When the Hurricane hit Liverpool
Alex Higgins smoked, boozed and gambled as he met a delighted Gary Smith
My dad, George, worked in Liverpool, manufacturing paints. As a youth determined to misspend it, I went to see Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins play some exhibition matches at his factory social club.
Higgins (1949-2010) had won the World Championship a couple of years earlier, in 1972. But the £400 prize money was a far cry from today’s six-figure pay-outs – so the daily grind of working men’s clubs was a professional snooker player’s bread and butter.
There was a real buzz about the place. Even though John Spencer (World Champion in 1969, 1971 and 1977) had played here recently, this was different. The atmosphere was more akin to a visceral boxing match than to the gentle probing of the green baize.
Crammed into the hastily erected, raked seating, the audience welcomed the main attraction with applause that quickly evolved into a kind of roar, a warlike mix of reverence and love.
However, my intense anticipation and excitement were a blissful counterpoint to Higgins’s boredom and lack of motivation as he sleepwalked through four frames against players from the works team, winning but without the expected magic.
During the interval, I decided to get the great man’s autograph for my collection. Something told me he would be at the bar; in fact, everything told me that was where he’d be.
I found him engaged with a fruit machine, glass of vodka in one hand, a cigarette and a handful of coins in the other. Just as he was at the table, he was all ticks and sniffs and birdlike movements of his head, on the lookout for danger. Finding another hand from somewhere, the Hurricane quickly signed an autograph before returning to the spinning bright lights of those cherries and bells.
As a starstruck 13-year-old, I was a little disappointed by the evening, with Higgins being off his game and only fleetingly lighting up the smoky, darkened hall with his play.
Yet, on reflection, what could have been better, more apt, than getting up close and personal with your idol as he smoked, boozed and gambled his way through a mid-session break?
Somebody once said you shouldn’t meet your heroes. I disagree – there are precious few of them around. Higgins was definitely one of mine. His wild unpredictability was the very essence of his genius. I for one still miss the ‘People’s Champion’, a flashy fedora in a world of shapeless beanies.
‘He was on the fruit machine, vodka in one hand, cigarette in the other’