

Darts is back with a brand-new invention.

Alfie grabs a hold of tightly

Hits one eighties daily and nightly

DARTS, DARTS, BABY!”

That’s why Brenton was paid the big bucks.

But a young assistant producer Saskia Thomas put her neck on the line, with a major note of concern.

“That’s taken though isn’t it, Brenton?”

“Yes I know, we’ll have to think of something else for the Iceman. Something icy. He’ll be fine, he’s probably bored of it by now. This’ll give it a new lease of life.”

“He might not.”

“He’ll have to be. This baby is going to be good for all of them. As Bunsen said, it’ll make them all more money. What’s good for darts is good for them.”

“What about the lyrics? How are we going to record that by tomorrow?”

“You what love?”

“Those lyrics.”

“What the fuck you on about?”

“The lyrics.”

Brenton sighed.

“They’re my lyrics. But mark my fucking words. When we put Vanilla Ice on, the crowd will start singing the darts darts baby bit.”

The team knew he was right, and it was one of his better shouts. Shame he had to be such an arsehole about it. He was ready, the players were ready, the crowd was ready.

It was over to the darts MC since the ‘90s, Alan Williams. With his boxing style patter. And familiar final line:

“Ladies and gentlemen. Let’s. Play. Darts.”

*

Out of the shadows into the corridor of light came Alfie’s preliminary round opponent. Paul ‘The Member’ Johnson. A member of darts inner circle. A man who had seen and heard everything this game had to offer over two decades. But not quite this.

Paul was a nice fella. A popular Geordie. Yet when his name was announced, and his walk on song was fired up, Welcome to the Pleasuredome, there was booing. Yes, booing. Which was standard for the Iceman or one of the game’s other pretend villains. But for Paul? This was another first.

In theory he’d have found it gently funny, but so sustained was the booing, so loud, that by the time he got on stage he almost looked a bit tearful, his ruddy red cheeks looking even ruddier. Darts, ruddy hell.

“Pantomime season has begun,” said the commentator Norman Shakeshaft, never one to let a cliche stay unthrown.

His co-commentator, ex-pro Darren ‘Rockets’ Moon was never one for understatement and overexcitement, this had taken him to stratospheric levels of hyperbole and world mangling.

“Pinch me, what are we seeing? I thought I’d seen it all. This is why we desire the darts. The greatest sport on earth. The greatest show on earth. I need a lie down. But I ain’t missing this. Let’s go baby!!” shouted Moon, fizzing with excitement, his right arm gripping the microphone and left arm winding dangerously close to Norman’s fizzog, leaving him ducking and bobbing like peak Ali.

Darren had gone through the full range of moon songs in his playing career from Fly Me to the Moon and Walking on the Moon, to Man on the Moon, all while wearing silver astronaut shirts with a rocket on the back, which became three rockets based on darts.

He reached the quarter-finals of the 2006 World Championship at the old venue, something he never mentioned. Okay maybe once or twice.

“TRUST ME. Paul will feel the pressure. I felt pressure in 2006 against the master dartsman, but that ain’t nothing compared to this. The WORLD is watching. Other planets are watching.”

If aliens had tuned in, and they might, and let’s face it it’s a running theme of the fables, they may have been confused by what happened next.

A familiar, too familiar, musical riff started playing.

Der der der der-der-der-der….der-der-der-der-der-der-der-der… bing, bing.

The TV monitors and giant screens in the arena were showing a giant baby’s face. Because a camera was a few centimetres away. That face belonged to Alfie Tanner.

The wider shot revealed a pushchair, with his mum at the reins. And so the walk-on began. Darts history being made. Brenton, annoyingly, was right. When the intro kicked in, Darts Darts Baby was thunderously, beerily, belted out by seemingly every ticket holder.

Most players stop for a few autographs and high-fives for the fans crowded around the gangway towards the stage. In this instance too hurly security men were flanking Alfie and his Mrs Tanner, one massively overplaying his part with a little shove of someone’s little whiteboard, with the off-message line, “Isn’t it past his bedtime?”

Mrs Tanner stopped the pushchair and lifted Alfie out for a final hug with Dad, who was now sweating nearly as much as Paul. It was next-level overwhelming. Alfie had his game face on already though, and actually gave Mr Tanner a two-handed shove in the chest, as if to say “Don’t crowd me pa, I’m a big boy now”.

A special ramp had been installed, a lovely deft piece of work by a clever TV technician, the unsung heroes of the firm, and up on to the stage emerged Alfie Tanner, eleven months and two days old. Just about the youngest competitor in darts history.

By now his opponent Paul was sweating like a beekeeping darts fan suddenly remembering he’s still dressed as a honey monster when he returns to his hive.

