David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  ‘I’ll call you straight back.’

  The first person I spoke to was Gary Neville. Without even thinking about it, his reaction was:

  ‘You’ve got to tell the manager. Go and see Kevin.’

  I made my way through the hotel to his room. I knocked on the door and went in. I’m sure Kevin could see for himself something was wrong. I was shaking; I felt sick. I could hardly find the breath for it but I told him what had happened. The first thing Kevin did was let me know he understood what I felt like which, when you’ve lost control like I had, is the first thing you need to hear.

  ‘David, I’ve been in a situation like this. When I was playing in Germany, me and my wife had death threats made against us. I know this is horrible. We need to go to where your wife and son are. We’ll go together. We’ll sort this out.’

  It was ten o’clock at night by now. In minutes, we were outside the hotel in a car – me, Kevin and Ray Whitworth, England’s team security officer – and I was calling Victoria to tell her we were on our way. We drove to Tony and Jackie’s. As soon as we walked in, although he’d never met Victoria or her parents, Kevin took control of the situation. He knew me and could see for himself the state Victoria was in: we needed him to be calm and know the right thing to do.

  ‘The best place to be is our hotel. We’ve got the whole place booked to ourselves. We’ve our own security. Nobody’s getting in. Pack a bag. Get Brooklyn. David and I will go back now, sort the rooms out, and we’ll meet you there as soon as you’re ready.’

  Tony and Jackie came, too. Kevin had been just brilliant when we needed him most. He’d done it all without even thinking twice about it, even though there was a game the following afternoon. Never mind his qualities as a manager. This was Kevin doing his best for us just because he could, not because he felt he had to. I’ll never forget his attitude to that situation that night: none of us could have been in surer, safer hands than Kevin’s. We had a good relationship before it happened and, obviously, we still do now. He would have done what he did, though, for any of the England players. In fact I really believe that, if Kevin had found himself in those same circumstances and able to help, he’d have done what he did for anybody at all. He’s a great man.

  Victoria and Brooklyn slept in my room. The next morning, all Kevin was concerned about was what I felt I should do.

  ‘David, I understand what you went through last night. If you want to play, that’s great: I want you to. If you don’t feel sure about it, that’s fine too. I want you to make your own mind up. You know how you feel. Do whatever you think is right.’

  I played and we beat Luxembourg 6–0. That meant the game in Poland in the week would decide our fate in the qualifiers. It was a huge game and Kevin was under all sorts of pressure to get the right result. Even so, on the Sunday night before we left, we had the same conversation again.

  ‘If you need to be close by your family, don’t worry. You don’t have to come over there with us. You can stay here if you need to and look after Victoria and Brooklyn.’

  I sat down with Victoria and asked what she thought would be best. My instinct was to stay but she saw the situation for what it was.

  ‘We’ll be all right. We’ve got people to look out for us now. This is your job. It’s England. You should go.’

  I did; and Victoria was right. It was what I needed to do, even though the game in Warsaw was horrible and ended up being a 0–0 draw. It meant we had to wait a couple of months for the result of a Sweden game, when they beat Poland at home, before we knew we’d made it through to that play-off against the Scots.

  By Christmas 1999, things had been decided and, even though it hadn’t been spectacular, England would be going to the European Championships the following summer. New Year 2000, meanwhile, and United were heading off to the other side of the world. As European Cup holders, the club were asked to participate in the first-ever FIFA World Club Championships in Brazil. No question that it was an honour, good for United and good for the reputation of English club football. The catch was that it was scheduled to take place in Brazil in January. Beforehand, the whole thing turned into a storm, especially when the news broke that, because we’d be out of the country on the weekend of the third round games, the FA had decided to let United miss the whole of the 1999/2000 season’s FA Cup.

  It was an argument in which everybody in football wanted to have a say. Everyone knows that the FA Cup is a fantastic tournament, the oldest knockout competition in the world. It was said that because United, as the holders, weren’t going to be in it, all its tradition and credibility were going to go out the window. It was special treatment for one club at the expense of everybody else. Sometimes it felt like the issue was just being used as an excuse to have a pop at United. I don’t see we could have done anything else in the circumstances. I think everybody knew we had to go. Even if the new tournament was an inconvenience, it was a world event – a FIFA competition – and to knock it back wouldn’t just have damaged us. It would have damaged English football.

  To be honest, it was something we talked about in the United dressing room as much as everyone else did outside Old Trafford. We were looking forward to going to Brazil, looking forward to playing clubs from all over the world. But nobody was happy about missing out on the FA Cup. Think back to that semi-final against Arsenal the previous season and the final against Newcastle: those games, and that competition, meant so much to us. It didn’t feel right not to defend the trophy. Perhaps we could have been given a bye through to the fourth round while we were away and then joined in when we came back, I don’t know. That was for the FA and the club to sort out. When it came down to it, it wasn’t up to us: it had been decided, we were going, and that was that. You grow up with the routine of the English football season and, just at the time you’re usually getting ready for giant-killings, heavy pitches and the worst of the weather, we were headed off to sunshine, beaches and 100-degree heat.

