Peter McParland ..... My First Hero

Peter McParland was my first hero. I've had others since, but he was my first.

I wanted to be Peter McParland. He had a great name. He was tall and handsome and scored goals. He was a winger. He was fast. He left defenders bemused. He was hard. He was, as the modern phrase goes, a brick shit-house with skill.

It was in the late fifties that my Uncle Ken started taking me to Villa Park. I was ten years old, and like everyone else who ever goes to the ground fell in love with the claret and blue. Aston Villa was my first love. I've had others since but Villa was my first.

We beat somebody in a big match. Thousands of faces swayed to and fro like a sea of pink peas. Peter Mac scored with a diving header. He lay on the ground for what seemed like an age. Team mates gathered around him to celebrate and bask in his glory. Opponents stood in owe at his bravery. It was the most thrilling thing I had ever seen. The pink peas roared in unison. It was deafening. My uncle and I jumped for joy.

On the bus home we glowed with contentment, discussing the match and already looking forward to the next one. All was right with the world. For weeks afterward I practised diving headers. My mom despaired of my obsession, not to mention all the ruined clothes that needed replacing before their life was scheduled to end.

When my friends and I played football on waste ground near our house I was always Peter McParland. They never objected. He was my hero. I gained a foot in height and weaved in and out of the nettle beds which doubled as imaginary, clueless full-backs. A running commentary accompanied my forays down the pitch as the opposing defence were mesmerised: 'A great ball from Wylie finds Hitchens. Now McPARLAND...'

One time I shimmied, dropped my shoulder, cut inside and shot. The ball hit a house brick, which was standing on its end impersonating a goalpost, and ricocheted in off the keeper's legs. 'What a goal by McParland' I yelled, then stood rigid in disbelief as the ball glided efforftlessly into the busy road that ran adjacent to our field .....

The ball settled under the wheel of a Midland Red bus rumbling by on its way to Dudley, its driver unaware of the drama he had left behind.

It was my ball. A real leather football with a lace that left an indent in your forehead when you headed it. I got it as a result of weeks of saving my meagre pocket money and knew there was little hope of being able to afford a replacement.

I retrieved it from the road. it was completely flat. it was beyond hope but had died a glorious death.

My Uncle Ken and I continued to visit the Villa. We saw some great games, and we saw some crap, as well. I collected a few more heroes.

Depending on my mood I'd be a striker one week, a defender the next. Alan Deakin became a favourite. He was blonde and stocky and wore number six on his back. He was great at slide tackles. I spent hours practising slide tackles, which added to my mom's gloom and her fervent wish that I'd grow out of all this football nonsense.

Life was good. Adulthood and its attendant complications could wait. I was an ordinary working-class kid from Tipton and though I didn't know it, life would never be as simple again.

Disaster struck. They sold Peter Mac to the Wolves. I couldn't believe it. I felt betrayed and angry. How could they sell my hero? Why did it have to end? Wouldn't life be football and heroes forever No-one had warned me about this.

I was desperately confused. I loved Peter Mac but I loved the Villa, too. I went to see his first match at the Molineux. It felt strange seeing him in the wrong colours but I even, briefly, considered supporting the team in old gold and black.

My Uncle Ken talked me out of it. He wisely told me that life could sometimes hurt. It was quite often unfair. We had to be brave enough to be able to let go of the things we loved. He explained that pain was a part of the process and that accepting loss was all about being grown up.

The day they transferred Peter Mac to the Wolves I grew up a lot.

Peter McParland was my first loss. I've had others, but he was my first.

Alan Hughes
Taken From Issue 38