He had already used both of his complimentary towels and was glugging the bottles of water like Jocky Wilson and co used to down pints on the stage.

It’s not for me to wonder why darts players sweat more than a long distance runner, but there is one obvious reason. Jeez it was warm in there. It was the hottest place on earth.

“Look at Paul sweat, not only is his reputation on the line here, but it must be over 100 degrees dartograde in here. Reminds me of when Dennis Ovens was still playing and cranked it up to regulo 10,” said Moon, spitting out words faster than Vanilla Ice.

Mrs Tanner helped Alfie out of the pushchair again, but it was time again for him to stand on his own two feet. And one of the ‘darts babes’, which were remarkably still a thing in the year 2024, helped her off stage while she cried and wondered what the fuck was actually happening to her life.

She needn’t have worried. Alfie, resplendent in baby grow with a cartoon style darts baby on the back, had unpacked his darts from his little table, taken a swig of milk from his bottle, and gave his head a little pad with his blankie. There was no sweat. He was already a darts machine. Alfie raised a hand to acknowledge the crowd, like he’d seen on the telly, and gave Paul a firm handshake, before they both had a few practice throws.

Savvy old Bunsen had knocked one of the games off that night’s schedule to factor in Alfie’s understandably slower pace. He had a special helper to retrieve his darts from the board, way above his head, and walk them back over for him. Alfie looked slightly irritated by this, and he was, he wanted to walk up and down like the ‘proper’ players, thinking it would help his rhythm.

Usually the players practice throws are ignored while the commentators witter, but tonight they couldn’t help noticing Alfie had looped, with not inconsiderable velocity, his first two darts in the treble 20, The third landed in the single 20 causing an involuntary wince from Alfie. Each throw was already bringing an ‘oooooo’ and an exhalation from the crowd.

“Ominous,” said Moon with deliberate understatement.

The MC called for the best or order. Fruitlessly.

“Best of three sets. First to three legs wins a set. First leg….Paul to throw first.”

Paul had taken ‘the honour’ on his first brief meeting with Alfie and his entourage, and had got ‘closer to the bull’ despite a clammy hand and a feeling of dread about the lose/lose situation he was entering on stage.

Any top pro will tell you when that first dart lands in the treble twenty it sets them up nicely. Paul’s first dart landed in the single five. The next one in treble one. And then a single 20. For a score of 28. Like an opening visit in a pub game, in a pub that’s struggling in the local village league.

Boos, catcalls and laughter echoed through the Ally Pally, and seamlessly into the roar of excitement for Alfie’s debut dart. Straight into treble 20, outscoring Paul’s entire visit by 32 points. His Darts Baby flights had already sold out and made a small fortune for the Tanners and a large one for Bunsen and co.

The second dart budged the wire, and then Alfie, with that metronomic style, and assassin’s aim, calmly switched to ‘nineteens’, and banged one snugly into the treble.

“One hundred and thirty-seven,” said the scorer enthusiastically to cheers and a round of applause so raucous it caused a delay to Paul’s next throw.

He did start to hit some trebles, but was nowhere near his normal game, let alone his best. And Alfie, by osmosis, had learned how to go for the jugular. A ‘baby shark’ no less. He took the first set by three legs to nil. With an average of nearly a hundred, well above the tournament average, and having missed only two of his five darts at doubles, two of them being at his favourite, unusual, double 19. Unusual because it risks leaving you with single 19. Alfie didn’t care. He preferred the height of it. The only darting evidence that this was a small person playing.

Alfie also won the second set 3-0, and with this one came the first signs of how much he’d been influenced by his TV darts watching at home. Behavioural psychologists were no doubt absorbed, along with the many millions also watching.

When his final dart of three ‘hit the wire’ and bounced out for no score, he put his hands on hips, and turned with the incredulity that had become a trait. The ‘give me a fucking break here’ double teapot, from someone too young for a brew.

When he ‘took out’ a 141 outshot - treble seventeen, bullseye and double top - to snatch the first leg that Paul had looked like winning, Alfie turned to his left, where he knew there was a camera, and extended his head in a mock butt, the way a geezer in a pub might do during a disagreement over dartboard management.

Darren Moon guffawed, “check out this kid!” he exclaimed.

“Check out his check outs’ joked Norman beside him, with one of those small bits of wordplay treated as genuine witticisms that darts fans have suffered ever since the late, great Sid Waddell went to the oche in the sky.

