In the smoky, spotlight-drenched world of professional darts, where legends are born from the flick of a wrist and the unyielding thud of tungsten on sisal, few bonds run deeper than mentorship turned brotherhood. Phil Taylor, the 64-year-old colossus of the sport—holder of 16 world championships, 214 professional titles, and a legacy that towers over the oche like an unbreakable monument—recently peeled back the layers of his storied past. In a raw, reflective conversation that has stirred the darts community, Taylor revisited a moment of profound pain: the heartbreaking words of his mentor, Eric Bristow, the fiery “Crafty Cockney” whose dominance in the 1980s paved the way for Taylor’s own ascent. “It saddened me, broke my heart a little bit,” Taylor confessed, his voice cracking with the weight of memory. What unfolded was not just a recounting of rivalry and respect, but a poignant portrait of a man watching his idol crumble under the invisible burden of dartitis, the mental affliction that can turn a champion’s arm to lead.
The year was 1997, a time when Taylor was at the zenith of his powers, fresh off a string of world titles and on the cusp of etching his name as darts’ undisputed king. Bristow, then 40 and a five-time world champion whose brash charisma had electrified the sport through the ’80s, was a shadow of his former self. Dartitis—the yips that plague precision athletes, making the simplest throw feel like defusing a bomb—had gripped him since the early ’90s, turning exhibition matches into agonizing spectacles. Players whispered, fans shifted uncomfortably, but Bristow, ever the fighter, pressed on. That year, fate drew them together in the World Championship semi-final at the Circus Tavern in Purfleet, a clash that blended nostalgia with heartbreak. Taylor advanced, but the real wound came not from the scoreboard, but from a quiet, post-match exchange that Taylor has carried like a scar.
Surrounded by fellow players offering words of encouragement, Bristow turned to Taylor with eyes hollowed by defeat. “I’m no good anymore,” he muttered, the admission hanging heavy in the air like a missed double. For Taylor, who owed his career to Bristow’s unyielding belief, it was a gut punch. The Crafty Cockney had spotted Taylor’s raw talent in the Stoke-on-Trent pubs of the late ’70s, a lanky kid from a council estate with a flick that promised glory. In 1986, when Taylor was scraping by in factory jobs and local leagues, Bristow—already a superstar—did what no one else would: he handed over a £10,000 bursary from his own pocket, a lifeline that funded Taylor’s entry into the professional circuit. “Eric was like a brother to me—I loved him. Quite simply, I owe him everything,” Taylor would later say, words that echo the debt of a lifetime. Under Bristow’s wing, Taylor honed his game, absorbing lessons in mental fortitude and showmanship. By 1990, he dethroned his mentor in the World Championship final, a 6-1 demolition that marked the pupil’s coronation—but never severed their bond.
That 1997 moment, though, lingered like a rogue dart in the board. “And it broke [me], it saddened me you know? Broke my heart a little bit,” Taylor recalled, his tone laced with the tenderness of retrospect. “I said, ‘Don’t be daft.’ I had it. I was there and all the players were talking to him and I went, ‘Yeah, get back on that practice board, Taylor. They’re talking to you.'” It was a deflection, a desperate bid to rally his hero, but Bristow’s words revealed the toll of dartitis. The condition, a psychological choke that strikes without warning, had robbed Bristow of his edge; throws that once flew true now veered wildly, turning the oche into an enemy. Bristow battled it publicly, returning to the pro circuit in fits and starts, but the fire that fueled his five world titles—from 1980 to 1986—dimmed. Taylor watched helplessly as his mentor, the man who “made me a winner,” grappled with a foe no amount of practice could conquer.
Their relationship was a tapestry of tough love and unshakeable loyalty. Bristow, with his cockney swagger and unfiltered opinions, was no soft touch—he’d rib Taylor mercilessly, once joking that fans were “switching off” during his eight-year title streak in the early 2000s, a barb delivered with a wink to keep the champ hungry. “When I lost it to John Part [in 2003], when I won it eight years on the trot, even Eric says to me, ‘People are switching off, Phil,'” Taylor remembered with a chuckle, the pain softened by time. Yet beneath the banter lay profound respect. Bristow mentored Taylor through his rise, facing him in countless exhibitions and sharing the road’s rigors. Even as Taylor surged past him—claiming that seismic 1990 final victory—Bristow celebrated, knowing he’d ignited a dynasty. “Their influence will always be there, they will always be in your heart,” Taylor reflected years later, a nod to the irreplaceable void left by darts’ original superstar.
Tragedy cemented their legacy in sorrow. On April 5, 2018, Bristow collapsed from a heart attack at age 60 while attending a Premier League event in Liverpool, a cruel irony for a man whose heart had beat for the game. Taylor, retired just months prior after his final world title, was devastated. “But there will never be another Eric,” he mourned, unable to delete Bristow’s number from his phone—a digital ghost of their bond. Tributes flooded in: Bobby George quipped he’d “known Eric for 45 years, but only liked him for three,” capturing the Crafty Cockney’s polarizing charm. Adrian Lewis, another Potteries prodigy, tweeted his sorrow, while the PDC honored Bristow as the spark that globalized darts.
Taylor’s reflection comes at a poignant time, as the sport he and Bristow shaped hurtles into a new era. With prodigies like 18-year-old Luke Littler shattering records—mirroring Taylor’s own precocious climb—the oche buzzes with fresh energy. Yet Taylor’s story reminds us that darts is more than averages and 180s; it’s human frailty, forged in the fire of mentorship and mended by memory. Bristow’s heartbreaking admission wasn’t defeat—it was the raw honesty of a warrior who’d given everything. For Taylor, it broke his heart, but it also fueled his unbreakable drive. As he looks back, one truth endures: in a game of precision, the deepest marks are left not by darts, but by the people who throw them with heart. In reliving that moment, Taylor doesn’t just honor Bristow—he ensures the Crafty Cockney’s spirit flies true, forever embedded in the board of darts history.
Leave a Reply