David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  Now we were standing again, a deal – and the writing – done. He unwrapped the gift we’d brought from England. He gave a little grin:

  ‘I’ll keep this safe until we sign your next contract. Thank you.’

  I grinned. I’d heard almost the same choice of words once before, Alex Ferguson talking to a 14-year-old United hopeful. Here I was now, 28 and England captain, excited and expectant and nervous all over again:

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr President. Thank you. Thanks to everyone. It’s great to be here. I’m really happy.’

  Happy wasn’t the half of it. You can never know how the big moments are going to feel until you’re in them. And it was only now I really understood just how big this particular moment was.

  Back at the Tryp Fenix, we were expected for dinner. It’s the hotel where Real’s players meet up before home games. They’d set up a private dining room downstairs. I’d joined Real Madrid: this evening was to celebrate that with the people who’d made the transfer happen. My team from SFX and a handful of people at the heart of Real as an organisation: our mate, José; Jorge Valdano; Pedro Lopez Jiminez, the President’s right hand man, and his son, Fabio; José Luis Del Valle, the President’s legal advisor. And Victoria. Mrs Beckham looked unbelievably beautiful. Charmed the room, too. Made the blokes she was sitting with think she cared as much about football as they did. Who knows? Maybe, for just that one evening, she did.

  It was a lovely couple of hours. The Madrid people had been great to deal with while we’d hurried through the deal; the guys from our side are always great to deal with: Real hadn’t even bothered employing an agent. I know how tense everybody in that room had been over the past month. This was the time for them to nick the top off a cold beer. No awkwardness, no politics, no pretensions: people who’d come to like and trust each other sitting down to a meal together. Even the formalities weren’t very formal. My agent, Tony, got up to say a few words. A simple toast to great partnerships: me and Victoria and, now, me and Real Madrid. I thanked everybody for all the work they’d done:

  ‘I’ve not dreamed about playing for many football clubs. There’s not a player anywhere, though, who hasn’t dreamt of playing for Real Madrid. Thank you all for making it come true for me.’

  And then, as soon as I sat down, I remembered. Why didn’t I thank the most important person of all? Why didn’t I thank Victoria?

  I’d missed the moment: Jorge Valdano was standing facing us. He started speaking, in Spanish of course. At first, José was translating but, as people started getting swept up in the speech, they started throwing in their own suggestions for what particular words meant in English. It got a little confusing, but the General Manager knew where he was going and ploughed on regardless:

  ‘Three years ago, Florentino Perez ran for the Presidency of Real Madrid. People thought of him as a cold, rational businessman and wondered if he was the right man for the job. He won the election eventually because he did the most passionate, hotheaded, impossible thing that any supporter could imagine: he bought Luis Figo from Barcelona. Senor Perez came to the Presidency with the ambition to make the football club recognised by FIFA as the most renowned of the 20th century the greatest in the 21st. To do this we needed the right players: the best players but also the players who represented football – and Real Madrid – in the best way. Raul was already here. A year after Figo, the President brought Zidane to the Bernabeu. A year after him, Ronaldo. Still, there was an element missing. We believe that you David are the player Real Madrid need to be complete. Because of your ability but also because you can bring with you a football spirit which is epitomised by the captain of England.’

  You could tell from Senor Valdano’s tone and his body language, even without understanding the Spanish, that he was just building up to a big finish. He took a deep breath. And José’s mobile went off: one of those phones which diverts all your calls except the one you really have to answer.

  ‘El Presidente.’

  There was a lot of laughing and joking between José and Senor Perez.

  ‘David, the President wants to tell you he’s very sorry he can’t be here with us tonight but he’s never done it with any of the other big signings. So he doesn’t think it would be the right thing to do this time either.’

  A pause.

  ‘He says: not that you aren’t his favourite, of course.’

  Everybody in the room was laughing now. And shouting into José’s mobile that the President should just come round for a coffee.

  ‘He says: he’s at a birthday party for one of the club’s directors. You could all come round there. It’s not far.’