Alfie Tanner, Darts Baby, was clearly already a fierce competitor, but he was a fair player, and in the third set, he showed his sportsbabyship. Paul had dug deep to up his scoring, and held his nerve through the booing to win a leg. He had three darts at double top to level the third set at 2-2. As he stepped up to throw the crowd’s booing was a cacophony. Alfie took a step from his table and turned to the crowd, in the international gesture of ‘I appreciate your support but let’s not be disrespectful’. The crowd responded with a round of applause and exaggerated shushing the type you hear in hotel corridors at two in the morning from twats.

Paul, still sweating with clammier hands than a bomb disposal trainee, missed the first one, too high, and the second one went too low into the single twenty. He instinctively disallowed himself time to think and threw instantly at the double ten. Successfully. Two legs all.

He also ‘had the darts’ in the final leg, and started with a 140. But Alfie found that gear we expect from the top, top pros. A maximum 180 was pinged in like he was messing about with a mobile in his cot (not that kind of mobile, we’re not there yet).

Alfie didn’t seem to possess the slightest doubt or hesitation, which rattled Paul, and led to a trebleless visit. Alfie pinged in another 180.

“He couldn’t…COULD he????!!!!!” screamed Darren Moon. Risking jinxing Alfie’s potential nine-dart leg, that holy grail of darts. And Paul’s third visit of the leg was a near irrelevance, even though he had to win this leg to stay in the tournament and avoid being dumped out by a baby.

Alfie’s seventh dart of the leg was dead centre of the treble twenty. Seven successful darts, two more where he wanted for a nine-dart finish, a huge bonus cheque for the Tanners and a level of frenzy not yet see in the history of the planet.

Alfie already had his preferred route, because he’d nailed a few nine-darters in practice. Triple 17, then double 15. It was unconventional, but he didn’t give a shit.

Until. Hnnnk (if this accurately represents the sound of a bit of wire being slightly adjusted upwards by a dart). A dart than finished in the white bit of the 17, the single bit, not the glorious green of the treble. The nine-darter was off.

The crowd was predisposed to mock boo. And so they did, involuntarily, an unusual frisson of disappointment on an evening that had been seismic, that they could say “I. was. There.”

“Noooooooo.” screamed Moon. “Oh darts your cruel beast. Do we not deserve your riches, your worldly goods?”

“He’s human” boomed Norman Shakeshaft.

Alfie carefully adjusted his dart so the spike was safe and turned to the crowd again for a performance shrug. Producing wild cheers of support and ‘sympathy for his loss’.

He turned and flopped the last dart straight into the treble ten. Leaving him double 17 in his next visit. The quirk of a player so good, so remarkable on the top half of the board, that he favoured doubles on the bottom half, would have been a bigger discussion point if there as wasn’t so much else to digest. It was a form of disadvantage. And yet he was kicking the world number 14’s sorry arse.

Paul hit an excellent 137 to leave himself on a finish, a defiant effort that gave him a genuine modicum of comfort in defeat, as he knew this leg would be replayed many times for its drama.

But Alfie only needed one more dart. Double 17 nailed.

Game, shot and the match, Alfie Tanner.

Old habits die hard, and Freed from Desire came thundering in to drown out everything.

Alfie Tanner was through.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before? I’ve seen an elephant fly.” said Norman.

“You know what I’m gonna say, but I just can’t help meself. I can’t spaaaaake!” said Darren Moon, who was in fact speaking.

Alfie packed up his darts and Mrs Tanner rushed onto stage to hug him. After a brief, ludicrous dance with security men, Mr Tanner rushed on too. A three-way hug. Apparent joy. Yet the Tanners had already had enough. They wanted their baby back.

Alfie belonged to them, not the darts family.

*

The Tanners had decided to sleep on it. Though they had barely slept. Were they going to pull Alfie put of the World Championship. Effectively retire him before the age of one? They were at least in full agreement. Yes. Alfie? He didn’t have a say. He’d done his talking with his darts.

Bunsen had gone through a full range of emotions after the Tanners delivered their bombshell in the back room of the hotel. Shock, incredulity, sadness, disbelief, range, self-pity, despair, defiance, hope, and what was emerging was grief. He’d never been so disappointed. And he’d been around nearly as long as darts itself.

“You signed a contract,” he croaked.

“Stuff your contract,” said Mrs Tanner.

“I don’t want to have to sue.”

A flash of anger cursed through Mr Tanner but he wasn’t quick enough to react before Mrs Tanner, who grabbed Bunsen by his lapels.

“To be known as a man forcing a baby to work. I don’t think so sunshine,” she said, her accent never so strong. “Never mind the courts. I will rip you a new one.”

Bunsen had dealt with some heavy, heavy figures. But had never seen anger on this level. Don’t fuck with a mother, and particularly don’t fuck with one from Stoke-on-Trent, it seemed.

