Author Archives: Dartoid

Column #585 Hey Trump – please spare darts in Iran!

Wednesday, January 8, 2020
Column 585
Hey Trump – please spare darts in Iran!

This 2007 column is old but perhaps worth sharing again given current circumstances.


While I had hoped business travel might coincide with the 13th staging of the Asia Pacific Cup in Kuala Lumpur in September, it was not to be. News reached me fast however and I was pleased to learn that my old Filipino friend Ramon Sabalboro just missed the quarter finals in the Men’s 501 Singles. Three Filipinos including Lourence Ilagan and Rizal Barellano made the final eight, testament yet again to the talent and depth of talent to be found on the archipelago.

As expected, New Zealand increased their winning streak to four and will be the odds-on favorite to make it five when they host the tournament in 2008.

But there was a surprise. Among the countries competing (Malaysia, Japan, Singapore, China-Hong Kong, Pakistan, Brunei-Darussalam and the Philippines) was a newcomer to the darting scene – the Islamic Republic of Iran. They came to play, and they didn’t disappoint.

“I met the President of the Iran Darts Association (IDA), Masoud Zohouri, at the manager’s meeting the day before the tournament began,” wrote my buddy Steve Dorotheo, one of the managers of the Filipino team. “They were dressed formally in suits, guardedly sociable, but brimming with enthusiasm at the state of darts in their country. We were all held in disbelief by their claims of having more than 200,000 regularly playing members.”

“During the tournament,” he continued, “the Iranian players, four men and two women, were deadly serious. The males were dressed in common player’s garb but the women wore traditional robes marked only by team badges. There was a contingent, including Iran’s Deputy Minister of Sport, which cheered them on lustily and erupted in shouts, announcing to all each victory.”

By the tournament’s end the Iranian team, in its first ever international outing, had more than marked its arrival. Both of its female members, three-time Iranian national champion, 21 year old Sahar Zohouri, and 25 year old Marjan Karegar Jedi, placed strong. Jedi finished fifth in the Ladies 501 Singles and Zohauri lost in the finals. Said Zohauri afterwards to reporters Kay Biouki and Harry de Quetteville of the UK’s Telegraph newspaper, “When I started playing darts I wanted to be the best in Iran. Then I wanted to be one of the best in Asia. Now I am thinking about the world and want a top three in the world championships.”

When I later posed through an intermediary the (perhaps politically incorrect) question to Zohouri and Jedi if they felt they were at a disadvantage because of the clothing they were required to wear Zohouri replied, “My hijab doesn’t affect me in any way. I am a Moslem girl and my prophet Mohammed is recorded in the traditions, or hadiths, as saying ‘Practice throwing arrows, swimming and horse riding and I am with all of you.’”

Said Jedi, “When I play darts I don’t think about other things. It is as if I am not in this world. I forget all my problems and everything around me and just think about my darts. My dart looks like a ship and the flight is the sail of the ship. I am the captain who must lead the ship to harbor.”

So, what once would have seemed impossible now seems entirely possible. Darts in Iran is on the map and approaching the world stage. Their national program is as comprehensive as any and growing stronger by the day.

According to Negin Khodayari, a female member and one of the coaches of the IDA – and now a regular e-mail acquaintance of mine, in actual fact the organized darting membership in Iran is 500,000, more than twice the figure that stunned those who attended the manager’s meeting in Kuala Lumpur. Even more telling is that this membership has been established in little more than two years-time from among a population of just 66 million, in a rugged, mostly arid country about the size of Alaska. Headquartered in Teheran, the Association was officially founded in August,2004 and acceptance to the World Darts Federation (WDF) followed not long thereafter. Recently the IDA approached the board of the WDF with a plan, still pending acceptance (perhaps now approved), to enter darts as an official sport in the Paralympics.

Khodayari reports that up until the IDA was formed darts was merely an amusement in the country. Powers that be recognized the potential of the sport and created the Association with the express purpose to “promote darts as a professional sport” and to advance “happiness and health in society.” Suffice it to say the IDA functions with the full support of the Iran Ministry of Sport.

In less than eight months the membership ranks swelled. Hundreds of thousands of men, women and children joined from “among all levels of society including employees, college students, housewives, handicapped people, politicians and even clerics.”

