David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  At United, Alex Ferguson was great. He was genuinely pleased for me, and told me just to go down and enjoy myself:

  ‘If you get the chance, play well. Just play like you have been doing for us at United.’

  I took him at his word. I met up with the rest of the squad at Bisham Abbey and my first session with Glenn and with England was the best I’d ever trained in my life. I was beating players, getting my crosses in, every single pass reached its man. I even stuck a couple of shots away past David Seaman into the top corner. It was the kind of training session you’d have in a dream; it was a little bit weird just how perfect it was.

  I don’t know how much it had to do with impressing him in training but for his first game in charge as England manager, Glenn Hoddle put me in the starting line-up for my first cap. Of course, it helped that there were players around me who I knew well, like Gary Neville, Gary Pallister and Paul Ince. And we made a great start: Gary Nev and I were both involved in the build-up to the first goal, which was scored by Nicky Barmby. A few minutes later, Gazza had got a second and we weren’t going to lose it from there. In the second half, Alan Shearer got a third. As debuts go, it wasn’t spectacular but I felt as if I belonged straight away. I’d helped set up that third goal for the skipper as well. Perhaps because I hadn’t had years of looking forward to international football, nerves weren’t a problem and I’d just got on with playing my game, like the gaffer had told me to. On 1 September 1996, on a Sunday afternoon in a city called Kishinev, on a bumpy pitch in front of about 10,000 people, I became an international footballer.

  Glenn Hoddle must have been pretty pleased, too. I played in every game of the qualifying campaign for France 98 that, thirteen months later, found us needing a draw in Rome against Italy to go through as group winners. After we’d lost 1–0 to Italy at Wembley, everybody had assumed we would have to win a two-legged play-off to qualify. And before the return game most people still thought that was what would happen. Italy had won their last fifteen fixtures at the Stadio Olimpico and we had our captain, Alan Shearer, out injured, with Ian Wright coming in for him on the night. Even the England fans who made the trip, believing we could do it, had a surprise coming: nobody expected us to play as well as we did. It turned into a fantastic night for England.

  There were over 80,000 inside the stadium and there was quite a lot of trouble in the crowd before the game but, by the time we came out, the atmosphere was just amazing. We had a team full of young players but we gave a really professional performance. I thought we beat the Italians at their own game: we were disciplined, everybody knew what they were supposed to be doing and we passed and kept the ball brilliantly all game. Everybody played well but, early on especially, Paul Gascoigne set the tone for the whole team. Every time he got the ball – and he went looking for it all over the pitch – he kept possession and refused to be hurried. He was doing step-overs, nicking the ball through an opponent’s legs for a pass, as if he was challenging them: We’re as good as you are with the football, you know. It was just what the rest of us needed.

  We kept our heads, even though the Italians were flying into their tackles, wanting the win just as much as we did. Then they had Angelo Di Livio sent off late in the second half. In the stands and watching at home on television, people must have thought we’d done it. In fact, it was only in the time left between then and the end of the match that I started getting nervous. Ian Wright was clean through, went round the goalkeeper, but then hit the post with his shot. Is it going to be one of those nights? We’re that close. Are they going to run up the other end now and score?

  The Italians broke upfield and Christian Vieri had a free header in the last minute and put it over the bar. Seconds later, the whistle went. Everybody charged off the bench and we were celebrating together out on the pitch. Glenn and his number two, John Gorman, were jumping up and down: they’d done a fantastic job preparing us for that game. Paul Ince looked like the hero of the hour, with his head all bandaged up after he’d caught an elbow during the game. Wrighty was dancing around, hugging everybody he could lay his hands on. The supporters up in the stand behind the dugouts were dancing, too, singing the tune from The Great Escape. I looked around me, trying to take all this in. I’d been an England player for just over a year and here we were, going mad, on our way to France for the World Cup the following summer. I was so proud to be part of it all.