  Senor Valdano was still standing through most of this, waiting to finish. Just as he got round to sitting back down, the President got round to saying goodbye. He hoped we’d enjoy the evening. Everyone at the table turned back towards Senor Valdano, ready for his punchline. I didn’t need to hear any more: I’d already taken in what he’d said so far and felt honoured enough. He stood up again. You could see him deciding where to pick up his thread. And then deciding that he didn’t need to bother. He laughed. His moment had slipped away too. He risked a little English:

  ‘David and Victoria: Welcome to Madrid.’

  I really felt we were.

  Like I say, though: when do they sleep? There was still time in the evening for me and Victoria to be rushed off to look at two more houses they thought we should see. And there was still time for me to have my early morning moment up on the seventh floor. Tuesday had been all about taking care of business, the private side of me joining Real Madrid. Wednesday’s promise was to present a new signing to the world. Brooklyn made his mind up early: other kids, a swimming pool and a back garden thanks. He and Mum headed off to the house of the parents of someone we’d met the day before. I had two interviews to do: MUTV were in Madrid to give me the chance to say goodbye and thanks to the United supporters who stuck with me, lifted me and celebrated with me during nine years in the first team at Old Trafford; then Real’s TV channel wanted to get my first impressions and, also, my reaction to Roberto Carlos’ statement of delight that, at long last, there’d be two good-looking players at the Bernabeu. Those two interviews, one after the other, were a bittersweet way to spend the morning. It was all very well me finding my answers. Really, I wanted to be asking the questions. I couldn’t help but wonder what fans in Madrid and Manchester thought of how things had turned out.

  Real decided on the basketball arena as the venue for my introduction to the media long before I’d decided on squad number 23. The Pabellon Raimundo Saporta is an enormous, gloomy hangar of a place with a 5000 capacity, part of a training complex they call the Ciudad Deportiva. Our cars squealed in off the main road and swept up a curving drive to the front door. There were dozens of journalist waiting outside and over to my left I glimpsed the pitch where I’d get the chance to kick a ball, a Real player now, in front of Real supporters for the first time. We hurried inside. I know the Spanish are supposed to have a pretty laid back attitude to their timekeeping but this felt like a schedule everyone was dead set on sticking to. I followed the corridor round until I was standing behind some heavy, dark drapes at one end of the gym. It was a bit like waiting for your entrance in the school play: In my mind, I ran through what I wanted to say when I got out on stage.

  Just a couple of minutes before we started, José came up to explain that they’d have somebody doing simultaneous translation when I spoke.

  ‘David, can you make little pauses to give him time to do the Spanish?’

  ‘Well, I’d rather not José. What if I stop and then can’t get myself started again?’

  Making speeches isn’t what I do for a living but I needed to make one here and I needed it to come out sounding right.

  ‘Couldn’t your man just try and keep up with me?’

  There wasn’t time to argue. In the gloom, I shook hands with Senor Perez and was introduced to Alfredo Di Stefano. I’d asked about him at dinne
r the previous evening.

  ‘Is di Stefano the greatest-ever Real Madrid player?’

  ‘No. He’s simply the greatest-ever player.’

  I’ve seen clips in ghostly black and white of di Stefano in action for the Real team that won the European Cup season after season half a century ago. Senor Perez was the Real President: the man standing in front of me was even more important when it came to the spirit of the club. In his seventies now, Senor di Stefano is still strong and commands your respect. You can sense he’s proud of where he’s been and of what he achieved at Real. He seemed to be proud to be here now as well, though: part of the present as much as he’s part of the past. Alfredo di Stefano represents for Real Madrid what Bobby Charlton always has for United.

  A hand reached forward and drew back the curtain. I hadn’t even realised there were speakers near us but now music – an operatic aria – was all me or anyone else could hear, the singers’ voices echoing around the arena. Some entrance. We took a couple of steps up, then walked onto the stage. The floor of the arena in front of us was crowded with photographers, flash guns firing off as we emerged. I could just glimpse people sat in the seats along the two sides of the hall, too. At first, I was doing my best to keep a smile on my face, frozen as it was. I took a deep breath and glanced down to my left where Victoria was sitting with the senior Real Madrid staff in a little cordoned off area. She was looking back up at me, as if to say:

  ‘Go on then. This is it, you know. We’re all watching you.’