  I don’t know about anybody else, but I don’t regret the experience at all. Despite what happened to me personally and despite the fact that the tournament itself has been long forgotten about since, I wouldn’t have missed it. For a start, it did us a lot of good as a team, being away together for that length of time and getting recharged for the rest of the season back home. We’d have won the Premiership anyway, I think, but we did come back from Brazil in pretty good nick. And with half-decent tans as well. As things turned out, it really was like a holiday for me. I got sent off in our first game, against Necaxa of Mexico, which meant I missed the next one and then played just twenty minutes of the last one, against South Melbourne, by which time we were already out of the tournament.

  It was a horrible feeling, getting a red card for the first time as a United player. I went into a challenge for a high, bouncing ball just near the halfway line. I didn’t go into the tackle with any intention other than winning the ball, so when the ref said I was off I was shocked more than anything else. I’ve seen it on video since and I must admit that, on telly, it looked a bad challenge. I didn’t think it was, though, and I was relieved that the gaffer didn’t either. He was really angry after the game: not with me but with the match officials. I think the way their player reacted had a lot to do with why I was sent off. I probably should have been more aware that we were in South America and that, perhaps, things weren’t quite the same over there. I was absolutely crushed by it that evening, although I have to admit that, within a few days, lounging by the pool while the rest of the lads were confined to their hotel rooms before the game against Vasco da Gama, I didn’t feel quite so disappointed about how things had worked out.

  Being in Brazil was fantastic. I remember one evening wandering down to Copacabana Beach on my own. You hear about it but it’s beyond anything you’d ever imagine without being there. The beach just stretched away for what seemed like miles. There were goalposts and little sets of floodlights planted along the whole length of it. And, as far as the eye could see, kid
s – thousands of them – out playing football on the sand. No wonder Brazil are world champions. All these youngsters were either playing games or doing tricks, like keepie-uppy and head tennis or showing off flicks and turns in twos and threes. The level of natural ability was unbelievable. A couple of them recognised me and asked me to take some free-kicks while their mates went in goal. If football’s got a soul, that’s where it lives: on that beach. I’ll never forget my evening out there with those kids.

  Brazil in January was hot. Great weather for a holiday or a walk by the sea at night. But for playing competitive football? I think it was a lesson for all of us. People laugh about the English going abroad, what we’re like in the sun. When it came to United in Rio at the World Club Championship, the jokes weren’t far wrong. The first time we arrived at the Maracana stadium, we were already sweating from the walk from the coach to the front door. We walked into the changing room and I remember some of the lads were actually in the middle of a conversation about how hot it was. Next thing, everybody’s gone quiet. Standing there in the middle of the room were seven beds with oxygen masks hanging down. I don’t think any of us knew what to say. What were we in for here?

  When we went out to warm up – is that the right phrase, at one o’clock in the afternoon and in temperatures of over 100 degrees? – Albert Morgan, the United kit man, had fitted us out in our regular gear. The Mexicans were jogging around in vests. We ran out wearing black training tops, all trying to head for the tiny patches of shade by the touchlines under the stands. Albert’s great, but we gave him stick about that afternoon for a long time afterwards. None of us will ever forget those thirteen days in Brazil. It was an honour to play for the club there and to meet some of the people: the kids on Copacabana Beach and other youngsters, in youth projects up in the favelas, the slums, that we visited while we were in Rio, representing United and enjoying the privilege of learning about other people’s lives for ourselves.

  We came back feeling great. As good a time as I’d had, I couldn’t wait to see Victoria and Brooklyn. I couldn’t wait to get back to some mud, wind and rain either, to get on with the rest of the season. We might not have had the FA Cup to look forward to but, while we’d been away, no other team had been able to catch up on our lead: the Premiership was there to be won. And we were still in the Champions League. The first game back was against Arsenal at Old Trafford and they almost caught us cold. We ended up drawing 1–1, though, and it was a game they maybe needed to win more than we did. From then on, it felt like we were just picking up where we’d left off. I was so relaxed and enjoying my football so much, why would I have stopped to think what might upset the roll we were on? There was a kind of ambush waiting for me, of course, but I’d not have been any better prepared for dealing with it even if I’d somehow seen it coming.

  On Saturday 12 February we took a 3–0 hiding at Newcastle. That didn’t help the gaffer’s – or anybody else’s – mood over the following week, as we built up to another big game that weekend, away to Leeds. As with players at most clubs when there’s not a midweek game, we were given some time off: I was down at the house in London, planning to drive back on the Wednesday night for training on Thursday morning. During the day, Brooklyn was really unwell. With a first child, maybe there’s an extra intensity to your feelings about things because you don’t recognise symptoms: everything to do with being a parent is new, after all. Maybe now, with Romeo, I’d not have worried like I did back then. By around seven that Wednesday evening, though, Brooklyn was running a fever and had gone all floppy. I was holding him in my lap and just getting no reaction from him. We didn’t know what was going on: any mum or dad will know how scary that is. By the time the doctor had been and told us Brooklyn had gastro-enteritis, I’d already made the decision to stay at home for the night and get driven to Manchester early the following morning.