  It must have been an amazing night for Paul Gascoigne. He was back at Lazio’s home ground with England and he was the one celebrating. People back home had been wondering if he was past his best and here he’d turned in the kind of performance you’d never forget. The way Gazza played that night – his ability, his nerve and the passion – I still wonder if that wasn’t what we were missing at France 98. I know Glenn Hoddle had his reasons for not including Paul in the squad, but I think we’d have been better with Gazza there. Even if it was just him coming off the bench for twenty minutes, Paul could bring something to the team nobody else could. He could change a game on his own. And I know we’d all have liked him to be around as part of the squad.

  What made it worse was the way Paul and the others found out they weren’t going to be in the final 22 for the tournament. It was a bit like a meat market: ‘You’re in. You’re out.’ It was the wrong way to go about doing it. We were in La Manga in southern Spain, 27 of us in all, to prepare for the World Cup together before the manager made his decision about the final squad. Everybody was nervous, thinking about who wouldn’t be going to France. It could be someone from my club, a mate. It could be me. One afternoon, after training, we were given timed appointments at the hotel: five-minute slots to go in and see Glenn, to find out what was going to happen to us. Almost from the start, the schedule wasn’t working. I remember, at one point, sitting on the floor in a corridor with five other lads while we waited our turn. It was a ridiculous way to treat the players.

  When eventually it came to my turn, the meeting didn’t last long. Looking back, it makes it seem even more unlikely that things turned out for me the way they did once the World Cup began. I walked into the room and Glenn’s first words were:

  ‘Well, David, it goes without saying that you’re in the squad.’

  And that was it. At least I didn’t hold up the next appointment. I was in the 22; but what about everyone else? Rumours had been flying around all day, not surprising when everybody was just waiting to find out what would happen to them. There was a leak somewhere in the camp, too: stories kept on turning up in the papers that could only have come from inside the England set-up. People were saying there was going to be one big story coming out of all this, that one high-profile name would be left out of the squad. The suggestion seemed to be that it would be Gazza. But nobody knew for sure, neither the press nor the players.

  We were down by the pool earlier in the day and I was sat next to Paul. Suddenly, he turned over on his sun bed.

  ‘Do you know something, David? I love you. You’re a great young player and you’re a great lad. I love playing football with you.’

  I looked at him. This was me, listening to one of England’s greatest-ever players.

  ‘I really want to go to this World Cup, David. I want to play in this World Cup with you.’

  He said that more than once. He must have heard the rumour that he might be left out. It wasn’t until later that we all found out what had happened, that the manager had told him he wasn’t in the 22 and that Paul had gone mad. Gary Neville was in the room next door to Gazza’s and heard the shouting and the furniture flying. I must admit that by the time that news came through I was more concerned about a couple of my United team-mates.

  The fact that Gary and Phil Neville, Paul Scholes, Nicky Butt and I were so close made it even worse when Phil and Butty missed out. A couple of days before, one of the staff had even given Phil a wink, as if to say he was going to be in the squad. That only made his disappointment harder to take. I went up to see them as soon as I found out. Their fl
ight home was in an hour’s time and they were standing in their room, bags packed. I gave Phil Neville a big hug. The five of us had grown up together and now two of them were on their way home. It must have hurt Gary even more, saying goodbye to his brother. Thinking about it now, of course, Butty and Phil had plenty of time ahead of them in international football. Paul Gascoigne had just missed out on his last chance of representing his country.

  I wasn’t the only one upset about the boys who’d been left out and the way they’d had to find out about it. We had a training session the next morning that was just about as bad as any I can remember. The atmosphere was eerie. We were just expected to get straight on with it. I realised the World Cup was only days away, but I felt there needed to be a time to relax, to take stock of things as a group. With Glenn, the intensity never dropped. Even when we had an evening off, we’d find ourselves all in a room with a bar, downstairs at the hotel, with the doors shut and the curtains drawn, so nobody could get near us. What we really needed was something different occasionally: perhaps just to sit in reception for an hour or two, sign some autographs for the kids and chat with England supporters. Everybody felt really low but nothing was said about the situation. The other lads had gone and Glenn just expected us to forget about the emotional side of it and act as if nothing had happened. It all felt very strange and, as far as the training went, it seemed to me that most of the players’ minds were on other things that day.