All kinds of competitions have been held across the country and more than 200 events have been sanctioned since the IDA was founded. In cooperation with municipal and provincial or state governmental organizations more than 200 “dart houses” have been established in 25 of Iran’s 30 provinces, “one of them 3,545 meters above sea level on the summit of Mt. Tochal.” Says Khodayari proudly, “We think it might be the highest official dart house in the world.”

“We believe that darts is an enlivening sport for all ages and so we hold different kinds of competitions,” she explained. “We have held some championships for elders. In May 2006 we held our first Darts Olympiad, using a magnetic dartboard, for children under seven years of age. Fifty-four teams from about 70 kindergartens participated.”

One of the children, seven year old Shaygan Mohammadzadeh, had this to say about his experience. “The day of the championship was interesting because all of my best friends and also my mom were present there. I found some new friends. I love to throw my darts to number 20 because it is the number which I always hope to get in school.” (The best grade mark for students in Iran is 20.)

Another child, a little five year old girl named Sogol Rezaei, said, “Before I participated I didn’t have darts but now I love darts very much. I got some darts as a reward. Now I throw them at the circle of my dartboard which I hung in my room on the wall.”

Of course, darts play in Iran is somewhat different than in other parts of the world. “Alcohol is strictly forbidden,” reminds Khodayari, echoing words that Masoud Zohouri shared with the British reporters after the Asia Pacific Cup, “so here darts is truly a healthy pursuit – for both men and women. For Iranians darts is a sport. It’s played in prisons, among the civil service and in factories. Dartboards are even installed in some of the mosques.”

According to Khodayari, who is the manager of a computer science institute in her professional life, while smoking is permissible under normal circumstance, at sporting clubs and athletic stadiums it also is forbidden. Even music is only rarely played during darts competitions. “Often times, says Khodayari, “for the player’s concentration music isn’t played in the dart houses.”

For the most part the players drink tea, juice and coffee and focus on the task at hand. Occasionally and since they don’t play cribbage, between matches some of the players will get together in a corner and kick around a hakisak ball stuffed with plutonium.

Sorry, I couldn’t resist that!

In addition, for years all sports in Iran have been contested such that men and women are separated. Khodayari notes however, and in quite excited terms, as she has a personal interest in women’s sport, that times are slowly changing. “The IDA has held some darts championships of mixed team form,” she says, “including both men and women by observing the essential rules.”

Masoud Zohouri responded a bit more directly, almost testily, when pressed after the Asia-Pacific Cup as to the unlikelihood of Iran being able to compete successfully someday on the world stage, under pressure and amidst the drink, smoke, noise and taunting of raucous partisan crowds. “Don’t think,” he replied confidently, “that in Iran there is no noise because there is no alcohol. We are spreading the game without alcohol and as such we can become a role model for the rest of the darts world.”

When the British reporters challenged Zohouri further he gave the sport the greatest compliment of all. “Darts can bring people around the world together, irrespective of their backgrounds,” he said. “Families of different cultures can get together and play it without distinction according to religion, language or race. That is the Olympic spirit.”

And that is darts in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

From the Field,


January 2020 Double Out Shot: Irina Shayk

Column #584 Happy New Year!

Tuesday, December 31, 2019
Column 584
Happy New Year!

My plans for welcoming the New Millennium were set 26 years ago (now 45!) in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In fact, when the beer ran out and as the sun began to cast its glow across the snow on the first morning of 1974, my roommates and I took the opportunity to plan our entire lives. We then scarfed down some cold pizza and threw up.

Bob Muir was going to make millions after he graduated, passed his CPA exam and became a Partner with Price Waterhouse. Tim Mace didn’t care if he graduated – the way he had it figured a diploma wasn’t a prerequisite for becoming a touring tennis pro. Ken Ver Duin (“VD” or syphilis” we called him) was going to marry his high school sweetheart, Patty, and dip into his trust fund to buy a house on a lake, a fast car and have a family. Paul “Poncho” Villavicencio planned to move back to his native Venezuela, marry a pretty girl and return some day as a member of the foreign service.

I was going to follow in the footsteps of my hero at the time, Richard Nixon, and run for Congress. Then, once we had all made our mark on the world, we were going to reunite for one last New Year’s Eve blowout. Tonight. December 31, 1999. The mother of all parties.

