I remember the first time I heard about the Game of 9. It was one of those practice routines that sounded simple enough on paper, just throw nine darts at the same number, what could possibly go wrong? As I stood in my garage with my shiny set of darts and that dangerous cocktail of overconfidence and ignorance, I had no idea I was about to embark on a journey that would test my patience, my skill and quite possibly my sanity. The board hung there innocently enough, its segmented face offering both promise and peril in equal measure.
Starting with the 20 seemed logical, it’s the big one, the number we all aim for, the gateway to those glorious 180s we see the pros hit with such casual brilliance. My first three darts told me everything I needed to know about this endeavor. The first landed solidly in the fat single 20, exactly where I wanted it. The second caught the very edge of the double 20 wire before dropping sadly into the 1 segment. The third, as if sensing my growing frustration, buried itself firmly in the 5. This wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.
There’s something uniquely humbling about standing alone in your garage, throwing dart after dart at the same target, missing more often than you hit. The Game of 9 doesn’t care about your excuses, the slight breeze from the open door, the glare from the overhead light, the fact that you’re pretty sure your dog is judging you from his bed in the corner. It demands precision and consistency, two things I was quickly learning I lacked in alarming quantities.
Why the Game of 9 is Darts’ Most Merciless (and Effective) Teacher
Alright, let me break down ‘The Game of 9’ for you, it’s brutal, hilarious and the fastest way to find out if you actually know how to aim. You start on 20, because why not begin with the most smug number on the board? Your mission, hit that sucker nine times in a row. Not eight. Not “close enough.” Nine. If you get even a single dart outside (hello, 5 and 1, you traitors), the counter resets and your soul dies a little. Once you’ve successfully bullied the 20 into submission, you drop down to 19 and do it all over again. Yes, it feels like downgrading from steak to cafeteria meatloaf, but rules are rules. Finally after 18, 17, 16 and 15, you face the bullseye—the ultimate ego check. Here, you only need three hits in nine darts (because if you haven’t lost your will to live yet, the bull will finish the job). This is the Cricket version, turning you into a cold, calculating number-crushing machine. Bonus round? If you’re feeling fancy, try ‘Around the Clock’ afterward, it’s like a victory lap from 20 to 1 and finish on the bull, except you realize halfway that your accuracy on odd numbers is a lie.
As the hours wore on (yes, hours, this wasn’t something I’d conquer in one session), I began noticing subtle changes in my throw. The way my elbow would drop when I got tired, how my grip would tighten when I was frustrated, the unconscious way I’d lean forward when really concentrating. The Game of 9 wasn’t just teaching me to hit a number, it was holding up a mirror to every flaw in my technique. Each missed dart was a lesson, each successful grouping a small victory to be celebrated.
In the meanwhile, I was moving down through the numbers. The 19 segment seemed to repel my darts with some sort of magnetic force field. The 18 played tricks on me, looking larger than it actually was until my darts would land just outside in the 4 or the 13. The 17 became my personal nemesis, its narrow wedge seeming to shrink before my eyes as I lined up each throw. And don’t even get me started on the bullseye – that tiny red dot that mocks you from the center of the board, looking so inviting yet remaining so elusive.
What surprised me most was how this simple exercise revealed the psychological aspects of darts I’d never considered. The way doubt creeps in after a few misses, how your arm suddenly forgets its muscle memory when you’re thinking too hard, the temptation to change your stance or grip mid-session when things aren’t going well. I learned more about my mental game in those solitary garage sessions than I had in years of casual play.
The real magic happened when I stopped trying to force perfection and just let my throw happen. There’s a rhythm to good darts, a flow that comes when you’re not overthinking every movement. The Game of 9 taught me to find that rhythm through repetition, to trust my muscle memory, to accept that misses happen but consistency comes from sticking to your process.
When I finally took this newfound discipline to league night, the difference was noticeable. Cricket numbers that used to give me trouble became reliable friends. Those tricky setup shots in 501 felt more comfortable. Most importantly, when the pressure was on, I had the confidence of knowing I’d put in the work – that I could hit what I needed to hit because I’d done it hundreds of times before in practice.
There’s a beautiful simplicity to the Game of 9 that makes it so effective. No fancy scoring systems, no complicated rules, just you, your darts and a target that won’t compromise. It builds the kind of fundamental skills that translate to every aspect of your game. Your grouping tightens, your confidence grows and suddenly those trebles and doubles don’t seem quite so intimidating anymore.
The Game of 9 became more than just a practice routine for me. It became a meditation, a test of focus, a way to measure progress not just in scores but in the quality of my throw and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing I’ve done the work. Some days it feels like an old friend, others like a harsh teacher, but it’s always there, waiting to show me where I really stand as a player.
From Frustration to Obsession, Show Up, Keep Throwing and Fall in Love with the Process
So now when I step up to the oche, whether in my garage or in competition, I carry with me all those hours of repetition, all those frustrating misses and hard-won successes. The Game of 9 taught me that real improvement comes not from occasional flashes of brilliance but from the daily grind of showing up, throwing darts and being willing to face your weaknesses head on.
And if you’re thinking of trying it yourself (which you absolutely should), just remember – the first time will humble you, the hundredth time will reward you and every time after that will remind you why you fell in love with this maddening, wonderful game in the first place. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with nine darts at the bullseye. Wish me luck – I’m going to need it.
Darts fever, because why not practice more, aim higher and laugh louder!
John Lowe, Old Stoneface: “To be a champion, you have to believe in yourself when no one else will.”