“Listen we don’t need to fall out over this.”

“We’re not friends love,” said Mrs Tanner. “We made a mistake. End of.” But after a pause she continued.

“I’ll do you a deal. He can come back and play when he’s sixteen. If he wants to.”

“Sixteen” said Bunsen. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried but hot tears were stinging his eyes. I’ll be in in the clouds by then.”

The tournament director, Jeremy “Knight Rider” Knight entered the room with his slicked-back hair, not considering for a moment there was really going to be a withdrawal from the biggest thing to happen to darts. It was like having hundreds of thousands of pounds, perhaps millions, wiped from your account in one moment. So Jeremy was in denial.

“Sorry to interrupt, look I know it’s overwhelming, but let’s tweak the schedule, and make sure Alfie’s pre-Christmas game is in the perfect slot, not just for the viewers, but for you guys. Let’s give him an extra day if needed. Though the world is waiting!” he smiled unconvincingly.

“The world can wait.”

“The world is not enough” croaked Bunsen, who was now crouched over in pain, and muttering disjointed sentences like a dalek that had been rewired. Not that Bunsen was a bad guy. He’d saved darts, saved other sports, and provided decades of entertainment. It was hard not to feel a pang of sympathy for him.

“Look at Alfie’s half of the draw,” said Jeremy. “There’s some games there he’d relish if he keeps winning,” he continued, not helping the cause at all, and talking in the style of one of those sports presenters who can only see life through a set of sports statistics and draw bracket prospects.

“Look at this quarter of the draw, look at the pathway,” persisted Jeremy. “Think of the games in prospect. Next game will be against Tracey “Two Darts” Hart. The highest ranked woman in the tournament’s history, she didn’t even need to play a preliminary match. The Baby v The Lady. Though I know it’s not fair she only gets two darts a throw, we’ll give her three,” said Jeremy, hoping his weak joke about Tracey’s nickname, earned from her habit of nailing the second dart when she had three at a double, leaving one to spare, would lighten the mood.

“Two hearts, living just one life” mumbled Bunsen, his wiring having gone and Tracey’s walk-on song, classic Phil Collins, having invaded his thoughts.

“If Alfie wins that, who’s next? Very likely the Stefan ‘Casanova’ Cassidy, the half Swedish heartthrob.”

“Mr Lovermaaaaan. Shabba.” Mumbled Bunsen from the floor, the fluff of the carpet all over his smart grey suit.

“And if Alfie gets to the last sixteen, imagine the showdown with ‘Angry’ Alan Phillips. It’s all very well Alan having a bit of argy-bargy with the Dutch players when they beat him, but he can’t spit his dummy put against an actual baby,” said Jeremy, turning to Alfie with the words “with respect Alfie,” having gone into his own world, a safe place of dream matchups.

“You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry,” said Bunsen, the words from The Incredible Hulk that filled the arena before whatever death metal song ‘Angry’ had playing. He was allowed a range of them.

Mrs Tanner stared at him and shook her head. “We’re going back to Stoke,” she said.

“Fuck Casanova and Alan Philpott, or whatever his name is.” She surprised herself with the swear word, but then again, she’d never had to stick it to darts bosses before.

Anyone entering the room now might be oblivious to the fact the baby playing with a teddy in his favourite chair was a superstar of world sport. Unless they’d checked their phone or watched a single piece of news. The phrase Darts Baby was unavoidable. Phenomenon, for once, didn’t do it justice. Do believe the hype.

The media in the hotel were oblivious to this development, which would be a massive lead news story above world wars yet spoilt the prospect of a fortnight of daily darts baby mania. Jeremy would be left with the onerous task of breaking the news to the world that the darts baby was quitting. The Tanners were not for turning.

“Alfieeee,” pleaded Bunsen from the floor. “Talent like this. I’ve never seen it before. I’ve done all the sports. You’re a little gem. A bobby dazzler. You’ve made an old man very happy. I was gonna take you to Saudi to make millions. But forget business, forget me. Tell me, this ain’t the end of darts for you. Don’t waste a talent like this.”

Alfie was out of his chair, and not back in his pushchair, between the Tanners, holding hands.

He turned. And winked.

You know what? I don’t think Alfie Tanner’s work is done.

One day, you’ll surely see that young man with three darts in one hand. And a big trophy in the other.

He’ll be ‘the artist formerly known as darts baby.’

But please Alfie. Do it for darts.

Lee Wellings is a former Sports Editor at media organisations including Sky, ITN and the BBC. His new book Football Fables is out now.

Link to buy:

Football Fables: The First Eleven

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