David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  I was glad to be around the other players who weren’t bothered about anything but starting the tournament. Picking up on everybody else’s excitement made me feel more positive about what I had to do. I don’t know if it was being captain that made me feel older; or being conscious of the experience I had now, four years on from France 98. I liked watching the younger England players: they were excited about the build-up, the new suits, the kit, the attention and everything. But as far as the football was concerned, the World Cup for them just meant more big games to look forward to. They weren’t scared of anything and that kept them very relaxed. It was the likes of me and Michael Owen, Gareth Southgate, Martin Keown and Dave Seaman who’d been there before and understood just how big a World Cup was and how much was at stake for us all.

  The week in Dubai gave the players some time to rest after a season at home that had only just finished. It didn’t seem long before I was saying goodbye to Victoria and Brooklyn and travelling east with the squad. There was going to be so much travelling during the World Cup itself that we decided it would be too much for our families. We were going to be based in Japan for the tournament but we stopped off in South Korea for the first of two warm-up friendlies. We checked into our hotel and you could see the change of mood on the players’ faces. We were here now. This was where the World Cup was going to take place. That first match was a good jolt for us, as we only drew 1–1 with the Koreans in Seogwipo. We experimented with a few things and nobody was at it full pelt, but it was obvious South Korea could play; and they were incredibly fit. Which was more than could be said for me. I wasn’t even close, eleven days before our first proper game.

  Sven had taken on this Dutchman, Richard Smith, as one of four masseurs who travelled with the squad to Japan. Somebody stuck up a card on Richard’s door that read ‘HOUSE OF PAIN’. They weren’t far wrong. Richard would work deep, deep into where your injury was. I can’t describe what it felt like. It just made your guts turn over it hurt so much. But it worked. Thanks to Richard I got there in the end and, later, Michael Owen made the Brazil game because of him working on his groin injury the day before.

  Our other friendly was in Japan against Cameroon the following Sunday. Although I couldn’t play, the medical team thought I needed the boost of being involved with the rest of the lads so I led the team out for the warm-up. It was a decent game to watch despite the players holding back in challenges, for obvious reasons, and the final score was 2–2. That afternoon, I found myself thinking back to my lowest point in the whole rehabilitation process. Quite soon after the injury happened, England had a friendly against Paraguay at Anfield. The squad met up at a hotel in Cheshire and Sven invited me along. He wanted me to be part of our build-up because he believed all along I was going to play in Japan. I got there for dinner and it was good to see all the other lads but, at that stage, I was still on crutches most of the time. The next morning, when the squad went off to train, I found myself sitting on my own at the hotel, watching daytime television. For those couple of hours, I was really down. If I couldn’t even get along to watch training, never mind be part of it, what chance did I have? Now, here I was, within touching distance. But I still wasn’t sure. Was I days away from all that rehab work paying off? Or days away from a disappointment that I just couldn’t imagine myself having to face?

  The opening game against Sweden in Saitama was still a week away. Sven didn’t push me. He wanted to give me as long as possible. But he couldn’t afford for that to interfere with preparing the rest of the team. With a longer-term injury, the doctors will always set you weekly targets. That’s partly so they can make sure you push yourself on to the next stage, whether that’s running on hard ground or twisting and turning or hitting a ball with full force. But it’s also to make sure a player doesn’t get depressed by focusing too far ahead. Psychologically, the secret is to concentrate on what you’re doing from day to day. Now, though, I’d reached the point of no return. Would I be able to take part in a competitive game by the end of the week? Sven knew – and I knew – that the time had come when a decision had to be made. If I couldn’t join in full training in the days before the game then, obviously, playing was out of the question. I know the medical team were confident about my foot but not so sure about my overall fitness: I’d been out a long time. The decision was the manager’s to make. Wednesday arrived, the very last day he could afford for me not to be working with everybody else. I’d known all along that Sven would want to take a chance on me as long as the odds were in mine, and England’s, favour. He knew that I hadn’t come this far or worked this hard to duck out at the end of it. Even if I didn’t feel one hundred percent, I was sure I could make it. After breakfast, Sven asked me the question:

  ‘Well, are you fit?’

