Susan Buckland: Shooting the breeze with Hurricane Higgins

COMMENT

Not so many years ago sports writers were fascinated by Alex "Hurricane" Higgins. His skill at brilliantly spinning snooker balls into pockets made him a media star of galactic proportions.

How times for this former world champion have changed - as I sadly discovered when I stumbled upon him in his hometown.

"Welcome to Belfast." The voice was almost a whisper, face pale and gaunt, elegant clothes hanging on a shrunken body. But the eyes of the man were twinkling as he doffed his hat and invited me and my friend to share his booth in the packed pub.

"I know who you are," my Belfast friend said, with a touch of reverence. "Hurricane Higgins himself." The hollow cheeks creased in a smile. "Sit down, sit down, won't you?" He seemed to want the company.

Now in his mid-50s but looking older, he had grown up in Belfast to become the world's most talented snooker player.

He had honed his skills in Belfast's Jampot club and gone on to win amateur titles before turning professional in 1971.

Then, only a year later, he took part in his first world championship - and won. More sensational wins followed. His wizardry with the cue thrust him into fame and big money. Many believe he could have won much more.

But then all began to go wrong. Higgins loved partying and became notorious for an increasingly flamboyant lifestyle which had him facing court appearances. Later scuffles at the 1990 World Cup snooker championships led to a season's ban.

Higgins played his last major tournament in 1997 when he overreacted to defeat and was ejected from the arena.

And then a cruel blow. He was diagnosed with throat cancer and it almost killed him. Ravaged by self-abuse and illness, he has also been dogged by financial problems.

People say he has been forced into pubs and clubs to earn a living. And in that environment, before curious onlookers, Hurricane Higgins is a mere shadow of his former self.

So it happened that my friend and I were squeezed into a pub booth opposite the legendary cue master. And I found it hard to reconcile the prematurely aged man with the dashing figure who had set the snooker world alight in the 70s and 80s.

To his great credit, although cancer, alcoholism and failed marriages may have stripped him of health and fortune, he has refused to lie down.

His candle may have been flickering but he warmed us with his optimism and his humour.

The pathos of that encounter in Belfast was heightened by the venue. The 19th-century Crown Inn, with its wood-panelled "snugs" for private conversation, had survived bomb attacks at the height of Northern Ireland's conflict to become a treasured institution. "She's a survivor," said Higgins, cheerfully ignoring any comparison with his own tenuous grip on life.

He became acquainted with one or two New Zealand pubs when he came to play snooker, he said. "I used to travel the world before I went from hyperactive to radioactive." The reference to his numerous cancer treatments was accompanied by an impish smile. Beneath his pathetic, spare frame you could sense pride, not self-pity.

At the end of that chance meeting, he stood to drive the self-deprecating humour home with a mock sweep of a snooker cue in a movement that still held natural grace. And then, a small, lonely figure, he exited into the night, tipping his hat as he left.