In the high-stakes world of professional darts, where precision under pressure defines legends, few players embody the Iceman’s cool as Gerwyn Price. The Welsh powerhouse, a former world champion with a reputation for turning matches into frozen battlegrounds, arrived in Dortmund, Germany, last week brimming with quiet confidence for the European Darts Championship. But what unfolded over the next 48 hours wasn’t a showcase of his trademark steely focus—it was a comedic catastrophe of epic proportions, a travel odyssey that would test the patience of saints, let alone a man whose day job involves threading needles from 7 feet away. By the time the dust settled on his shock first-round exit, Price had endured a barrage of mishaps that left him questioning the very fabric of fate. And just when he thought rock bottom had been hit, the universe had one more twist in store.
Price’s saga kicked off in the dead of night, a harbinger of the chaos to come. At 2:30 a.m., bleary-eyed and fueled by pre-tournament adrenaline, he pulled into a petrol station to top up his car with diesel. Simple enough, right? Not on this day. The card machine sputtered and died, stranding him for a grueling 20 minutes as he fumbled for a workaround. “Left for the airport and filled my car up with diesel and the card machine broke down at the garage,” he later recounted in a raw, unfiltered Facebook post that read like a diary entry from a man on the brink. Undeterred—or perhaps too stubborn to turn back—he pressed on to the airport, only for the sat-nav’s postcode to betray him, veering him 10 minutes off course into the Welsh countryside’s pre-dawn gloom. He arrived at the meet-and-greet car park just in time, but the check-in staff sauntered in 35 minutes late, turning what should have been a seamless security sprint into a nail-biting dash. Miraculously, the flight itself was a rare oasis of calm, a brief reprieve as the plane sliced through the clouds toward Düsseldorf.
But tranquility was fleeting. Touching down in Germany, Price navigated to the train station, settling on what he believed was platform five for the Dortmund leg. In a cruel sleight of hand, it was actually platform four, and when a train rumbled in on the “correct” one behind him, panic set in. In his haste, he bolted, abandoning his suitcase like a discarded prop in a bad spy thriller. Heart pounding, he realized the blunder mid-stride. Enter the hero of the hour: his Apple AirTag tracker, which buzzed an alert on his phone like a digital guardian angel. “Train pulls up behind me on platform five so I rush and forget my case, leaving it on the platform. Luckily I have an Apple (AirTag) tracker so my phone flashed up and said it was no longer close to me,” Price wrote, his words dripping with a mix of relief and rueful amusement. Fifty agonizing minutes later, after doubling back through the bustling station, he reclaimed his luggage—untouched, a small mercy in an otherwise merciless day. The next train didn’t arrive for another 45 minutes, turning a routine transfer into an unintended tour of German rail efficiency’s underbelly.
Dortmund finally loomed, but the gauntlet wasn’t over. Hailing a taxi, Price faced his next hurdle: the driver, a no-nonsense type, demanded cash only. Scrambling through his pockets and bag like a man auditioning for a heist movie, he scraped together just enough loose change—”shrapnel,” as he called it—to cover the fare. No ATMs in sight, no mercy from the cabbie. The hotel awaiting him? A downgrade from luxury to what felt like a backpacker’s flophouse, evoking images of threadbare hostels more than five-star athlete digs. Desperate for an upgrade, he called around, but the city was locked down by a blockbuster Bundesliga clash between Borussia Dortmund and FC Köln that weekend, sucking up every available room like a black hole. “Check-in at the hotel which was like a hostel. Tried to change hotels but nothing as it’s a football weekend,” he vented online, his frustration palpable.
The hits kept coming the next morning. Descending for breakfast at 9:54 a.m., he found the buffet stripped bare—service ended at 10:00 sharp, leaving him to stare at empty chafing dishes like a defeated general surveying a lost battlefield. By 1:00 p.m., a piercing fire alarm shattered the fragile peace, herding guests outside into the crisp autumn air. Whispers among the evacuees pointed to some “tool smoking in the room,” turning a routine drill into a farce. Price, ever the pragmatist, trudged 15 minutes to a nearby restaurant for sustenance, only to encounter yet another card machine on the fritz. The vendor, unmoved, insisted on cash, forcing Price to trudge back empty-handed. In a silver lining that felt more like cosmic pity, the establishment comped him €25 worth of food on his return. “I didn’t mention when I had food this afternoon, which was a 15-minute walk, the card machine wasn’t working there either. And he wanted me to walk back and get cash. On the plus side I had €25 worth of food for free,” he noted, injecting a thread of wry humor into the mounting absurdity.
Through it all, Price clung to the dartboard as his sanctuary. The European Championship, one of the PDC’s glittering jewels with a £500,000 prize pot, promised redemption for a 2024 season that had seen him battle injuries and inconsistencies. At 40, the Newport native—whose rugby league past lent him a burly, unyielding physique—had already etched his name in history with a 2021 World Championship triumph and multiple TV titles. Fans adored his intensity, the way he’d channel inner demons into 180s that echoed like thunderclaps. Arriving at the Westfalenhallen arena, he mustered a defiant optimism: “Turn up to darts thinking nothing else could possibly go wrong.” But darts, that most unforgiving of sports, had other plans.
Facing off against Northern Irish rival Daryl Gurney in the opening round, the match crackled with subtext. The pair had clashed infamously at July’s World Matchplay in Blackpool, where tempers flared and words were exchanged amid a heated on-stage spat. This time, cooler heads prevailed—no drama, just darts. Yet Price’s form betrayed him. Gurney’s steady hand prevailed in a 6-3 victory, avenging that earlier defeat and striding into the last 16 while Price slunk away with a modest £7,500 payout—a pittance compared to the £120,000 glory awaiting the Sunday champion. Analysts pointed to fatigue as the invisible assassin; after all, who could blame the Iceman for thawing under such relentless external pressure? Gurney’s post-match grin spoke volumes: revenge tasted sweeter than any treble 20.
Back at the hotel, defeat gnawed deeper than the travel woes. Nursing pints of frustration, Price plotted his escape, booking a 7:00 a.m. flight from Heathrow for Friday. Then, in a punchline that could only be scripted by a sadistic comedian, reality crashed in: he’d flown out of Birmingham. “Get back to my hotel p****d off but thinking, oh well home tomorrow (Friday) and will book a flight home to HEATHROW at 7am. And realised I flew from BIRMINGHAM. What a blast in two days,” he concluded his post, the ellipsis hanging like an exhausted sigh.
For Price, this wasn’t just a bad trip—it was a microcosm of the darts life’s brutal whimsy, where global glory hinges on flights, fares, and fleeting focus. Yet true to form, he bounced back with characteristic grit, already eyeing the World Grand Prix later this month. In a sport where mental fortitude separates the greats from the also-rans, Price’s ordeal only amplifies his legend: unbreakable, even when the world conspires to bend him. As he wheels his AirTag-guarded suitcase toward the next battlefield, one can’t help but wonder—what fresh hell awaits the Iceman? In darts, as in life, the board resets, but the stories? They linger, etched in laughter and legend alike.
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