Sadly, as with so many things in life, our plans just didn’t work out.

My relationship with Bob has been strained ever since the day I sent him the video “Deep Throat” for a wedding present. He says his wife doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor. Go figure. Bob is now a partner with Price Waterhouse Coopers in Houston. He’s got millions.

Ken married Patty, bought the house, several fancy cars and had a big family. When he isn’t fishing, he manages his trust.

Tim’s life has been a mystery since 1976 when he got kicked off the tennis team for skipping practice to drive to Notre Dame to watch Adrian Dantley play basketball. The last I heard he was stringing tennis racquets at a country club somewhere in the Miami suburbs.

Poncho ended up hitched to some beauty queen from Wisconsin and has a dream job with Oscar-Meyer. Basically, he sells hot dogs.

And me – well, I just didn’t know that girl was 14 years old. No, wait! That was Chuck Berry. Seriously, until the Clinton and Trump administrations such “indiscretions” tended to dampen careers. My problem was that I couldn’t raise the few million dollars required to get elected. So now, I write a column that no one reads about a sport that gets no respect.

I am content with the course my life has taken. I’ve got a beautiful wife. A great kid. Fluffy dogs. A house. A couple of cars. Four dart boards. Six sets of darts. There’s beer in the refrigerator. Well, there was a few hours ago. Somebody broke into the house and stole it. Bastards.

Still, as I sit here at my laptop and as the final minutes of the 20th Century (now 2019) slide into history, I can’t help but reflect. That’s what you’re supposed to do on New Year’s Eve. That, get blotto and moon strangers. Make resolutions. And predictions.

Yes, my old buddies and I traveled different paths but I’m happy with where mine has taken me. Congress is for criminals. I don’t enjoy hooking innocent fish. Tennis requires exercise. And while I must admit that I do love hot dogs, I find that Oscar-Meyer has just a tad too many snouts, lips and hair follicles squeezed into their particular brand of intestines. So, I wouldn’t trade places with Poncho either.

As I contemplate 2020, there are a couple of people’s shoes I wouldn’t mind stepping into for a night, even for just a couple of hours. Twenty years ago, the choice was a no-brainer – Phil Taylor’s shoes would have been on my feet in a flash. Tomorrow, I would happily wear either Michael van Gerwen’s or Peter Wrights’ (although £500,000 would come in handy £200,000 is nothing to scoff at). For the record, I’d also be just fine wearing Fallon Sherrock’s skirt.

Next, there are the resolutions…

I resolve to spend more time with my wife – to achieve this I will reduce my nights out throwing darts from five to four. On second thought I’ll just take her to the bar.

I resolve to drink less Budweiser. I will switch to Coors.

I resolve to chalk more often. Oh, screw that.

I resolve to be sensitive and politically correct in all that I write and do. To accomplish this, I will jettison the words “liar, bullshit, laughable,” and “loser” from my vocabulary (unless I am referencing the ADO or convicted sex offenders and plagiarizers with delusions of grandeur.)

Finally, predictions…

Just as my roommates and I did a quarter of a century ago (yep, now heading towards 50 years) I must gaze into the crystal ball. Unfortunately, the big glitter orb in Times Square is but moments from dropping. I do not have the time required to fully consider what my life and my darts will be like in the New Year.

So, what I will do is take one dart in my hand. I will step to the board on the wall in the room where I am typing. The possibilities for a bright, or not so bright, 2020 range from 60 to a big fat zip. Are you with me? Here we go.

Okay. I’m at the line. I’m ready…

The ball is dropping… we’re seconds away from the New Year. A brand-new slate. League’s startin’ up again in a few days. The future’s gonna be mine, baby.

I set. I stroke. Release…

Oh shit.

From the Field,





Column #583 Baggish, Campbell, Young – can they do it?

Thursday, December 12, 2019
Column 583
Baggish, Campbell, Young – can they do it?

As the holiday season begins and the 2020 PDC world championship moves into full swing – with £2.5 million on offer (an amazing £500,00 to the winner) – talk within the North America darts community naturally keeps coming back to an evaluation of our player’s chances.

Of course, Danny Baggish, Matt Campbell and Darin Young have the talent and, with Young in particular, the experience. But with 38 qualifiers from the UK and 11 from the Netherlands – literally 50 percent of the entire 96-player field – the odds are heavily stacked, unfairly say I, against the North Americans – and anyone from anywhere else on the planet.