  He knew the answer and I didn’t pick up any trace of doubt or tension in his voice. He wanted to hear it from me and to know I was confident. It crossed my mind that, if I’d broken my foot in a Premiership game the following weekend rather than against Deportivo in midweek, me and the England manager wouldn’t have been having this conversation. It was that close. I gulped a little air and tried to keep it as short and nerveless as Sven had done.

  ‘I’m fit.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  The first session with the rest of the boys was difficult. I’d been working really hard, running and kicking a ball. This was the first time I’d had to risk physical contact. I should have seen it coming: as soon as we were into a game, the first crunching challenge came in from Martin Keown – who else? He didn’t actually make contact with the injury: it was a clump across the back of the legs. I couldn’t help the instinctive reaction. I tumbled over, expecting the worst: angry at Martin, angry at Aldo Duscher, angry at everything. It took a second to realise that, for the first time in a couple of months, somewhere else was actually hurting worse than my foot. Pain’s never given me so much pleasure. Like I say, I should have been waiting for him. Martin will always be the one to test you: he’ll whack you, challenge you to be up to it, find out if you’ve got the nerve. He knew and I knew that, come Sunday, there’d be someone ready to do the same thing he had just done. The difference would be that if a Swedish player did it, it would be in the hope that I wouldn’t get up again. Here, I scraped myself off the floor and carried on. If I could survive Martin, I could probably survive anybody. The foot was really sore even before we’d finished the session, but I was just pleased to have got through it. Working with the other lads lifted me for the rest of the week.

  It was a great squad to be part of, especially once we arrived in Japan and the players started looking forward to getting on with the tournament. The atmosphere amongst the group we had out in Japan was special. What was going on outside the camp, though? I don’t think any of us had ever seen anything like it. It started the moment we got off the plane in Tokyo: walking out through the terminal was unbelievable. There were thousands of Japanese waiting to meet us: mums, dads, children and teenagers, who’d made England their team for the tournament. They were wearing our shirts. It was almost like a pop concert, with fans waving, shouting, pushing forward, and the police struggling to hold them back. As we climbed onto the coach, I caught one old lady out of the corner of my eye: well into her seventies, I’d say, with snow-white hair and a bright red stripe dyed through it. Parents were holding their children up above the bobbing heads. These kids were too young to have a clue who I was, but lots of them had copied my haircut: the blonde streak and the mohican. And had the number 7 on their shirts. It was chaotic, but in a polite way that’s maybe characteristic of the Japanese. They were excited to see us, so positive about the team and about the English. I think their attitude had a lot to do with why there weren’t any crowd problems during the World Cup, even though people had been worrying about trouble happening for months leading up to the tournament. Instead, it turned out the people there had a real passion for football and loved being with the English: we’re passionate about the
game in the same way. And it wasn’t just the players who were welcome. Our supporters were too and, credit to them, England fans made the effort in return. That spirit is what World Cups should be about.

  For a player, of course, the World Cup is all about playing. Leading England out at the stadium in Saitama, for our first game of the 2002 tournament against Sweden, will always be one of the proudest moments of my whole career. The setting, the occasion and the privilege of being at the head of the line as captain of your country at a World Cup: my heart was beating out of my chest. It’s a schoolboy’s dream but it’s the kind of dream you don’t dare have. And here it was, happening. The atmosphere was terrific. One corner with a few thousand Sweden fans; the rest of the stadium red and white, our own supporters and the Japanese who’d decided to make England their team. Fractured metatarsal? So what? I could never have allowed myself to miss this.

