World Championship leaving Crucible would deny future greats the impossible dream

Roy’s keen. We’ve never seen a keener midfielder, to quote Mancunian musical great Morrissey, the ultimate working-class lyricist when it comes to summing up the angst of raw kitchen sink drama and a disillusioned generation of angry young men, a fair few of whom have channelled their inner fire .

As it turns out, the no-nonsense, archetypal working-class hero Roy Keane is also very keen on the Crucible.

During the semi-finals of snooker’s ultimate stress test, the former Manchester United captain was spotted perched on a balcony inside the inimitable sporting hothouse, witnessing fearsome break-builders like Basildon’s Stuart ‘Ball Run’ Bingham tail the table with as much intensity as Keano tackling an opponent in his peerless Old Trafford pomp.

Back in the day, one might have wondered if Roy was fraternising with the “prawn sandwich brigade” – those who attend sporting venues for the corporate hospitality rather than the Corinthian spirit – but the Crucible has never been a venue to cater for the aristocracy. It has always been about the snooker rather than the surroundings.

Like the FA Cup final’s annual jaunt to the old Wembley Stadium since 1923, it is as much about the celebration of working-class culture at a world-class level. About what can be achieved by Joe Public if you dare to dream the impossible dream.

Which has always been part of the formidable attraction of the Crucible since 1977, but which ironically has also provided the main theatre of the 48th World Championship away from the colour-draining furnace of the old green baize’s hypnotic blue-chip gathering.

Amid a growing sense of wanderlust within the game, a few folk have not been slow to lament the condition of a venue that is used to showcasing the works of John Osborne as much as John Spencer.

“Two things: it doesn’t smell bad and everything is not wrong about this place. It’s absolute nonsense,” said McManus, a three-time semi-finalist in 1992, 1993 and 2016.

“I don’t know what he wants. Does he want a bunch of flowers and a prawn sandwich on the way in the door? You come here to play snooker, you don’t come here to smell roses and flowers.”

It is unlikely that the new world champion Kyren Wilson or Jak Jones – the latest on a timeless Crucible conveyer belt of local lads made good – would have had time to smell the roses during a rapidly fraying yet feverishly engrossing world final on bank holiday Monday.

All good things come to those who wait with Jones £200,000 richer having won a remarkable six matches in narrowly failing to emulate Terry Griffiths (1979) and Shaun Murphy (2005) in going all the way as a qualifier.

“Thank you to each and every one of you,” said Wilson in addressing the audience four years after losing 18-8 to Ronnie O’Sullivan in the 2020 final. “I was robbed of this in the Covid final. I will never forget this moment. So thank you all.”

In such a respect, one has to hope the refusal of ‘The Warrior’ Wilson and Jones – dubbed the ‘Silent Assassin’ for his deadpan yet deadly demeanour around the table – to yield in time and accept their demise is symbolic of the Crucible’s future role within a sport that suddenly seems on the cusp of a brave new world beyond the confines of its traditional roots.

It would be fair to say, that if Sheffield was to surrender the World Championship, it would be a bitter blow to the north of England and the UK. Alongside football, snooker is a cultural phenomenon, one of the country’s greatest working-class pursuits that made national heroes out of industrious characters, whose background were shaped by the values of heavy industry when folk enjoyed a refreshment and few frames after an honest day’s graft.

In such a respect, the Steel City of Sheffield seems apt to continue to house such an elongated celebration of snooker’s finest potters with hours and hours of dedicated and outstanding coverage brought to millions across the globe by Eurosport and the BBC. Nobody misses a telling safety shot these days when they pipe themselves into the modern images of the World Championship.

The beautiful game has been mimicked by the beautiful frame. Think of blokes like Stanley Matthews, Bobby Moore, Bobby Robson or George Best in football, and snooker has given the world Ray Reardon, Steve Davis, Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins and Jimmy ‘Whirlwind’ White, household names that created and inspired future generations to kick or pot a ball.

Like Roy Keane followed in the footsteps of Bryan Robson at Old Trafford, Ronnie O’Sullivan grew up to become the greatest of all time at the Crucible clutching a snooker cue and childhood dreams after binging on Davis and Higgins in the saturated TV coverage of the 1980s.

A World Snooker Championship without the Crucible seemed unthinkable in those days of wines, roses and also plenty of free ciggies when Embassy sponsored the event for the first 30 years.

Yet as the wayward fashion of cigarette sponsorship was snubbed out in moving with the times, so could a venue apparently untouched by the ravages of time, but buffeted by the storms that rage elsewhere.

Market forces have suddenly arrived at the front door of the Crucible with the tournament’s contract due to expire in 2027, the 50th and possible final year of the much-cherished national institution in its current guise.

Increased prize money and a larger more salubrious venue elsewhere has hovered over the event like the Sword of Damocles for 17 days with every player wondering whether history is as important as increasing earning potential amid alleged interest from China and Saudi Arabia in staging the tournament.

“It means everything to me when you think what you achieved, who’s been here, my family… it’s been a massive part of my life.

“I’m just lucky I’ve won it here.”

In this day and age, a user-friendly venue increased from 980 to house 2,000 fans as a pleasurable viewing experience should not be beyond the wit or will of those charged with ring-fencing such a prestigious tournament in its traditional home.

“Great moments. But we have a duty to everybody to listen. We listen to the fans, listen to the local people, we also listen to the players.

“The effect on prize money. We look at the conditions, and say the game has moved on, and deserves better than the current conditions.”

Which sounds fair enough if you are taking such comments as a starting point to solve the problem.

The FA Cup has never left Wembley or tennis in Wimbledon, but these venues have undergone huge improvements to move with the times in responding to the wants and needs of the main protagonists: the players, fans, the financial pull of corporate boxes and the media who cover the tournament with a sense of care as much as duty.

It seems that snooker needs to pursue a similar course of action to ensure the World Championship not only remains in the great Yorkshire city of Sheffield, but remains viable to meet the fresh demands of the digital age.

Kyren Wilson becomes the 23rd player to become world champion of the Crucible era as he joins local heroes such as Stephen Hendry – still the youngest world champion at the age of 21 in 1990 – Joe Johnson, John Parrott, Dennis Taylor and an array of others to see their lifetime ambitions crystallise on one unforgettable night out at the theatre.

It was another Jack Jones who sang about The Impossible Dream. The Crucible has helped make snooker since 1977, but snooker has created the legend of the Crucible over the past 47 years. It been a marriage made in green baize babylon.

Selling the family jewels never tends to lead to the palace of wisdom. But if tradition can help to deliver an increased prize fund and an upholstered viewing experience, it surely should not be an impossible dream to envisage a future for snooker at its spiritual home?

Or maybe that belief is just for the dreamers. As Hearn told Eurosport during his annual state-of-the-nation address at the Crucible: “You can’t eat history.”

Yet following in the footsteps of men like Kyren Wilson in lifting the world title at the celebrated Crucible Theatre, the sport’s undisputed theatre of dreams, remains the ultimate achievement for any aspiring cue artist. Now, and probably forever.