  Brooklyn was so rough and I hated seeing him like that. When we eventually got him off to sleep – who knows what time of the night it was by then? – I stayed in his room and slept for a few hours on the bed next to his cot. I woke up and got away by six the next morning: the plan was I’d be able to sleep a bit more in the back of the car on the drive north. But I couldn’t get my boy out of my mind: how sick he’d been and how wrong it felt to be leaving him and Victoria behind. Victoria had said I should go, that Brooklyn would be fine, but all my instincts were telling me that my place was at home with them, at least until I knew for sure Brooklyn was going to be all right. I needed to see an improvement in him for myself. Twenty minutes up the motorway, I asked the driver to turn round. And, to be honest, even if I’d known what the consequences were going to be, I’d still have made that same decision.

  I rang United to try and speak to Steve McClaren. I’d only ever missed one day of training before in nine years as a pro and was sure that, if I explained, the club would understand. I couldn’t get through to Steve so I left a message:

  ‘Brooklyn’s really struggling. Is it all right if I don’t come in? I think I should stay with him.’

  No one called back.

  In hindsight, the one thing I should have said on that message was that I was calling from London, as opposed to Manchester. The tension between me and the gaffer over my family life, though, made me guess that just mentioning London would have been enough, on its own, to infuriate him. By ten, Brooklyn had woken up and was obviously much better. Within an hour I was back in the car, on my way to Manchester. I rang Steve and got through to him. It was about midday, when the lads finished training, and I asked him if I should come into Carrington that afternoon to do some work on my own. Steve told me I didn’t need to:

  ‘But, David, I should tell you: the manager’s not happy.’

  I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong but, of course, now on the phone to Steve wasn’t the time to talk about that. I thought, anyway, that by the following morning everything would have smoothed itself out. I was wrong.

  I got into training on the Friday morning and Steve McClaren told me the boss was angry and wanted me to go and see him. I got on with training, assuming I’d talk to the gaffer afterwards. Instead, while we were in the middle of a possession routine, he came storming over, said something to Steve and then shouted at me:

  ‘Beckham. Here. I want a word.’

  Suddenly, I’m in the middle of a row with the Manchester United manager in front of the entire first-team squad. I tried to stand my ground but the boss wasn’t having any of it:

  ‘Go and train with the reserves.’

  In front of the other lads, that was a huge insult: a huge blow to anyone’s self-esteem, especially someone who didn’t think he’d done anything to provoke it. I refused and said I’d go back inside the Carrington complex. I walked back across the training pitches, went to the changing room, got dressed and walked out to my car. Something made me stop, though. It’s a big game on Saturday. Don’t make things worse. Be professional about this.

  I went back inside, got changed again and went into the gym to work on my own. After about half an hour, Roy Keane came through on his way back to the dressing room. I wasn’t sure what was going on or how I should be reacting. I asked Roy what he thought I should do. He said it straight out:

  ‘You should go and talk to the manager.’

  It was what Roy would have done himself. I should have ignored his advice. I went to the gaffer’s office, knocked on the door and walked into the biggest dressing down I’ve ever had in my career. As he saw it, I had my priorities all wrong. I apologised for feeling how I did about the situation but I didn’t back down.

  ‘It’s not that I didn’t want to be here at work but, as I see it, my first priority has to be my family. My son was ill and that’s why I missed training.’

  The boss thought differently:

  ‘Your responsibilities are here at the club, not at home with your son.’

  Don’t get me wrong: I could see the gaffer’s point of view, with the whole club to think about
at an important time in the season, even if I didn’t agree with him. What really tipped a big argument over into becoming a blazing row was a photo in that day’s papers of Victoria at a charity function on the Thursday night: the evening after the morning I’d missed training. By tea-time, Brooklyn had been back to his usual self and Victoria had decided, while he slept, to honour a long-standing commitment which meant her being away from the house for a couple of hours. That wasn’t how the boss saw it, though:

  ‘You were babysitting while your wife was out gallivanting.’

  That word: gallivanting. It was the sneering tone I thought came with it that made me flip:

  ‘Don’t talk about my wife like that. How would you feel if I was disrespectful like that about your wife?’

  I should have waited before going to see him. I’d expected him to be angry with me. I hadn’t expected that I’d lose my temper as well. He told me not to report for the Leeds game, not to meet up with the rest of the team.

  I went back downstairs, got changed again and left. I couldn’t believe that the boss would leave me out at Elland Road because of all this. But that’s exactly what he did. I turned up later in the day as I usually would have done, hoping things would blow over. I travelled with everyone to Leeds overnight and the boss announced the team – without me in it – at the hotel the following morning. When we got to the ground he announced the substitutes: I wasn’t even on the bench. By then, the whole thing had come out in the papers and there were photographs of me sitting in the stands that afternoon, watching us win 1–0. Thinking back, it seemed as if the publicity surrounding the situation was what really wound things up. I just wonder whether it was the pictures of me coming away from the training ground that Friday, and the stories that came out with them, which forced the gaffer’s hand and made him follow through with the threat to drop me. Might things have been different if the whole business had been taken care of in private?