Whatever Happened to Billy Parks

‘They’re asking themselves the fundamental question, Billy,’ says Gerry Higgs. ‘Why are we here? Who should we aspire to be? The poor bastard who lives his life according to the rules, makes sure he gets by, pays his taxes, works nine to five and remembers everyone’s birthdays, or should we aim to be a little bit different to that, live according to our aspirations in one great big nihilistic fantasy? Because after all, we’re not here for very long are we?’

‘Well,’ I say nervously, ‘I suppose we all want to be a bit different, don’t we?’

‘Yes, Billy, old son.’ And he looks at me, and I know that he’s wondering how much of this I understand.

He looks back at the Council of Football Immortals.

‘It sounds so easy when you hear Mr Clough talk, doesn’t it?’ he continues, ‘but sometimes if you’re a bit different, a bit cavalier, you end up hurting the people who love you most. Isn’t that right?’

I shrug. I think I know what he’s trying to say, and I’m not sure I like it. He stares and his eyes shine like cold steel and I realise that he isn’t a mad old duffer after all, he’s actually some kind of genius. I avert my eyes and he continues: ‘Perhaps Mr Shankly’s right,’ he says. ‘You’ve got to make people proud, you’ve got to achieve something worthwhile.’

I feel my face scrunch up in confusion.

‘But what’s all that got to do with me, Gerry?’

‘Well, Billy, you see, Sir Alf has been given a chance to put something right.’

‘What?’ I glance back through the window again at the five men.

‘Poland, Wembley, October 1973.’

‘What?’

‘You must remember that night, Billy?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I was sat freezing my bollocks off watching the Polish keeper put us out of the World Cup.’

‘That’s right, Billy, Jan Tomaszewski. The Clown who broke our hearts.’

I nod. Though, if I’m being honest, I don’t remember that much about the game, only Norman Hunter’s grim face and Sir Alf’s desperation in the changing room afterwards.

‘Well,’ continues Gerry. ‘It shouldn’t have happened like that: the Polish keeper kept one or two out that night that he shouldn’t, that he wasn’t meant to, and Sir Alf’s going to have the chance to change things.’

I was now utterly, utterly confused and starting to stutter like an imbecile. ‘What? How? How will that work? That was forty years ago.’

‘The Service has given him a chance to revisit ten minutes of that night and make one change.’ He tells me, and again, the word Service causes a quick pain to my temple.

‘What will he change?’ I ask.

Gerry puts his arm gently around my shoulders and ushers me back towards the window through which we could see the five legends arguing about life and football.

‘He brought on Kevin Hector,’ he says quietly.

I look up at him.

‘And as everyone knows, Billy, Kevin Hector missed the chance to score the winner.’

I stare incredulously as Gerry Higgs ruefully shakes his head: ‘It was a bloody sitter.’

He draws his breath in through his teeth, before continuing: ‘Well, now, thanks to the Service, Sir Alf’s got the chance to put that right.’

Suddenly, like a lovely spring morning, the fog of confusion lifts, the penny drops into the slot and I start to understand. ‘He could have brought me on,’ I say. ‘Me. I was in the squad for that game. I was on the bench. I was sat by Bobby Moore, he could have brought me on, not Kevin Hector.’

Gerry Higgs smiles. ‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘he could have brought you on; but would you have put it away, Billy?’

I nod, my mouth open, ‘Oh yeah, every time, every bloody time, Gerry, you know that. You remember, Gerry? Don’t you?’

He smiles again. ‘Well, you might get that chance, son.’

‘What do you mean?’ I am racing with excitement now; what does he mean I might have the chance? How could that happen? How could I have the chance? I feel my heart beating against my chest.

‘How Gerry?’ I turn to him. ‘How?’ I repeat, forcefully, and the five men in the other room all turn as one and look in still silence.

‘The Service can grant you that,’ he says, then pauses, ‘just as long as Sir Alf picks you, that is.’

‘Sir Alf,’ I state. This isn’t good, Sir Alf hates me: he once called me a lazy useless showboating pony. ‘Sir Alf won’t pick me,’ I say.

‘Probably not,’ says Gerry, ‘but, lucky for you, it’s not just up to him; he’s got Mr Clough, Mr Revie, Mr Shankly and Sir Matt Busby to help him.’

Actually, this isn’t much better.

‘Don’t look so glum,’ says Gerry, ‘look on the bright side, you’ve made the last two.’

‘Two?’

‘Yes,’ says Gerry, then he pauses, ‘not sure I’m supposed to tell you this, Billy. The Council of Football Immortals has decided that Sir Alf can bring on you or Kevin Keegan. So that’s what they’ve got to decide: you or Kevin.’

I take a slow intake of breath, and then sigh.

‘Alright,’ I say, ‘so what happens next?’

‘You just sit and wait until you’re called.’

‘Called?’

‘Yes, Billy, it’s a big thing this; changing history can’t be done lightly: the Council will want to meet you.’

‘What? Like an interview? Or a trial? Bloody hell! I haven’t kicked a ball in years.’

‘Steady on, Billy, I wouldn’t call it an interview, more a little chat. You won’t have to bring your boots. And anyway, you’ve no need to worry, you’re Billy Parks, aren’t you?’

I am not so sure. My cheeks puff out breath at the thought of it all. ‘And what happens then?’ I ask. ‘What happens if the Council picks me?’

Gerry’s face breaks into a big smile revealing yellow chipped teeth. He claps me on the shoulder. ‘Then, old son, everything changes, you get the chance to put everything right. You get the chance to make everything bad that’s happened in the last thirty- odd years disappear.’ He pauses again, adding slowly, ‘If, of course, you manage to put the ball in the back of the Polish net.’

7 (#udf1a4d3f-a94d-5ad4-bdfe-1a7d25e3c762)

I don’t sleep that night.