Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

CHAPTER 17 The Most Excellent Master

The training flew by. This time, instead of trying to mesmerise Hendry and Maguire, I let them teach me and allowed them to play their game in practice matches.  My skill in magic had grown immensely since last May.

My experience with Murphy, showed me that someone could all but overcome the power of the cue. What if word had spread? There was nothing online or in the papers, but what if he had gossiped and every opponent resisted? I didn’t think they could. I didn’t think Murphy could resist my hypnotic cue anymore, but,

“The clever man covers all angles.”

As Maguire used to say.

Now and again I would mesmerise them, but only slightly.  I was learning to control the power emitted by the cue, and it felt good. What I tuned down towards my them, I modulated it my way, and played much better in the tough snookers and difficult shots.

Hendry just couldn’t resist a competition. He joined me, Noble and Maguire as we headed down to London by train.

I stuck to my script.

I used all the cunning my mentors instilled in me and  combined it with the magic I had given myself. I wasn’t too showy and I gave  Murphy  nothing  to latch onto. But that didn’t stop his watching me like a hawk.  I was sure he was gossiping about me with other players.

What did it matter?  I was the flavour of the month. The media loved me and would see him as bitter if he said a word. 

The Daily Mail called me The Wonder Kid, and the rest followed suit. The Metro’s covering of the story pointed out that Jan Ulrich, the Tour De France winner had been called it first. I never read newspapers, but Hendry read them all and kept me up to date with the best stories about me. The Wonder Kid was alright, I suppose, but I preferred The Destroyer, well who wouldn’t?

During the competition, Hendry and Noble made me watch all the live and recorded games, and then endless hours would be spent analysing them. More hours would be spent reconstructing the difficult shots and snookers and working out solutions in the practice room.

It was pretty boring. Looking back now, I can see they were just trying to help. To be a champ, you have to be disciplined.

I also appreciated it when I met Murphy in the Semi-Final.

It was all a bit uncomfortable. No smiles and he wouldn’t catch my gaze. The best I got was  a  ‘wetfish’ handshake.

He won the toss yet again, and true to form he played a very clever game. But that was his mistake. This time I was prepared for the clever game.  The harder Murphy made  it, the harder I punished him. 

He was slaughtered, and the media circus really took off. I declined all interviews, creating an aura of mystery, as directed by David.  We were holding out for a big pay-out on that one. As if we hadn’t earned enough even with the accumulation of 147’s I had scored.

I faced last year’s winner, Neil Robertson in the final, or should I say, he faced me.  I wanted to win in style. He  didn’t know what hit him. He was left stunned and humiliated, while I was the victor.

To the victor go the spoils—trophy, prize money and bonuses were all mine.

I had won the Masters. I was The Champion. The youngest ever champion.

No one like me had been before, and no one would ever be like me again.