Can one of the North Americans pull off the series of upsets needed to advance into serious money rounds?

Can one of them win?

Reflect for a moment on what many maintain was the greatest world championship final ever…

In 1999, I sat down in a bar outside of Toronto to interview John Part. He’d won the Embassy in 1994, was ranked 6th by the World Darts Federation and was holding down the number one spot in Canada.

We’d met a few years before at a tournament and become friends. When business had me headed to Toronto I’d call ahead and we’d arrange to meet. We’d have a few beers and throw a few games. I remember him stepping up once and throwing in a 180. I followed it with a two. I had him just where I wanted him!

I didn’t learn much that night we sat down to talk. That’s because John Part isn’t cut from the same stereotypical mold as most darters. He wasn’t much interested in talking about gambling, women or his favorite beer. Okay, that’s a lie.

But one thing he said made a lasting impression.

It wasn’t long before Part was quoting Ernest Hemingway and only a little longer before he tried to turn the interview around on me. “Santiago had a goal,” he challenged. “He hung in there for days, baking in the sun and nearly dying, to land his dream, eh? You gotta have goals, eh?”

Realizing I had none, at least none which any Playboy centerfold would agree to, I popped the question right back at him. Trying to find common ground, I even spoke in his native tongue. “Hey, I’m doing the interviewing here, eh? What are your goals, eh?”

“My goal,” he replied, “is to be the dominant player in the world.” Yep, I’ve always remembered that. Apparently so did Part.

I thought about this conversation when Part was pummeled 7-0 by Phil Taylor at the 2001 world championships (earning £18,000 for second place – this year the runner up will pocket £200,000). I thought about it again in 2002 when he was defeated by Taylor two more times, at the Stan James World Matchplay and the Paddy Power World Grand Prix.

So, I dug out and re-read my dog-eared copy of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. “Fish, I love you and respect you very much,” remarked the compassionate Santiago at one point in his epic battle with the marlin. “But I will kill you dead before this day ends.”

Santiago remains one of literature’s finest examples of a character exhibiting what Hemingway called “grace under pressure.” Even though only his marlin’s carcass is left by the end of the story, Santiago was a winner because he never quit, valiantly fighting off the sharks until there was nothing left to fight for.

John Part reminded me of Santiago.

I wasn’t present at the 2003 world championship at Circus Tavern in Purfleet when Part in the final against Taylor “snatched the first leg with a 121 checkout and roared into a 3-0 set lead.” At the time, Taylor was the ten-times world champion and the 7-1 odds favorite to make it eleven in a row.

I can only imagine the excitement, the thickness of the drama, as Taylor, the marlin – who hadn’t dropped a single set in a world final in three years – fought back. He evened the match at 4 and then, checked-out a spectacular 167 to take the lead 5-4. The Brits must have been swinging from the rafters. And like Santiago, Part must have been roasting under the lights of the stage.

If it had been me, I’d have peed my frickin’ pants right then and there.

There’s a memorable scene in Maya Angelou’s autobiography, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Uncle Willie’s store, the black community’s gathering place in the small Arkansas town where Angelou grew up, is crammed. Their hero, Joe Lewis, is defending his heavyweight championship against the white contender, Primo Carnera. The mood is electric.

It had to be just like this at Purfleet. Darth Maple versus The Power. The Canadian contender versus the British Champion of the World.

I could hear The Power’s fans…

“I ain’t worried ’bout this fight. Joe’s gonna whip that cracker like it’s open season,” boasted one patron at Uncle Willie’s. “He gonna whip him ’till that white boy call him Momma,” said another.

I’m just sure that’s what they all thought, the Brits. But then the first dart was thrown…

The bell rings. The announcer begins to call the action. “A quick jab to the head. A left to the head and a right and another left.” They’re in a clinch. Lewis is trying to fight his way out.”

“Carnera’s got Lewis against the ropes. It’s a left to the body and a right to the ribs. Another right to the body; it looks like it was low. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the referee is signaling but the contender keeps raining blows on Lewis. It’s another to the body, and it looks like Lewis is going down.”

Part had Taylor on the ropes from the opening dart. The Power was going down.

