Gareth Roberts - Whatever Happened to Billy Parks

Not that I blame them.

I’ve answered these questions thousands of times. I’ve emptied a thousand glasses. I’ve smiled on thousands of fans. This is easy money, money for my memories and a few minutes of adulation to remind me that I’m still alive.

I’m getting warmed up now. The crowd is a good one, suitably boisterously pissed and attentive to all my best stories. I’ve become good at this.

My eyes wander towards the back of the pub, and there, standing close to the blessed Coronation Street fruit machine, stands a man in a tan sheepskin coat and trilby. There’s something familiar about him, something about the thick furious grey eyebrows that explode across a forehead that’s creased and serious. I know I’ve seen those eyebrows before, but where?

I catch him watching me intently, his face a humourless shade of thunderbolt grey. For a second I meet his stare, just a second. Where the bloody hell have I seen him before?

I turn away just as the man’s voice cuts through the muggy atmosphere of the pub to ask a question.

‘What would you give to turn the clock back and put a few things right?’ he asks.

God, not that old chestnut. I try to stifle the furrowing of my brow. There’s something about the way in which he asks the question though; it lacks the smiling compassion that usually accompanies my inquisitors. There’s a cold, understated masculine aggression to it. Perhaps he is one of the nutters that I sometimes get. Sad, bitter, twisted old bastards – back in the day, they’d want to fight me; now, occasionally, they want to humiliate me.

I pour more of the cheap neat whisky into my mouth. I can deal with it – I’ve heard this type of question a thousand times before:

If you could change anything, what would it be?

Do you have any regrets?

Where did it all go wrong?

I know exactly how I will answer it. I know that my mouth will form itself into a quick smile before opening and allowing meaningless soft words to tumble out like little balls of cotton wool harmlessly falling on to a bouncy mattress. Puff.

I put on my most sincere voice and answer, as the man in the sheepskin coat stares: ‘Football has given me a very lovely life and great memories,’ I tell him. ‘I wouldn’t change a second of anything. I’ve been very lucky.’ I pause, then smile. ‘And so have hundreds of birds and everyone in north and east London that was lucky enough to see me play.’

I grin, some of the audience chuckle, but the man’s expression doesn’t change, which gives me a sharp pang of discomfort, as though I was being chastised by an old and respected uncle. Well, sod that. I glance towards the bar, where the barmaid, Leanne, a rather hefty girl who obviously likes a bit of artificial tanning, stands bored, cradling her chin in her hands. Thirty years ago we might have been up for a bit of fun later – but not now.

It’s time to finish.

I turn again to the audience and ignore the bloke in the sheepskin coat.

‘Right, gentlemen, thank you very much, you’ve been lovely.’

The crowd applaud. Not Anfield, not Stamford Bridge, not Wembley Stadium or the San Siro, not the deep, pure, momentary masculine love of an adulating crowd roaring after the ball has ripped into the net, but smiling faces and clapping hands and a muted sincere cheer.

‘Thank you very much, fellas,’ I repeat. ‘I’ll tell you what, if any of you want to ask any more questions, I’m happy to oblige over by the bar.’

I always do this. I know that a little coterie of drinkers will surround me, try to get closer to me, close enough to breathe my air and buy me drinks and talk to me as if I’m one of the lads, one of them: ‘So, what do you think about the Hammers, eh? It’s a fucking disgrace.’

I’m not one of the lads. But I will be for a drink. They expect it.

‘You havin’ a drink with us, Parksy?’

‘Thank you very much, mate – I’ll have the same again. Yes, the Hammers – fucking terrible, I’ve not been down there for a while.’

After about an hour the crowd leaves: happy, drunk sportsmen. I’m alone. Alan, the landlord, a large man who wears brown short-sleeved shirts and steel-rimmed glasses, comes over.

‘You alright to get home, Billy?’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘You sure?’

He looks carefully at me. ‘Did you know that your pupils have gone yellow? You should watch that.’

Yellow? What does he mean yellow? The daft bastard.

‘It must be something you’re putting in your scotch to water it down with,’ I say, and he grins at me with concerned eyes.

‘Here you go, son,’ he says, handing me a brown envelope. ‘Forty quid, I’ve taken out the twenty you owe for your tab, alright?’

I nod. I’m not going to quibble over a few quid.

I leave the safety of The Anchor, stepping out into the late afternoon. The pub door shuts behind me and the south London air stings my eyes. I hate that, I hate that moment when the pub door shuts and the moroseness hits you. The devastating lonely feeling of insignificance. My past means nothing under the massive spitting sky. Cars whip by creating movement and noise in the gloom. They ignore me. They don’t know who I am. But if they did, if they had seen me …

I stumble, then grab hold of the railings by the side of the road. Better take myself to The Marquis close to the park. Yes, there would be friendly faces there, friendly faces and the same conversations and the same drink: people to tell me how worthwhile my life has been, people to love me. Perhaps Maureen, the landlady, will be there and I might find solace in her comfortable body.

I start to walk; my knees hurt, the result of Paul bloody Reaney no doubt, him and the hundreds of others without an ounce of talent who’d been told to kick me as hard as they fucking-well could. I feel tired. I rub my eyes and start to cross the road.

‘You didn’t answer my question, Billy?’

I turn around abruptly, drunkenly, to see the man in the sheepskin coat and trilby walking towards me. My eyes narrow as I try to focus on the man’s face. Where the bloody hell do I know him from? There was something familiar about him.

‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘I should hope so,’ he says, and he smiles slowly and mechanically at me.

I stagger slightly and move my head back trying to get a better look at him, to picture him, put a name to the face, put an age to the face.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember. You’ll have to remind me.’

‘Come on,’ says the man ignoring the request. ‘Let’s take a walk through the park.’

We walk through Southwark Park. Some kids kick a ball on a strip of concrete. We stop and watch them: it’s what old football men do.

‘You see that?’ asks the man in the sheepskin coat.

And I turn to face him. I’d seen nothing of worth in the boys’ kick-about and am starting to feel a bit weird, light headed, there is something about this man that confuses me, weakens me, makes me feel ill.

‘The grass, Billy,’ the man continues. ‘Those boys are playing on the concrete because the grass on the park is useless. It’s just mud.’

I look at the empty field, heavy and rutted with green and brown, then back to the boys.

‘Not many people know this, but the grass on that park is Bahia grass which comes from South America. Did you know that, Billy?’

I shake my head. I’ve no idea what he’s going on about. Suddenly I want another drink like I’ve never wanted one before.

‘Some clot decided that if the boys of south London were going to play like South Americans, then they should have South American grass.’

‘Oh,’ I say. But I don’t want to stand still talking about grass; the open space of the park is starting to hurt my eyes.