  Pity the game wasn’t as intense as the build-up. We played some good football, especially early on, but somehow the game didn’t feel like it could decide where it was going. There weren’t many chances. Where were the big tackles and the confrontations? You couldn’t honestly say you saw it coming but, 25 minutes in, we got the first goal. I took a corner on the left and Sol Campbell arrived and got a perfect header in. Sol went running off towards the other corner flag to celebrate. I was just going mad on my own, as if it was me who’d scored. I turned round and put my arms up in the direction of the Swedish supporters, who’d been giving me plenty of stick. They were still laughing. Maybe they knew that their time would come.

  Scoring’s one thing. Setting a goal up for someone else is a fantastic feeling as well and, that night, I was so pleased it was Sol who got it. We go back fifteen years together, to training with Tottenham as schoolboys, and he doesn’t score many. Against Argentina at France 98, in extra-time when we were down to ten men, he’d had one disallowed which, if it had stood, would probably have won us the game. Now, he’d kicked us off in 2002. The trouble was, we didn’t push on from that. We were ahead but we were cautious, tense, sitting back on the lead. And then in the second half, we lost our shape. We didn’t keep the ball. Our passing was all over the place. And Sweden kept on coming at us. Unlike our goal in the first half, you could see theirs was due. We just lost concentration, as a team, at the wrong moment and gifted them their equaliser. When a rushed clearance from Danny Mills was blasted into the net by Niclas Alexandersson, it would have been easy for people to blame the Leeds defender for the goal. I didn’t think it was his fault. There were two or three other mistakes in the build-up as well. I made a point of getting near him.

  ‘Come on, Danny. Let’s keep going.’

  A couple of minutes later, Sven took me off. It was my first game since Deportivo at Old Trafford and, to be honest, I was feeling it. The foot was sore but it was more about match fitness. Early in the second half, I’d been thinking: what’s happened to my legs? I’m sure Sven could see me puffing a bit and knew we had other games ahead of us and that was why he brought on Kieron Dyer. Even so, I wasn’t happy about being substituted. It was the first time I’d ever felt angry about one of Mr Eriksson’s decisions. Watching from the bench, I got more and more frustrated as the game drifted away to a draw.

  The 1–1 scoreline wasn’t a disaster for the first match of a major tournament, but we were really disappointed with our performance. I think that was why we didn’t go over and thank the England fans inside the stadium after the final whistle. We were criticised for that in the papers the next day and accused of snubbing our fans, but that wasn’t true. We’d had fantastic support and I think the players disappeared into the changing room because we felt we hadn’t lived up to it. What we did all realise afterwards was that, whatever the reason, not applauding our own fans was a mistake. As captain, maybe it was down to me to give the lead, even though I’d been on the bench. All the players talked about it together the following day and we promised ourselves and the supporters that, in future, we’d make sure we recognised them being there and behind us.

  Back in the changing room, it felt like we’d lost. I couldn’t remember having seen this England team so flat. Even the England masseurs, Terry Byrne, Steve Slattery and Rod Thornley, couldn’t lift the players that afternoon. It was the first time I’d seen Sven really try to shake players out of a mood.

  ‘We’ve got two big games ahead of us. Don’t even think about letting yourselves get depressed about today. It’s not a problem. We’ve drawn 1–1. We didn’t lose, did we? Come on. What’s wrong with you, lads?’

  I’d not been in the best of moods myself, partly because I was still annoyed about the manager having taken me off. I hadn’t expected that at all. I listened to Sven in the changing room, though, and realised that, as captain, I should be doing what I could to be positive. It was still a pretty miserable evening. We’d all been building up to the World Cup Finals and the players were really down about having let our first game slip away.

  The next day we had no choice but to forget about Sweden. We had four days to get ourselves ready for what was always going to be the biggest game in the group. Now, it was a game we really needed to win. One of the best things about Sven-Goran Eriksson as a manager is his ability to judge what players need at any particular time. He says the right things to have each individual in the right frame of mind for a game. Just as important is that he always seems to know exactly what we need physically as well. Between games, in a situation like a World Cup, he works hard when the team will benefit from that but he’ll ease up in training sessions if our bodies aren’t up to it. He wasn’t going to ‘punish’ us with a schedule because we hadn’t played well against Sweden. He and Steve McClaren just built us up slowly towards Friday night’s game against Argentina in Sapporo.