But then, Lewis bounces off the ropes. The announcer continues. “And now it looks like Joe is mad. He’s caught Carnera with a left hook to the head and a right to the head. It’s a jab to the body and another left to the head. There’s a left cross and a right to the head. The contender’s right eye is bleeding, and he can’t seem to keep his block up. Louis is penetrating every block. The referee is moving in, but Lewis sends a left to the body and it’s an uppercut to the chin and the contender is dropping. He’s on the canvas, ladies and gentlemen.”

Suddenly, just like a snake strikes, Taylor moved into his stride. They didn’t call him The Power – he wasn’t then ten-times Champion of the World – for nuthin’. Down 3-0 and then 4-1, Taylor went on a tear. He ripped off eleven straight legs at one point, including a 12-darter, in a display which had for years brought down lesser men. Darth Maple’s commanding 3-0 lead was whipped out in a flash. It was now Santiago who was on the ropes.

The men in Uncle Willie’s store lean closer to the radio…

“Here’s the referee. He’s counting. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Is the contender trying to get up again?”

The men at Uncle Willie’s jump up and shout, NO!”

“…eight, nine, ten. The fight is over, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s get the microphone over to the referee. Here he is. He’s got the Brown Bomber’s hand. He’s holding it up. Here he is.”

And then, to the world, the familiar voice of the referee proclaimed, “The winnah, and still heavyweight Champeen of da World, Joe Lewis.”

But that’s not quite the way it went down at Purfleet…

Santiago fought back. He evened the score at 5 and then recaptured the lead. At 6-5 Part was just a set away from his dream.

But the great fish was still strong. He jumped to a quick 2-0 lead in the 12th set and, although Santiago notched up the 3rd leg, Taylor tied the match at 6-0, forcing a deciding 13th set.

And that’s what it all came down to.

One set for the Championship of the World…

John Part versus the great Phil Taylor.

Darth Maple versus The Power.

The Canadian versus the Brit.

Primo Carnera versus the Brown Bomber.

Hemingway’s Santiago against the marlin he loved and respected.

In the first leg of the deciding set Part broke Taylor’s throw straight away. Two legs to victory…

Part then took the second leg. One leg to go…

But Taylor struck back! He closed 98 to push the set to the fourth leg…

And then, John Part shocked the darting world.

“…77 remaining…”

“Set. Stroke. Release. 19.”

“Set. Stroke. Release. 18.”

“Set. Stroke. Release. TOPS!”

“Leg. Set. MATCH! The match is over, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s get the microphone over to the referee. Here he is. He’s got the Canadian’s hand. He’s holding it up. Here he is.”

“The winnah, and NEW Champeen of da World, John Part.”

A lot’s been written since John Part did what no one else could do.

The match was described as a “breathtaking contest.” An “epic.” The “greatest final of all time.” A momentum-shifting roller-coaster of a ride that ended in the passing of the torch and a big, fat (at the time!) $50,000 deposit into John Part’s bank account.

“I was almost in tears on the stage at the end,” Part was quoted. “I really had to fight it.”

“January the 5th, 2003,” wrote the legendary John Lowe, “will go down in the darting world as the end of the reign of King Phil Taylor and the beginning of the reign of King John Part. Just like at Buckingham Palace, the guard has changed.”

Well, not exactly…

As the inimitable boxing commentator Larry Merchant once put it in 1990 after Buster Douglas knocked out the 42-1 favorite Mike Tyson in Tokyo, “The Japanese came to see Godzilla, but the wrong person turned out to be Godzilla.”

Perhaps this was just more of the same?

I pondered at the time… “Can Part now wrestle away Taylor’s number one ranking? Can he defend his World Championship in 2004?”

“Has the torch really been passed? Has the guard really changed?”

Of course, it had not. Taylor went on to win six more world championships before retiring in 2018.

The point is that it can be done. John Part was a fighter. He drew strength from his defeats. On January 5, 2003, he exhibited the sort of grace under pressure that, at least for a while, had him perched atop the darting world.

Danny Baggish, Matt Campbell and Darin Young are capable of the same.

From the Field,



Column #582 The mysterious disappearance of the Old Dart Coach!

Monday, December 7, 2019
Column 582
The mysterious disappearance of the Old Dart Coach!

