Behind The Curtain

Billy Boon was never ready on time. When the rest of us were on the field he'd still be pulling his boots on. He was a small boy, only about three feet eleven inches, but he was quick as lightning and slippery as a fox. Once he got the ball there were few who could catch him. I'm talking football, by the way. Billy and I were in the Ernest Street Eleven. There was no such road by the time our club was formed, but our coach had been born there and he liked the name. We were a memorial to a part of Middlesbrough which is gone forever.

It was Billy who scored six against Eston in February 1974. Mud were at number one and Billy won the nickname of Tiger Feet Boon. He and I were best friends most of the time. We fell out when he stole my grandma's teeth, but made up again when I wanted to borrow his bike. I'm still not sure that it was her own set of teeth that my grandma got back. She used to always whistle when she asked for the sugar but, once Billy gave her them back, she spoke perfectly. I often wonder how many other people's teeth Billy had in his collection. He had some strange hobbies.

Back to football though. I played in mid field, just behind Billy. He had a mop of black hair which bounced when he ran so that it was easy to pick him out. It always annoyed me that his hair was so straight and thick when mine was curly and thin. He had half a front tooth missing from when he collided with a goal post in a game against Darlington Boot Boys. This gave him an odd cuteness which charmed the elderly ladies who used to watch us practice. Our field was beside a row of bungalows, but it wasn't us who broke the window at number seven - honest!

Before one match, when Billy was sitting on a wall pulling his boots on, and the rest of us were bawling at him to hurry up, he fell off. It was one of those walls on a bank which was only one foot above the ground on one side but over three feet on the other. I'm not sure what Billy's head was made of but he fell the whole of the three feet onto concrete and still got up to complain. Our coach looked him over and decided to take him for an x-ray, to be on the safe side. You should have heard the fuss Billy kicked up. At the age of ten football was his life. Trying to tell him that he very nearly didn't have a life was no use. Coach had to drag him into the car, and when I next saw the man he had a plaster over his nose.

The rest of us played the game with Tim Swatman in Billy's place. Tim was okay but he had none of Billy's speed or skill. The match was a disaster. Our keeper had the sun in his eyes during both halves. I had somebody else's feet and Tim's attempt at goal hit a pigeon. We lost three nil. I was glad when the whistle was blown. I got up off my backside and followed the rest of the lads to behind the wall where we looked for pieces of Billy's head.

His head was intact, much to his Mam's relief. Once she'd collected him from the hospital she put him to bed. That was where I found him that evening. He lifted his hair and showed me a bump the size of his Mam's nose. His own nose was not much of a comparison, being little more than a pimple, but his grin was wide as he described one of the nurses. Even at ten Billy had an eye for the ladies.

I sat on his bed and told him about the match, making every excuse that I'd rehearsed on the way to his house. He made no comments about it; just gazed at me for a while in silence, then began to talk about Wilf Mannion. Billy had a way of making me feel inadequate just by talking about Wilf Mannion. It was his way of reminding me how good I wasn't.

It was true; we needed Billy in the team. Without him we were useless. Small as he was he had a way of rallying us when we were behind and keeping us on top once we got there. I wasn't as good a player as he was but I could beat him in a race along Linthorp Road, and he needed my shoulders to stand on when we tried to get a free look in at Ayresome Park. We were tight. Neither of us had a brother and so we sort of adopted each other. We did most things together.

Our team took up almost all of our time. School was an inconvenience which we learned to live with. Lessons were just a bridge we had to cross on our way to each match. When Saturday came we could hardly wait for kick off, even if Billy was always late with his boots. My Dad said we never played real football. He said we played footy, but I knew he was proud of the one goal I did manage to score. He was also proud of Billy who didn't have a Dad.

