Whatever Happened to Billy Parks. Gareth Roberts

where it stuck fast in the mud. Now, there was just a foot race to the ball between me, northern monkey Feeney, who was charging from my left, the Manc goalie Joe Corrigan and Big Tommy Booth. But I was away, my feet gliding along the glistening grass, water sputtering upwards as I went. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Feeney coming towards me, while straight ahead was the massive frame of Joe Corrigan. If Joe had been more decisive, he’d have got there first, but he held off just a second, just long enough for me to reach the ball a moment before he did, a tiny weeny insignificant moment, nothing in the great encyclopaedia of time, but long enough for me to clip the ball over him, hurdle him, and steer the ball into the empty net as Feeney crashed into his own goalkeeper.

      I trotted past the mud-splattered defender, grinned at him then shook the hand of Trevor Brooking. ‘Well done, Barry,’ he said, and I grinned at him as well. ‘It’s Billy,’ I said. ‘Billy Parks.’

      It was the winning goal.

      Afterwards I sat in the changing room, listening to Stevie Kember, Harry and Frankie Lampard; they seemed so confident, so aware, so much bigger and older than me with their skinny ties and winkle picker boots. They were all going to play for Crystal Palace or Chelsea or West Ham. They were all going to be footballers. I thought about my dad. The Hammers were his team. Perhaps I could play for West Ham.

      Taffy Watkins stood by the door. ‘Parks,’ he bellowed, and I looked up as he beckoned me.

      ‘There’s someone who wants to meet you, boy,’ he said and turned, so I followed him up the corridor, up some stairs and into a lounge bar, which smelled of cigar smoke and booze.

      Two men were standing by the bar; by the welcoming looks on their faces I could tell that they were waiting for us to join them.

      Taffy led me over. ‘This, Billy,’ he said proudly, ‘is Mr Matt Busby. Mr Busby, this is Billy Parks.’

      Matt Busby smiled at me; thinning hair and squint-eyes smiling a lovely warm straight-to-your-soul smile, like the uncle we all wished we’d had.

      ‘Good goal out there, Billy,’ he said, or at least that’s what I thought he said; to my ear, untrained in Glaswegian, it sounded more like a collection of ‘grrs’ followed by my name. I nodded, though, and smiled, and muttered something about it being difficult conditions as I sensed that Taffy wanted me to sound vaguely intelligent and interested.

      ‘Billy,’ he continued, ‘we’d like you to come up to Manchester for a week’s trial at our football club, Manchester United, next week. Would you like that?’

      Taffy answered for me. ‘Of course you would, wouldn’t you, boy?’ he said. And I smiled again.

      Of course I would.

      Manchester United.

      Manchester bloody United. Of course I wanted to go there. Sod West Ham. Man United – Busby Babes, Bobby Charlton, Denis Law, plane crashes, FA Cups – I would have crawled there. This was going to be brilliant. Taffy beamed down at me, Matt Busby beamed down at me; I beamed at me, all the gods in their heavens beamed down at me. It was all going to be brilliant. I was going to be a Busby Babe. I was going to play for Manchester United and win the FA Cup.

      I got the tube and the bus back to Stratford. I wanted to tell my mother. I wanted to tell her more than anything. This would surely make her happy. I rushed through the front door. Exhilarated. The house was dark, still, lifeless. ‘Mum,’ I yelled, there was no answer. ‘Mum,’ I yelled again, ‘I’m going to play for Manchester United.’ Again, no answer. I screamed up the dark and silent stairs. ‘I’ve just met Matt Busby and I’m going to play for Manchester United.’

      Silence.

      I went up to her bedroom and stood by her closed door. I wanted to turn the handle. To rush in and tell her my news: I was going to be a professional footballer. I knew I was, and with Man United. But the door was closed and I’d never disturbed my mother in her room, and I never would, it just wasn’t right. I decided to save my news for the next morning.

      At breakfast, I told her; not in the euphoric way I’d wanted, but in a quiet, brooding, matter-of-fact way. She stood with her back to me by the sink. ‘I’ve been asked to go to Manchester next week for a trial with United,’ I told her. But she didn’t turn towards me. The only reaction was the sudden stillness of her arms as she stopped drying the plate she was holding.

      ‘Matt Busby was at the game last night,’ I added. ‘I scored a goal.’

      She turned towards me now, her eyes dark-red and lined, her mouth trembling.

      ‘Manchester?’ she said.

      ‘Yes,’ I gushed, trying to express the brilliance of my news in that single word. ‘Manchester United.’

      ‘But, Billy,’ she said, her voice fragile and tiny, ‘Manchester’s so far away. I mean, couldn’t you play with one of the local clubs? Your cousin has been playing at Barking.’

      ‘Barking!’ I said. ‘But this is Manchester United.’

      ‘Yes, but Manchester is in the north,’ she said, tears pricking her eyes. ‘It’s so far away. It’s not for you, Billy.’

      She started to cry.

      Why? Why was she crying? Why wasn’t she happy for me? For us?

      I didn’t bloody understand.

      ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said. ‘I mean, they’re a really big club, they’re Manchester United, and if I got an apprenticeship, I’d be on good money and everything. I’ve heard the apprentices get four pound a week.’

      My words vanished in the air between us. Still she said nothing, she just stood silently by the sink holding a plate and a faded blue and white tea-towel.

      ‘I’d be back all the time,’ I said. ‘Manchester’s not far away.’

      She turned away from me and went back to the washing up.

      I sighed.

      I got up and walked out of the kitchen. I had injured her. We had injured each other. But I was undeterred. As far as I was concerned, I was going to Manchester.