Gerwyn Price walked into Alexandra Palace armed with tungsten and walked out with exactly what he came for. No drama, no fuss, just eleven legs of clinical annihilation against Adam Gawlas that moved the Welshman closer to a second world title five years after his first. Meanwhile, over in the arena's darker corners, Scotland's Alan Soutar endured forty five minutes of existential hell, missing fifteen match darts against Finnish debutant Teemu Harju before finally stumbling across the finish line like a man who'd survived a bear attack rather than won a darts match. These two extremes unfolding on the same Tuesday afternoon tell you everything about modern professional darts. A sport increasingly cleaved into warring factions where machine like efficiency collides with agonizing human frailty, all while rogue wasps buzz ominously overhead.

Let's start with the wasps because they're literally the elephant in the room nobody wants to address. Danny Noppert, the tournament's sixth seed, found himself spraying insect repellent on stage before his match against Jurjen van der Velde, a sight that would be comedic if it weren't so damning. This isn't some village fete. This is the PDC World Championship, darts' premier event held at the same venue for over a decade, yet competitors need pesticide just to survive. Where's the outrage? Where are the enhanced containment protocols? Imagine Wimbledon allowing players to fumigate Centre Court between sets or the Masters forcing golfers to swat hornets mid backswing. There’d be riots demanding greenkeeper resignations. But in darts, we chuckle along as Noppert sprays his forearms like a soldier deploying mosquito netting in the Congo, treating this environmental negligence as charming eccentricity rather than organizational malpractice.

The Ally Pally wasps aren't some quirky tradition. They’re a glaring symbol of how darts treats its own infrastructure. These insects swarm because the building sits adjacent to overgrown greenery that tournament organizers refuse to properly treat or monitor. Yet every December they express theatrical surprise when buzzing gatecrashers arrive on schedule, feigning helplessness against nature’s whims. This farce reeks of hypocrisy. How can a sport boasting record prize money, global broadcasts, and athletic legitimacy tolerate conditions where players need target practice just to land doubles between yellow jacket assaults? If the PDC truly views itself as elite sports entertainment rather than a circus sideshow, it would have renovated or relocated years ago. Instead they line the players up like carnies, whispering beatifically about history whilst wasps dive bomb the treble twenty.

Human endurance isn't limitless, a fact Soutar nearly discovered the hard way. Missing fifteen match darts isn't merely bad luck or shaky hands. It's a full scale neurological collapse, the kind that rewires a player’s muscle memory mid game, flooding synapses with cortisol until the dartboard shrinks to the size of a postage stamp. Underestimate the psychological carnage at your peril. Plenty of players never recover from these meltdowns. Darts history is littered with ghost stories of former contenders who cracked under Ally Pally’s lights and spent subsequent years drowning their sorrows at county exhibitions and Players Championship qualifiers. Remember John Part’s eighteen missed match darts against Andy Hamilton in 2013? That bout broke something in Canada’s greatest ever dartist. He won just four more televised matches across the next four seasons before retiring, the trauma seemingly lodged in his throwing shoulder like shrapnel.

Now contrast this with Price’s serene progress. Ten years ago, Price was a rugby player notorious for ‘The Headache’ celebrations that enraged crowds. Today, at forty, he’s evolved into this zen master of the oche, averaging 96 through sheer regimented discipline while fans actually cheer him. His transformation from pantomime villain to elder statesman is fascinating primarily because it reveals darts’ surprising generational gap. The younger crop like Gian van Veen or Luke Humphries play with impetuous flair, thriving under Noise and chaos. Meanwhile veterans like Price, Soutar, or James Wade (who plays tonight) rely on glacial concentration, treating every visit like a chess move. Watching Price dismantle Gawlas felt like watching a seasoned professor patiently schooling an over eager undergraduate. No wasted movement, no reaction to errant darts, just methodical torture delivered via mathematics. Two different sports occupying the same stage, diverging further each year.

Which brings us to the uncomfortable question nobody asks. Why does darting longevity skew older than comparable skill sports? In golf, baseball, tennis, even snooker, mid thirties is considered the twilight years. Yet the current PDC top twenty includes eight players over forty, with Price averaging higher now than he did during his so called prime. Credit bulletproof technique and professionalism all you want, but also consider structural factors. The modern tour’s relentless schedule–nearly fifty events annually–favors older players who’ve nailed their mechanics and can grind through hotel fatigue. Younger throwers either adapt immediately or burnout chasing qualification points. We celebrate older champions like Price precisely because they’ve circumvented the PDC pyramid scheme, having survived long enough to reap financial security while their younger opponents juggle day jobs alongside playing commitments. It’s survival of the financially stable.

Even Price’s post match comments carry subtle shade. When stating he’ll need to improve to win the tournament despite a straightforward win, he’s not just managing expectations. He’s acknowledging darts’ tactical evolution. Three years ago a 96 average guaranteed quarter final contention. Now it barely gets you through the first round, especially with statistical monsters like Luke Littler or Josh Rock waiting in the later stages. Technical excellence gets you less than it ever did. The field has caught up.

Hold that thought while considering another minor headline. Chris Dobey’s comfortable 3-1 victory over Xiaochen Zong. Dobey, thirty five, has now reached three straight quarterfinals here, including last year’s semi. He’s the consummate gatekeeper. Skilled enough to mangle qualifiers like Zong but lacking that extra five percent to trouble the elite. Watch his match footage closely though and you’ll notice his walk to the oche becomes visibly heavy around set three. It’s almost imperceptible, just an extra half second of foot drag that suggests accumulated fatigue. Against title contenders, that half second is all they need to steal legs. This is the hidden toll of darting careers. We romanticize Phil Taylor’s sixteen world titles but ignore how rare his endurance was. Most players peak briefly before their game crumbles under the weight of repetition.

Let’s circle back to the wasps. Noppert deploying insect spray wasn’t just a bizarre spectacle. It signalled a quiet rebellion against organizational incompetence. Players shouldn’t need retail aerosols to do their jobs. Endorsement hungry authorities will pass this off as humorous disruption, but it masks a troubling reality. Darts is booming globally yet remains embarrassingly slapdash at its premier event. Consider this. The prize pool has ballooned past £2.5 million. Broadcast technology deploys Hawkeye tracking and biometric data. Yet somehow the venue still hasn’t solved a preventable annual insect invasion. It’s like watching NASA struggle with malfunctioning coffee machines aboard the International Space Station. Priorities appear warped when wasps attract more headlines than world class darts.

Perhaps that’s the trade off. For every robotic operator like Price dutifully hitting his marks, we get clownish interludes featuring swatting professionals and players collapsing like drunk pandas. The duality fuels darts’ astronomical entertainment value but undermines its aspirations toward athletic legitimacy. You cannot demand Olympic recognition one minute then let shirtless drunkards scream abuse at players taking critical throws the next.

Still, we return because in darts more than any sport, humanity claws its way back. Soutar, a forty seven year old firefighter turned part time player, nearly disintegrating under pressure yet somehow surviving? That warms our pudding hearts. Price, once the sport's number one agitator, now preaching focus like a Zen archer? Poetic redemption. Dobey and Noppert grinding through functional victories while youthful talents wait to dismantle them? Epic generational tension.

Ultimately, the players navigate this chaos because they have no choice. The PDC jogs alongside, content to let the wasps buzz, the crowds roar, and the cameras roll. Business is booming. But business isn't always fair. Just ask Alan Soutar's shattered nerve endings.