Often Billy came round to my house and we played footy; him, my Dad and me. On Saturday, so long as it didnt clash with the Boro, my Dad would watch our match. Billy's Mam sometimes came along but she wasn't really interested. She had nice legs, which was sometimes useful for distracting the other team so that Billy could nip in with a goal, but he didn't really want her there. I saw his face once when she was standing on the touch line in her mini, surrounded by men. He was red as a beetroot. He really didn't like her to be there.

When we got to the final of our local boys cup neither Billy or I stopped smiling for a week. We were twice hauled before our headmaster for being too happy in class, even if that wasnt the reason the teacher gave. We both polished the shelves above the tellies in our respective houses, just in case. I even polished my boots, which I'd not seen much point in doing before.

The actual match was in Middlesbrough, almost a home game for us. I felt sorry for Tim who had to sit on the bench. I'm sure he wished that Billy had fallen off another wall. Most of us were really nervous but, as if to convince us that this was just another game, Billy took the usual time with his boots. the ref wasn't very pleased but we finally got under way.

Billy had convinced his Mam not to attend. This seemed to make him relax more so that he got us a goal in the first five minutes. This was the only time we ever hugged each other. I thought we'd got it all sown up until just before half time when the other team got an equaliser. Worse than that, Billy was chopped down and finished the half clutching his ankle. I'd never seen Billy cry before; not properly. He thought he might have to miss the rest of the game. I really felt for him.

He was okay by the second half, however, much to everyones relief. He ran out with the rest of us as though nothing had happened. I got the ball in my face as soon as the whistle was blown and was almost knocked senseless. I've also got a mark on my arm which I'm sure was made by a tooth. Don't let anyone tell you that boys football isn't serious. Cup finals can hurt!

Billy amazed even me, once I'd recovered myself. He weaved through their defence like a thread and side stepped their keeper. It would have been a superb goal if he had not been chopped down again. This was the first penalty we'd ever had. Billy kicked it with great relish and nearly took the net off. We were in front again, but by now we knew how tough it would be to stay there.

Tim got to come on in the last few minutes because one of our side was injured. I'm not sure who was the culprit but it may have been the same one who rolled into our keeper in the final minute. Both boys went off; our keeper because he was hurt, and the other because he deserved it. If the other team had equalised after that there would have been a blood bath, such was the temper of all involved. The final whistle was the cue for our lads to grab Billy and swing him onto their shoulders. He was a hero, and Wilf Mannion had not been there to witness it.

The cup was heavy. I could never have carried it alone. Did I mention that I was captain? Well, I was, but I never figured out why. Billy wore the lid just like that Sunderland player had done in the FA Cup final the year before. We all showed off a bit I suppose, but it was the only cup we'd ever won. My Dad was proud as punch, and we all got to share the cup. It was above my telly for three weeks, before the shelf fell off.

I've got a photograph of our team with that cup. Billy's got a grin a mile wide and I've got a red cheek. It was Billy who deserved the honours though; not just for the goals, but for holding us all together throughout the season.

I'd never realised how much it hurt him not to have a Dad to watch him play. I only found out how he felt when he told me how lucky I was. There'd been times when he'd watched me and my Dad laughing together and talking about football and it had been too much for him. I remember a couple of occasions when he'd walked away suddenly, but I'd never thought much about it.

I remember that Billy's lip quivered and I got a bit embarrassed, but I also knew that he was trusting me with a great confidence. We sat together in my room, not saying much at all for about five minutes before Billy sniffed loudly and gave me a punch on the arm. He recovered his smile and began to chatter about football again, just like normal.

There was no end of season for Billy or me. When other boys were donning white shirts and waving cricket bats about, Billy and I were in our boots on the field beside the bungalows. We were not alone. There were always at least a dozen of us kicking up the turf and dreaming of Wembley. Billy was the organiser as usual, picking the teams and deciding what time we'd kick off. He was a born leader.

I still have a clear memory of Billy sitting on the grass, squinting one eye closed at the rest of us while we waited for him to finish putting his boots on. He could take as long as he liked over that job. No-one wanted to start a game without him.

Billy was a star.