  Through my early months as an England player, Glenn Hoddle had always been really good to me. I enjoyed his coaching – all of us did, I think – and I was proud of what we’d achieved in qualifying for the tournament with him as manager. Why everything changed, and so suddenly, I’ll never know. The first time I got any idea that things weren’t going to turn out like I’d dreamt they might at the World Cup was after a friendly that had been arranged at our training camp in La Baule against a local scratch side, a few days before the start of the tournament. It was all very low key. We lost the game and I’d be the first to admit I didn’t play very well. Then again, nobody did. Nothing was said but I felt then that the manager was being a bit stand-offish towards me. You get that sense, sometimes, from a boss: he’s got the hump with you and you feel uneasy, almost as if you’re being given the cold shoulder. That’s how it felt after that practice game, without it making me think for a moment that I wouldn’t play in our first match of the tournament. I’d played in every game leading up to the World Cup, after all.

  I was wrong. Completely wrong. A couple of days before our opening fixture against Tunisia in Marseille, the manager sat us down, in a circle out on the training ground, to talk about the starting line-up. It seemed strange at the time that he started by saying that he expected players who weren’t picked to still turn up for the press conferences and behave as if the team hadn’t been announced. In a way, that part of Glenn’s approach wasn’t a surprise. He liked playing these guessing games. Before the match against Italy in Rome, I’d been sniffling a bit with a cold. He told the media I was struggling and even got me to leave training ten minutes early to make it seem I was worse than I was. I didn’t want to miss any of the session but he insisted. He thought we’d have an advantage if the Italians weren’t sure who’d be playing. Here in La Baule, though, two days before the start of our World Cup, it was different. I’ve realised since, of course, that the game Glenn was playing this time wasn’t just about keeping the press or the Tunisians guessing. It was about him testing a young player, which definitely made things more difficult for me than they needed to be.

  He announced the team to play against Tunisia: just read the players off a list written down on a piece of paper. I suppose I must have known, deep down, that it was going to happen. Things hadn’t been right for a couple of days. Even so, when my name wasn’t in the eleven, it felt like somebody had hit me in the stomach. I thought I was going to be sick. I even hoped for a split second that I’d just not heard Glenn saying ‘Beckham’. I looked across at Gary Neville. He was looking back at me. Was he surprised, too? Or just watching to see how I might react? Of course it was a blow to my pride and that would always be something you have to be mature enough to overcome. What really knocked me sideways, though, was not having any real understanding of why the manager had made his decision.

  I’ve always tried to have a professional attitude to training. I love it almost as much as I love playing. That morning, though, was a complete waste of time. I felt so low. I was so angry I couldn’t force myself to work properly. Glenn must have been able to see that I wasn’t coping with what I’d been told. I suppose I should have known what would happen next: as soon as we finished the session, he announced who would be taking questions from the press that afternoon. That list, of course, included my name. It was horrible. I’ve never been that good at hiding my emotions. If I’m unhappy or down, people just know. I did that press conference and didn’t say anything out of turn, but it must have been pretty obvious something wasn’t right. A couple of the other players got calls straight afterwards from journalists who were helping them do World Cup diaries for the papers. ‘What’s wrong with David?’ they were asking. ‘Has he been left out of the team?’

