A Hard Day’s Goodbye: Why We Are Retiring From Snooker By Ronnie O’Sullivan
To the fans and the global community,
They say the first rule of snooker is to play the shot you see. Not the one you wish was there, not the one the crowd wants, not the one that might have been on the table three years ago. Just the shot that’s in front of you, right now. And the shot I see now, clearer than any black off its spot, is that it’s time to rest the cue.
This isn’t a decision made in the heat of a missed final pink or the gloom of a late-night defeat. It’s been arriving, quietly, like the dawn after a long session under the lights. It’s the most peaceful, certain choice I’ve ever made. My relationship with snooker has always been a love affair, but the deepest form of love is knowing when to let go, before the passion turns to obligation and the joy curdles into resentment.
I need you to understand that this isn’t a retirement from something I hate, but a retirement towards everything I love. For forty years, my life has been measured in 12×6 feet. The baize has been my world, my therapist, my tormentor, and my salvation. It taught me everything I know about pressure, about focus, about the exquisite torture of being alone in a crowd of a thousand people. But a man is not one thing. I have other chapters I need to read, and I want to read them while my eyes are still good and my curiosity is still hungry.
The truth is, the player you’ve watched all these years – The Rocket, the genius, the tortured artist, the maverick – he was never a persona. That was just me, raw and unfiltered, trying to navigate the impossible standards I set for myself. Snooker, for me, was never about the trophies, though I’ll admit I like having them. It was never about the records, though I’m proud of what we achieved. It was always about the pursuit of a feeling. That perfect, silent, flow state where the mind goes quiet, the arm becomes a pendulum of pure instinct, and the table just opens up. It’s a kind of magic. And I’ve been lucky enough to touch that magic more than any man has a right to.
But chasing that feeling comes at a cost. The mental strain is a tax on the soul. The loneliness of the road, the endless hotel rooms, the pressure that sits on your chest like a weight – it’s a hard day’s night, every night. I’ve given every single ounce of my mental and physical energy to this game. To stay at the top, you have to be all in. Your life becomes a monastic dedication to the craft. And I simply don’t have that same monastic zeal anymore. To continue would be to cheat the game, to cheat the fans, and most importantly, to cheat myself. The shot isn’t there anymore.
This is a goodbye, but it is not an ending. I’m not disappearing. Snooker is my life’s work, and I will always be its biggest fan and its most honest critic. I’ll be around – in the commentary box, offering my tuppence worth. Perhaps coaching a talented kid who sees the table not as a chessboard, but as a playground. Definitely in my academy, trying to give back and help the next generation find their own version of the magic. The game gave me a purpose when I was a lost kid; the greatest thanks I can give is to help it find another.
To my fans, what can I say? You’ve been the constant. Through the walkouts, the controversies, the sublime and the ridiculous, you’ve always had my back. You saw beyond the headlines and understood that what you were watching was a man wrestling his own demons, with a snooker cue as his weapon. Your energy in those arenas, from the Crucible to China, was the fuel. It was the electricity that charged me up. Thank you for every shout, every card, every shared moment of pure snooker bliss. We did this together.
To the global community that embraced me, from the UK to China and everywhere in between, thank you for letting a kid from Essex become a part of your sporting lives. It has been the honour of my lifetime.
And to the game itself: thank you. Thank you for the discipline. Thank you for the pain. Thank you for the unbelievable highs. You were a hard taskmaster, but a fair one. The table never lies. It’s the truest friend and the most honest enemy you could ever have.
People will ask if I’ll miss it. Of course. I’ll miss the roar of the crowd as a long red drops. I’ll miss the quiet satisfaction of a well-planned safety. I’ll miss the camaraderie with the referees and the players, many of whom I’ve shared a table with since we were boys. But I won’t miss the grind. And that’s how I know this is right.
This isn’t a full stop. It’s a rest. A beautifully played, deliberate rest, leaving the table safe for the next player. I’m excited to watch them. I’m excited to be a fan again. To watch Judd, Mark, Luca, and all the lads with a pint in my hand and no knot in my stomach.
I’m retiring from playing, but I’m not retiring from life. I’m stepping into the light of a new day. There’s running to be done, shows to host, kids to coach, and a world to explore without a schedule dictated by the ranking list.
So, this is it. The final black is potted. The break is over.
It’s been the most incredible hard day’s night. And now, it’s time for a peaceful good night.
With all my love and thanks,
Ronnie O’Sullivan
