Free Running: The Autobiography by Ronnie O'Sullivan Page B

name on trophies. But the game was hit by that double whammy: cigarette sponsorship was banned and the viewing figures fell away.
    When I stopped winning I went from earning £750,000 ayear to £150,000. Listen: it’s still decent money, but once you subtract the costs of travelling and hotels, managers and agents, believe me it’s not impressive. Actually, it seemed to bother my accountant more than me – he’d go, hold on, what’s going on here. He couldn’t get his head around it.
    But as far as my lifestyle went, it never affected me because I didn’t live an extravagant life anyway. I had my odd mad moment, like when I bought a Ferrari on the spur of the moment, and flogged it just as quickly at a fair old loss when I realised Ferraris are not me. I had a nice house and car, but I didn’t really go out – all I did was run and play snooker. My running trainers are the most important things I own. I feel lucky in that I’ve never had to earn a huge amount to maintain a lifestyle. I’ve never felt that pressure because I’ve never wanted that lifestyle.
    So it was the winning rather than the money that was always going to be the big thing for me.
    And I’d finally won another ranking event. It was massive because I thought it was over for me. Before Dad came out of prison in 2010 I had this fear that once he was out I’d never win another tournament. I don’t know why. The mind does daft things. When I was a kid I’d always found it difficult to win when he came to watch me, and that was probably in the back of my mind. But there was something else, too. I wanted to spend time with him, and psychologically I’d resigned myself to becoming a bit-part player and losing my focus. I knew I had to make up for lost time. I didn’t want to be away, living out of a suitcase and not seeing him.
    I’d waited 18 years, and there’s no point waiting that long then when he comes out not to enjoy having a fry-up, watching a bit of Sky and a bit of boxing, and being there for him. I’d been there for him all that time he was in prison, and nowI wanted to be part of his life. It was important that when he came out I was there to support him.
    When I was in rehab in 2000 I had to read out my life story; one of the fellas in there was called Max – we never really got on, but he gave me one of the most important bits of feedback I got there. When you read your life story out, they share back what they think is going on, and Max, he just said to me: ‘It looks as if you’re counting down the days till your dad comes home.’ And he was right. It’s like when you put your mind to winning a tournament; I told myself I was doing it for him to keep him going. Every time he saw me on the telly he said it was like having a visit, and I thought, if that’s the most exciting part of his life in prison I couldn’t jack it in even though I wasn’t always in love with the game. The most important reason to keep playing was to keep Dad going.
    I always knew Dad wanted the best for me; that he’d do anything for me as a child to give me the better chance of success. So I always felt he was largely to thank for my success. He taught me everything I knew, kept my feet on the ground, gave me the best opportunity, the best cues, the best practice facilities and best practice partners, and that needed paying back. When Dad was in jail I felt we were in it together. I wasn’t about to abandon him when I was out here. I always felt it was a team effort – me, Dad, Mum, and my sister Danielle.
    In those two years I also thought that was the end of my time as a champion because it is the age when most champions stop winning. Stephen Hendry won his last major tournament when he was around 34, but you can forgive him because he crammed so much into such a short amount of time, just like tennis player Pete Sampras did. Maybe he burnt out a bit quicker than his talent deserved as a result. I’ve had gaps where I’ve still played but