New York Times:
By conventional measures, dart players are not the telegenic type. They mutter to themselves onstage. They wear flamboyant polyester polos. They cradle their handful of tiny spears and stare a lot at a fibrous board seven-feet, nine-and-a-quarter inches away.
But professional darts has catapulted itself from musty British pubs onto millions of television sets across Europe, an insurgency by a working-class sport that has turned the best of its mostly middle-aged players into stars.
The premier darting event, the William Hill World Championship, has grown into a three-week, $3-million-purse affair, replete with cheerleaders and thunderous walk-on music, and the sport’s promoters work tirelessly to ratchet up the show.
I love playing darts. I learned from my mother who was an incredible darts player. I’ll even admit to watching it on TV on occasion. The spectacle it has become is fascinating and not just a little bit ridiculous.
For me, dart games are the setup for a tv or movie bar scene in which either dignity or blood is about to be shed.
When curling got rid of beer and cigarettes civilization took one step closer to another dark age. Same for darts.
I installed a board in my garage last year. So much fun. It’s one of those games everyone can play and it really doesn’t matter if you’re good or not.
On the other hand, I have no interest in watching it on TV.