As many have heard by now Howie Reed aka the “Old Dart Coach” (to darts fans around the world), the “Manor Lord” (to boxing fans around the world) and “Mr. Wonderful” (to more women than even Wilt Chamberlain has known) has been in the hospital.

Since November 1, Howie has been the most popular resident of Mountain View Hospital in Las Vegas. He had surgery this week, is doing well, is back to full wit and humor and will be heading home by the first of the week. (Translation: the nurses are kicking him out.)

There are rumors. This is to set the record straight…

Howie did not have a heart attack.

He did not have a stroke.

He does not have cancer.

It is also not true that he had penile enlargement surgery (although apparently a few lady friends were hopeful). He did not have a sex change operation (so there’s still hope for Caitlyn Jenner).

But make no mistake: Howie has been very sick. But he’s now on the road to recovery. Soon, Mr. Wonderful will be doing wonderfully…

…and back to full speed, hunched over his keyboard again reminding us how much he loves the ADO and regaling us with stories – like the time he threw an uppercut that sent Thailand’s Vichai Govindani flying from the stage at the Pattaya Open.

All of Howie’s friends and followers, darts and boxing alike, should know he is going to be fine.

Beware world!

From the Field,


Column #581 Capone!

Monday, December 2, 2019
Column 581

A while back I blew into the Windy City, headed straight for what is arguably one of the best darts bars in the States and got blown right back out… by a computer!

Now, I’ve probably whiled away more hours in more darts bars in more cities in more countries than most pros on the circuit. If you doubt this just give my wife a call.

From the Congo to Cleveland, I’ve literally spent years in search of the elusive Holy Grail — the perfect game in the perfect darts bar. And, of course, the perfect beer.

So, I’ve got the credentials. And I can assure you that when it comes to standing at the line there ain’t many places better to do it than Di’s Den (5100 West Irving Park Road) in Chicago. It’s without hesitation that I recommend this place to anyone who is looking for something better to do in Chicago than chomp a hotdog while the Cubs drop another game. Di’s is a veritable darts Mecca!

The only thing more striking at Di’s than its fifteen perfectly set up boards (apparently they didn’t think they had enough so they bought the liquor store next door, smashed down the wall, and put up more) are the scores upon scores of plaques mounted all over the walls — testament to the fact that when it comes to darts in Chicago, Di’s teams are more than a force to be reckoned with. The place currently sponsors no less than thirty teams. League play runs straight through the week. There’s a blind draw on Friday nights so out-of-towners can test the competition.

I dropped in on a Wednesday afternoon. Except for the bartender and some old drunk with a spectacular scar and one of those fancy pool cue cases (which was odd, since there’s absolutely nothing but darts played in this place) the joint was empty. The smell of stale cigarette smoke still lingered from the night before. Several tables and a couple dozen plastic chairs haphazardly occupied the center of the room, remnants also of a long night of play just ended. It was quiet…

So, my options were limited. I ordered a Budweiser and moved to one of the boards next to the bar. My competition today was to be a DartMaster III. Cricket. Professional level.

And what a mistake this was!

I pounded the twenties with my first three darts and punched in sixty points and one mark on the nineteens. DartMaster closed the twenties and the nineteens and chalked up fifty-seven. The rest is almost too humiliating to write about. DartMaster started hitting five and six marks a turn to my two or three. I was in a rumble with a piece of machinery and I was getting beaten up big time. Even the old guy at the bar had a laugh…

So again, my options were limited. I don’t take crap from inanimate objects. Once when I was eight years old, I kicked a Coke machine to death because the cardboard cup dropped down crooked. Coke squirted, ricocheted off the cup and spattered onto my pants.

So, really, what could I do? After all, I was in Chicago. If ever there was a town that ate creampuffs for lunch this is it. I had no choice but to fight back…

I made an obscene gesture at the old man (kind of like the one Roseanne Barr made during the national anthem at Wrigley some years ago) and started stabbing the DartMaster with my Hammerheads. I was stabbin’ and jabbin’ like a junkyard dog — even Leroy Brown would have been proud.

DartMaster started to spark.

My beer tumbled on the floor. The mug shattered. Time slowed.

The old man stood up. He unzipped his leather case. He slipped out a machine gun. Capone!

Chicago. My kinda town.

Di’s Den. My kinda darts bar.

From the Field,


December 2019 Double Out Shot: Hailey Baldwin