In the high-stakes world of professional darts, where a whisper of wind can alter a throw and a single wire separates triumph from heartbreak, few moments have lingered in the collective memory quite like the Gibraltar Darts Trophy of June 2013. It was there, under the Mediterranean sun, that Phil Taylor—known universally as “The Power”—found himself at the epicenter of a storm that threatened to tarnish a legacy built on 16 world championships and an unmatched dominance spanning two decades. What unfolded wasn’t just a disputed leg in a second-round clash; it was a test of character that revealed the man behind the moniker, a stoic giant from Stoke-on-Trent whose response to betrayal by fate and fans alike continues to resonate more than a decade later.
Taylor, then 52 and riding high on his unparalleled record, entered the tournament as the undisputed king of the oche. The Gibraltar Darts Trophy, part of the Professional Darts Corporation’s European Tour, drew 64 of the sport’s elite, all vying for a slice of the £100,000 prize pot. The venue, with its quirky lighting and electric atmosphere, set the stage for what should have been another routine victory for Taylor. Facing Dean Winstanley in the second round, the match was tense but unremarkable until the fourth leg—a pivotal moment that would ignite debates across pubs, forums, and broadcast studios worldwide.
Needing 29 to clinch the leg, Taylor methodically reduced the score: a precise single five left him on 24, demanding a double 12 to seal it. His third dart flew true—or so it seemed. It struck the board with a thud, but in the dim glow of the arena, referee Russ Bray, one of the PDC’s most respected voices, scanned the target and bellowed, “Game shot! And the leg to Phil Taylor!” The crowd erupted, Taylor retrieved his darts with a nod of satisfaction, and the match pressed on. He would go on to dismantle Winstanley convincingly, storm through the draw, and lift the trophy, pocketing £20,000 in the process. Victory, as always, tasted sweet for The Power.
But darts, for all its precision, is a game of unforgiving scrutiny. Days later, grainy video footage surfaced online, replayed in slow motion across social media and news outlets. There it was: the dart, unmistakably lodged outside the double 12 wire, a clear miss that had somehow evaded Bray’s eagle eye. Whispers turned to roars—had Taylor, the sport’s moral compass, turned a blind eye? Accusations flew like errant arrows: cheating, gamesmanship, an exploitation of human error. Even Eric Bristow, the five-time world champion and Taylor’s longtime mentor dubbed the “Crafty Cockney,” weighed in harshly. “The player knows if it’s not in, and has to declare it,” Bristow declared in a blistering interview. “You don’t want cheats.” The darts community, a tight-knit fraternity where integrity is as vital as aim, reeled. Bristow’s words stung deepest, fracturing a mentor-protégé bond forged in the smoky halls of 1980s Stoke.
Yet, amid the fury, Taylor’s actions spoke louder than any rebuttal. Before the PDC could even convene, he approached tournament director Tommy Cox with an offer that stunned onlookers: replay the entire match from scratch or forfeit the prize money outright. “When Dean flagged up the problem, I offered to replay the match or forfeit the game and prize money,” Taylor later recounted, his voice steady but laced with quiet resolve. Cox, bound by the ironclad rules of the tournament, declined—such corrections weren’t permissible post-match. Undeterred, the PDC launched a swift investigation, poring over footage and statements from players and officials alike. Their verdict was unequivocal: a “rare instance of human error” by Bray, with no fault ascribed to Taylor. Both the referee and the champion insisted they had genuinely believed the dart had found its mark in the heat of the moment.
The exoneration quelled the legal storm but not the emotional one. As Taylor returned to the circuit, the boos followed him like shadows. At the World Matchplay in Blackpool’s Winter Gardens just weeks later, during a quarter-final demolition of Justin Pipe, a vocal minority in the audience unleashed their venom. “Cheat! Cheat!” echoed through the arena, piercing the cheers of his loyalists. For a man who had headlined sold-out arenas from Las Vegas to London, it was a gut punch unlike any rival’s nine-darter. “You get about 20 people in the audience calling you a cheat,” Taylor confided to reporters afterward, his usual bravado cracked just enough to reveal the vulnerability beneath. “It hurts your feelings. Of course it is off-putting. It’s terrible.” He paused, the weight of the words settling like dust after a throw. “You can’t blank it out because people won’t let you blank it out. Thousands and thousands of people in Stoke-on-Trent know me, but I have to go on stage and there’s about 20 people calling me a cheat.”
That raw honesty marked the nadir—and perhaps the pinnacle—of Taylor’s response. In the days that followed, he poured out his heart in interviews, framing the ordeal not as a defense but as a lament for the sport he adored. “When fans called me a cheat, it was the worst day of my life,” he admitted, eyes distant as if reliving the jeers. The incident with Bristow, too, weighed heavy—a misinterpreted comment in a car ride with commentator Sid Waddell had snowballed into public acrimony. Taylor reached out, clearing the air with characteristic directness: “Look, bud, I know what you really said. I may have got the wrong end of the stick.” Their reconciliation underscored his refusal to let bitterness fester. And in a final, defiant flourish, he vowed, “I’m not a cheat and would rather stick pins in my eyes than win a darts tournament unfairly.”
Years on, as Taylor, now 64, eases into retirement—coaching young talents and savoring the quiet of his Potteries home—the Gibraltar gaffe endures as a footnote in a career of footnotes-defying feats. He amassed 214 professional titles, revolutionized training with sports science, and elevated darts from pub pastime to global spectacle, drawing millions to PDC events broadcast in over 100 countries. Yet it’s this very humanity—the pause at the board, the offer to rewind, the ache of unjust scorn—that cements his legend. In an era where athletes dodge accountability like poorly aimed trebles, Taylor’s unflinching candor reminds us why darts captivates: it’s not just about the bullseye, but the integrity in pursuit of it.
The Power’s saga also spotlighted the sport’s growing pains. Pre-2013, electronic scoring and HD cameras were luxuries, not standards; human error, while rare, was the referee’s burden alone. Post-Gibraltar, the PDC tightened protocols, mandating clearer lighting and instant replays to safeguard fairness. Winstanley himself moved past it gracefully, crediting Taylor’s sportsmanship in private chats and focusing on his own career resurgence. Bristow, ever the provocateur, later softened, acknowledging the fog of battle. Today, as new stars like Luke Humphries and Gerwyn Price chase Taylor’s throne amid the neon glow of Ally Pally, the incident serves as a cautionary tale—and a tribute. It rocked darts to its core, exposing fractures in trust, but Taylor’s response mended them with quiet strength. In the end, it wasn’t the dart that bounced; it was the accusations that fell flat, leaving The Power standing taller than ever.
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