Tungsten enthusiasts are often asked their Mount Rushmore of Darts. Yet the name James Wade is rarely mentioned. Why?
For the record, I firmly believe the Aldershot Ace should be amongst the four expertly chiselled faces in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Or probably more fitting, one created just off the Lancashire coastal town of Blackpool – the place it all began for Wade at the iconic Winter Gardens Blackpool. But more of that a little later.
What defines greatness in sport? Well, firstly I’d say longevity is a factor. You need to hang around longer than Ken Barlow at a Weatherfield bus stop to build a proper legacy. Then of course success matters. No point playing darts for twenty years and collecting less silverware than Everton FC. You cannot simply turn up every week, stink the place out, win absolutely fuck all and expect darts fans to carve a fifty-foot image of your miserable mug into a cliff face. Doesn’t work like that.
James Wade meets those two criteria in abundance. Obviously the one thing missing from The Machine’s darting résumé is the big one – the World Championship. If that was on his CV, he would not just be a shoe-in for that hypothetical mountain, he’d probably have tourists queueing up underneath it buying overpriced fridge magnets and eating chips covered in seagull shit.
That said, it is far from too late to happen – after all, he is still playing as well as ever, which must be deeply irritating for younger players who spend twelve hours a day filming TikTok dances and designing moody Instagram graphics of themselves staring into the distance like they’ve just been dumped outside a vape shop.
That earlier Blackpool reference relates to Wadey’s huge breakthrough, winning the World Matchplay in just his second appearance at the tournament. To be fair, he reached the final on debut as well, which is frankly ridiculous behaviour. With a darting honours list longer than a Starmer Out online petition, only Phil Taylor can match James’ achievement of winning three massive televised majors across three separate decades. Not bad company to keep.
But here is the thing. Wade has often been overlooked by the PDC, and he clearly feels there has been a lack of recognition at times. That extends to the media too, where he’s routinely shoved to one side in tournament conversations like the weird bloke at a wedding who keeps trying to explain cryptocurrency to pissheads in pubs. Then suddenly, a week later, there he is in the semi-finals again and everyone is licking his arse like they have just discovered the wheel.
And it has absolutely fuck all to do with ability or talent. It is because Wade does not play the game. By that, I do not mean darts – obviously he plays darts, and bloody well too. I mean the modern sports personality circus where everyone is expected to smile politely, repeat the same media-trained waffle and post inspirational quotes like a well-trained talking dog.
Wade speaks his mind. Regularly. Unfiltered. Sometimes awkwardly. In fact, very similar to someone who has just necked three pints and decided Christmas dinner is the perfect time to discuss immigration policy. He is darts’ answer to Ronnie O’Sullivan – brilliant at what he does and completely uninterested in spoon-feeding people sanitised nonsense. And honestly, the world would be a much better place if more people did the same instead of constantly spraying out corporate-grade bullshit like malfunctioning lawn sprinklers. Keir Starmer – once again, I am looking directly at you, son.
While that honesty is refreshing, it does not always go down brilliantly with the darting powers that be. Which is why, when ambassadorial call-ups come around – especially for the World Series of Darts in years gone by – Wade has often been bypassed faster than your nan on a mobility scooter trying to merge onto the M6.
They want conformity. Safe faces. Wade operates in this bizarre shadowland between legend and forgotten man – quietly racking up wins while others dominate the spotlight for having a flashy haircut, a social media manager and the emotional depth of a motorway services Ginsters pasty
He is never the poster boy. Rarely the face of promotional campaigns. Almost never the subject of dramatic montage videos with slow-motion Belgian players at the World Cup fist bumping one another after a score of sixty.
Yet somehow, there he is again. Quarters, Semis, Final. Round about the time the brown nosing in the PDC Press Room begins from amateur reporters who suddenly understand who he is. Like a tungsten-powered tax bill that keeps turning up whether you acknowledge it or not.
Do not get me wrong – the bloke is absolutely shit hot – but his entire winning formula seems to revolve around quietly averaging two or three points more than everyone else while looking about as emotionally expressive as a disappointed geography teacher. There is something terrifyingly efficient about it. Wade does not always bully opponents. He just slowly drains the life out of them like a Victorian illness.
Also, the left-hander is hugely respected on tour. Opponents rate him. Fear him even. You will often spot him sat with Gerwyn Price at Pro Tours, which is ironic considering Reform supporting Gezzy doesn’t really like lefties.
It is also no coincidence Wade was close friends with the late, great Eric Bristow. Another genius of the sport who delivered honesty with all the subtlety of a brick through a greenhouse window. The Crafty Cockney did not do politically correct. He did not sugar-coat things. He basically wandered through life verbally clotheslining people while winning world titles and smoking tabs like an angry pub landlord. And we loved him for it.
So let us finally give James Wade the recognition he deserves. In many ways he is the Erling Haaland of darts – albeit a less athletic-looking version without the ridiculous hairband and the facial expression of a clueless Norse god. Even when the 43-year old appears to be doing nothing spectacular, he remains a constant threat. Silent. Ruthless. Efficient. Like your missus quietly saying fine before ruining your entire weekend.
For the record, my Mount Rushmore – which should absolutely be built out of sand on Blackpool beach by four sunburnt blokes called Gaz using stolen builder’s buckets – would feature Eric, The Power, MVG and this fella I have been talking about throughout.
Others may disagree, of course. That is the beauty of opinion. But they are wrong.
