In the hazy glow of a Stoke-on-Trent pub, where the air thick with cigarette smoke and the clink of pint glasses once defined the heartbeat of British darts, a simple phone call in the mid-1980s flipped the script on one of sport’s most improbable underdog stories. Phil Taylor, the unpretentious factory hand with a dart in his hand that could split atoms, was about to become “The Power”—a moniker that would echo through 16 world titles and a revolution in a game once dismissed as a boozy sideshow. The architect? Barry Hearn, the Essex sharp operator whose silver tongue and unyielding ambition turned pub leagues into global spectacles. Decades on, as Taylor savors retirement at 64 and Hearn, now 77, still pulls strings at Matchroom Sport, the 16-time champion has dusted off this gem of a memory: a hilarious, high-handed conversation that wasn’t a negotiation but a declaration. “I’m your manager now,” Hearn barked down the line, sealing a partnership that propelled darts from backroom banter to prime-time pandemonium.
It was 1986, and darts teetered on the edge of irrelevance. The British Darts Organisation (BDO) clung to its smoky traditions, while television audiences dwindled faster than a poorly aimed checkout. Taylor, then 25, was a local sensation in the Potteries, slinging arrows after shifts at a ceramics plant, his effortless 180s and ice-cold finishes earning him pocket change in league nights. He idolized Eric Bristow, the flamboyant five-time world champ whose swagger defined the era, but Taylor’s own path was more grind than glamour—no agents, no endorsements, just raw talent begging for a spotlight. Enter Hearn, the self-made hustler who’d already conquered snooker halls in Romford, turning cue sports into a color-TV obsession with protégés like Steve Davis and Jimmy White. Spotting darts’ untapped goldmine, Hearn had inked Bristow, but he craved a thoroughbred: someone with Taylor’s quiet ferocity to eclipse the old guard.
The call came out of the blue, Taylor recalls with a booming laugh in a recent chat on snooker icon Stephen Hendry’s Cue Tips YouTube channel. “I got a phone call from an unknown number,” he begins, his Potteries drawl painting the scene like a stand-up routine. “I picked up and said, ‘Hello?’ And he goes, ‘Phil. Barry Hearn.’ I said, ‘Alright, Bazza? How’s it going?'” No small talk, no preamble—Hearn dove straight into deal-making mode, his voice crackling with that trademark Essex edge. “He didn’t ask if I wanted a manager or anything like that,” Taylor chuckles. “He just said, ‘I’m your manager now.'” Stunned silence on Taylor’s end, broken only by a bemused retort: “Hang on, we haven’t even met!” But Hearn, undaunted, steamrolled ahead, reeling off visions of world tours, seven-figure contracts, and arenas packed with fans chanting for the next big thing. It was audacious, bordering on arrogant, but laced with an infectious zeal that hooked Taylor instantly. “He had this way of making it sound inevitable,” Taylor reflects. “One minute I’m throwing for a fiver in a boozer, the next I’m in business with the king of the game.”
What made it “goud waard”—gold worth, as Taylor puts it in a nod to Hearn’s relentless drive—was the promoter’s workaholic ethos. “He always wants his pound of flesh out of you,” the legend admits with a grin, “but that’s what pushed me.” Hearn wasn’t peddling fairy tales; he was building an empire. Within two years, Taylor had his first world title, toppling Bristow in the 1988 BDO final—a seismic shift that signaled the dawn of a new dynasty. But the real explosion hit in the early ’90s, when Hearn orchestrated the great schism, splintering off the World Darts Council (later PDC) from the BDO’s fusty grip. Taylor, Hearn’s star signee, became the rebel flag-bearer, storming to the inaugural PDC World Championship in 1994 and racking up 14 more crowns. Hearn masterminded the glamour: Sky Sports deals that ballooned prize pots, walk-on anthems like Taylor’s pulsating “Sweet Caroline,” and sponsorships from crisp kings McCoy’s that turned arrows into icons.
Their alchemy was undeniable. Taylor’s haul—16 worlds, 72 majors, a net worth topping £10 million—mirrored darts’ ascent under Hearn’s baton. From Alexandra Palace sellouts to Las Vegas showdowns, the sport morphed into a £500 million juggernaut, with the PDC World Championship now dangling £500,000 to the winner. Hearn, who stepped down as PDC chairman in 2019 but remains its guiding ghost, has called managing Taylor his crowning joy. “Managing Phil Taylor in the darts and changing darts from a pub game to a global sport has been one of the most rewarding things in my life,” he once beamed, “and Phil Taylor deserves credit for that because he was a legend.” Taylor nods to the symbiosis: Hearn schooled him in the spotlight, ditching factory habits for media savvy, while Taylor’s dominance fueled Matchroom’s sprawl into boxing (think Anthony Joshua blockbusters) and snooker revivals.
The duo’s bond wasn’t all bullseyes. Taylor admits to early skepticism, like his infamous misfire on the Premier League Darts’ potential in 2005. “I told Barry what I thought about the Premier League—I was completely wrong,” he concedes with a sheepish laugh, recalling how he dismissed the modest roadshow (kicking off in Carlisle dives) as a non-starter. Yet it became his six-title fiefdom, proving Hearn’s vision anew. Even in retirement, their banter endures—Taylor teasing a £10 million Saudi payday to lure him back, Hearn countering with wry jabs about Littler, the 18-year-old phenom echoing Taylor’s prodigy vibes. “If it does go to Saudi Arabia, I wouldn’t put it past Barry—£10 million for the winner,” Taylor mused recently on talkSPORT, hinting at unfinished business.
Flash forward to September 2025, and Taylor’s yarn resonates amid darts’ latest boom. With Littler dismantling veterans and Hearn’s son Eddie helming Matchroom’s Netflix-fueled empire, the sport’s DNA—grit, glamour, and that unyielding Hearn hustle—thrives. Taylor, now golfing and commentating, cherishes the call as fate’s cheeky nudge. “Barry didn’t ask; he told me,” he quips. “And thank God for it—best decision I never made.” It’s a reminder that legends aren’t born in boardrooms but forged in bold, barking phone lines, where ambition meets arrow-sharp talent. In darts, as in life, sometimes the greatest throws start with a ring and a roar.
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