By the end, the room had gone still and quiet. The air was warm and smelled faintly of spilled pints. The chants of “One Stephen Bunting” had long since died away, and all that was left was one Stephen Bunting: three darts in his hand and no more tricks up his sleeve. No place left to run.
And so as James Hurrell pinned tops to win 4-3 and claim the biggest victory of his life, there was just the merest whiff of anticlimax to it all: a seismic shock that also somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world. The crowds dispersed with barely a murmur. Hurrell packed up his darts and left the stage: not overawed or overcome, but bearing the immense calmness of a man who had seen this all coming in advance.
