Column #691 Darts of the Round Table 

Monday, June 30, 2025
Column 691
Darts of the Round Table

There are a few things you can always count on at your average darts tournament: the whiff of stale beer, a control desk manned by frazzled volunteers trying to locate someone named “Assassin180,” and boards lined up against the walls and spaced apart, bull to bull, at roughly a distance equal to the height of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

Several feet behind the oche, there are long tables where spectators – mostly significant others and semi-significant others – sit watching, smoking, and drinking.

There’s a bar, of course and often a vendor booth or two hawking darts gear at prices that make you wonder if tungsten is now traded on the black market. And then – right in the middle of the room – are the round tables…

Ah yes, the round tables.

I used to glance at them, kind of perplexed. Huddled there at some of them were clusters of elderly folks with grey hair, hunched over absurdly priced beers, playing cards or cribbage or arguing about politics. They weren’t really watching the matches. They weren’t selling anything. They weren’t even gambling on the games they were playing (at least some weren’t).

I remember thinking: Who ARE these people?

Had the local retirement home run out of tapioca? Did the bingo bus take a wrong turn?

They were always there.

Meanwhile, back at the boards, there was action: players in their 20s, 30s, 40s – nimble and convinced they were dangerous.  I was one of them once. Leaning into my throw. Slamming in tons. Casually taking out high finishes with a grin and a beer in hand. (Of course, the preceding two sentences are lies – except the part about a beer in my hand.)

But now?

Now I sit… at a round table.

I am one of THEM.

I have arrived.

There’s a certain dignity in this seating arrangement. We’re not out of darts – we’re just a bit more horizontal about it. We play less, ache more, and laugh as heartily as always. We have poor eyesight, bad knees, rebuilt shoulders, and hips that have been replaced. We spend more time with ice packs than at a practice board.

But we still show up.

We still talk darts.

We still needle each other.

Some of us still throw and when we do, it’s not just muscle memory. It’s muscle memory with a limp.  And we take a lot of bathroom breaks!

The round tables? They’re no longer a mystery. They’re a badge of honor. A reunion zone. A sanctuary for the “ghosts” of tournaments past.  A place to tell war stories, some of which are true, the rest better than true.

So, to the young guns out there eyeing us between matches – wondering who the hell we are and why we’re not playing – don’t worry.

Your seat is waiting.

And yes, we can still beat most of you (in a race to the bathroom).

Stay thirsty, my friends.

Dartoid