  Lots of managers play mind games with the press and with opposing teams. Here, it seemed to me the England manager was playing mind games with one of his own players. That’s what upset me the most. I didn’t realise it there and then, but I wasn’t going to enjoy France 98 from that press conference onwards. I didn’t know which way to turn. I couldn’t even decide who to speak to for support or advice. I called Victoria first. She was shocked and I think, instinctively, she would have told me to leave and come to America straight away, where the Spice Girls were on tour. She didn’t say that, which is probably just as well; I felt so low I might almost have been tempted. Then I talked to Dad. He couldn’t believe it, either, and at least reassured me that I wasn’t over-reacting. He told me it was understandable that I was so upset.

  I realised I had to speak to Glenn. I can still remember standing in the hotel reception, oblivious to everything and everybody around me. Then I saw the manager coming through, on his way out to play golf.

  ‘I have to talk to you about this. Why have you dropped me? I need to know the reason.’

  Glenn looked at me: ‘I don’t think you’re focused.’

  It took me a moment to understand what he’d said.

  ‘How can you think that? How can you think I’m not focused for the biggest football competition in the world? I’m not thinking about anything else. How could I be?’

  It wasn’t until later that I found out what was probably behind it all. The previous week, we’d had a day off to relax, play golf, see our families, and do whatever we wanted. Most of the lads had gone out on the course. I’m not much of a golfer and, anyway, any chance I get I want to be with my family. Victoria flew out to France for the day and the two of us spent our time around the apartment complex swimming, sunbathing and catching up. Glenn didn’t like that. The other players were on the golf course. And I wasn’t. So that meant I wasn’t concentrating on England, as far as he was concerned. They’re all playing golf and he’s with his girlfriend: that can’t be good for team spirit.

  It made no sense to me at all and I still don’t really understand it. If he wanted us all to be together and thought that was so important, then why give us the choice? Maybe it was another chance to test a player, a chance to test me in particular. But why play those mind games with a 23-year-old – or anybody else in the squad, for that matter – especially if the spirit in the camp was something you thought was important?

  As I stood there in the hotel reception, I felt like I’d been cut adrift. I couldn’t let it go.

  ‘Do you know what? I don’t agree with you at all. I’ve not had a very long career but it feels like it’s all been building towards this tournament. How can you think I’d be coming here worrying about anything else? This is the World Cup. That’s how I feel, anyway. I
suppose you’ll do what you want.’

  And Glenn did just that. He was leaving me out of the team and, now, he was hurrying off to play golf. He obviously wasn’t interested in anything I had to say. He didn’t care and, I suppose, didn’t need to. It was a cold, cold moment.

  ‘Well, I just don’t think you’re focused. It’s as simple as that.’

  We travelled to Marseille for that opening game and I found myself not wanting to be there. Of course, the supporter in me wanted to see England do well and I don’t want to sound like I was just being selfish about it all. I can’t pretend, though, that I wasn’t completely devastated about being left out. I have a picture at home of me standing next to the dugout during the Tunisia game and the look on my face says it all: as if I’m about to throw up. I was that disappointed. And embarrassed, too: I felt like I’d failed somehow, and that I’d been shamed by the situation. The World Cup is the biggest thing any footballer can ever be involved in and I found myself wishing that I wasn’t there at all.

  Not being in the team was bad enough. What really killed me was the supposed reason for me being dropped. Was I missing out here because I’d wanted to spend that day with Victoria? As if it was Glenn’s, or anybody else’s, business? Even people who might criticise the way I live my life away from football can see that, once I’m out there playing, nothing gets in the way of my concentration on the game. How could the manager have misjudged me so completely?

  Our next match was against Romania and, because we’d beaten Tunisia, it would have been a surprise to be selected for it. I’d talked to Gary, to my dad and to Alex Ferguson about what had been happening and they’d all been supportive. All of them felt I hadn’t been treated well. I also got the impression from back home that supporters wanted to see the younger players, like me and Michael Owen, given their chance. It gave me a real boost, when the two of us were warming up on the touchline against Romania, to hear the England fans chanting my name. As it happened, Paul Ince got injured after about half an hour and I went on in his place and played pretty well. So did Michael: he scored, even though we lost 2–1 to a goal right at the end.