  That week, we even got a little break from the kind of strict diet that’s part of being in a training camp these days. I have to own up: it was the best idea I had all summer. We’d been away from England – and away from fast food – for three weeks already. And I was starting to miss the occasional burger and fries. I assumed there’d be a few of the other lads feeling the same way. I talked to Sven, who thought it wouldn’t do any harm, and then had a word with the England chefs. On the Wednesday night we all trooped down to dinner. The doors of the dining room were shut and there were two giant golden arches stuck up on them. We all went inside and there was a McDonald’s takeaway mountain waiting for us: more burgers, cheeseburgers and chips than you’ve ever seen piled up in one room in your life. It was a complete surprise to all the players. We just devoured everything: it was like watching kids going mad in a sweetshop. And it worked. We did it again before we played Denmark. Maybe fast food was what was missing from our preparations for facing Brazil.

  With England, we always do a lot of work on the other team. It’s the job of Dave Sexton, a United manager back in the seventies, to talk us through our next opponents. He’ll discuss each player in a twenty-odd man squad. Then he’ll show us a video, the equivalent of Playercam when you watch games on Sky Sports, which picks out that player: this is what he does when they’re attacking; this is what he does when they’re defending. Dave will then explain exactly what he thinks we should be doing to counter what that player can do. It’s almost like planning a military operation. Carlos Queiroz brought a lot of the same ideas into our preparation at United during my last season at Old Trafford. That kind of work with players is being done more and more in football. Everybody seems to have the latest technology now. Instinctively, I’m a bit old school. I’d just like to go out and play. But I understand the importance of knowing your opponents’ strengths and weaknesses inside out. A tiny advantage is often all you need to win a football match at the top level.

  It goes without saying: we couldn’t wait for Argentina. The prospect of the next match was what shook us out of the depression after the draw with Sweden. I really admired how the lads prepared themselves for a game against the World Cup favourites. Self-belief is such
an important element in football. Argentina were one of the best teams in the tournament. Every England player went into the match convinced we were going to beat them. There was that strength of mind in every individual, and through the team as a whole. In hindsight, the draw against Sweden had made it simpler for us: we went out on the Friday night knowing we had to get a result.

  England vs Argentina is one of world football’s great fixtures. It had been a huge game back at France 98. Because of what happened in Saint-Etienne, the build up to Sapporo in 2002 was even more intense. All the hype beforehand was about England – and the England captain, in particular – getting the chance to settle a score: the papers had been talking about ‘revenge’ and ‘destiny’ and ‘Beckham’ ever since the draw had been made. Half the players on both teams had been involved in the game four years before. On the Argentina side, that included Seba Veron who’d become a team-mate at United in the meantime. Whenever I see the pictures of my sending off in France 98, I can see Seba urging the ref to show me the red card. We never had a serious conversation about that incident: it had nothing to do with us playing together for United, after all. But we did joke about the rivalry between our countries: team days out always seemed to include me and the other England players singing ‘Ar-gen-tina’ and him singing ‘In-ger-land’ back. I saw Seba before the game in Sapporo and it was still relaxed and friendly between us. He started trying to wind me up:

  ‘You must be very tired, David. I bet your foot’s been really hurting you.’

  ‘No, I got a rest at the end of the season, didn’t I? I’ve never felt so fit in my life.’

  I’d been fighting the nerves a little; natural enough when memories of four years ago kept flooding back into my mind. I couldn’t help it. Every question I was asked, every conversation I had, with the press and with England supporters, seemed to be about Simeone, about a red card and, now, about having the chance to put things right. I was still worried about the metatarsal, too. It felt fine but I didn’t like the look of the pitch and how it might play in the humidity of a stadium with a roof. I’d fretted about what boots to wear. Long studs would have stuck in the turf, which might have hurt my foot over the course of ninety minutes even though I’d have better traction. In the end, I settled on a moulded sole.