  I really was smiling now. Behind me was a cinema screen, huge enough to make me feel about a foot tall down here on the stage. Just for an instant, it felt like Saturday morning at the Pictures, except the film had me in it. Against a burnt yellow background: my head, the club badge, the words Real Madrid. Senor Perez stepped forward. They were going to translate me into Spanish. But there was no one translating him into English for me. They’d never have kept up anyway. It was only later that I got the President’s drift.

  ‘David is a great player, a player who’s been educated in the tradition of sacrificing himself to the team. He comes to the best and most competitive league in the world. We are sure he is technically good enough and a strong enough character to succeed.’

  Now, Alfredo di Stefano stepped forward with a Madrid team shirt in his hands. We shook hands, photographers calling out:

  ‘Over here, David! Aqui, aqui – por favor – Senors!’

  We held the shirt out in front of us:

  ‘Turn it round, turn it round!’

  On the back: 23 with ‘Beckham’ over the numerals. Nobody knew, outside the club, what my squad number was going to be. I’d thought long and hard about which number to choose from the ones that weren’t already being worn by the other players. Even Real themselves hadn’t found out until late the previous night, when I’d finally made up my mind.

  There was a sudden burst of shutters clicking on a couple of hundred cameras. I could hear voices out in the hall:

  ‘Veinte y tres.’

  Twenty three. Then, a moment later:

  ‘Michael Jordan. Michael Jordan.’

  He’s not just a hero for me, then. It was my turn now. I stepped forward to the mike. I’d gone over the few words I wanted to say again and again. I didn’t want to be holding a piece of paper. I didn’t want to be wondering what to say next. More first impressions were at stake here. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Gracias. Senor Perez, Senor di Stefano, ladies and gentlemen…’

  I left a split second for the translator to do his stuff. At first his microphone didn’t seem to be working properly. I waited. And while I waited my mind went blank. Suddenly I was aware of the forest of cameras out in front of me, people around the hall craning heads in my direction. I’m glad I’ve learnt to trust myself. I opened my mouth and the rest of it came.

  ‘I have always loved football. Of course I love my family…’

  I looked down towards Victoria again: too right I love them:

  ‘And I have a wonderful life. But football is everything to me. To play for Real is a dream come true. Thank you to everyone for being here to share my arrival. Gracias.’

  I held the shirt – my new shirt – up in front of me.

  ‘Hala Madrid!’

  The other directors of the club came over for the team photos and then Senor Perez led us offstage and back through the corridors to a room at the far end of the building. There was a table laid out with tapas and little biscuits and soft drinks. There’s a room a bit like it at every football club: a sloping ceiling and bench seats around the walls. They’d tidied this one up a bit, though. Then, I was taken through a door at the far end that led off into the changing rooms: not quite as imposing as the ones at the Bernabeu yesterday. Lines of lockers which you needed your own little padlock for. Benches in rows so close together you’d have struggled to sit opposite a team-mate after a game. The showers and toilets off to one side. Anybody who’s ever played football has been in those changing rooms. They were in better nick, but otherwise they might as well have been the changing rooms at Wadham Lodge where me and Dad spent so many evenings practicing free kicks when I was a boy.

  I had a new pair of boots that Adidas had delivered for the occasion. A full Real strip hung on the back of a door waiting for me. I was alone, voices down at the end of the row of benches, people waiting behind lockers for me, but nobody in my line of view. I took my time getting changed, folded my clothes on top of the bench next to me, and stood up. At the end of the row of lockers, just by the doorway out to the training pitch, was a full-length mirror. I stood in front of it and pulled my shoulders back, tucked my shirt into my shorts again and folded down the tops of my socks. That all-white of Real makes you look big. Makes you feel big. I remember actually muttering, even though there was no-one to hear me:

  ‘Now this is a proper football kit, isn’t it?’

  I looked the bloke in the mirror up and down. Alone for the first time since we’d arrived in Spain, it felt for that minute or two like I was looking into my future. I got a rush of satisfaction. Then, anticipation; nerves stood on end:

  ‘Shall we go, then?’

  A couple of security guards and Simon and Andy, from SFX, came through the changing room and we walked across to Numero 2: a training pitch with low stands on one side and at one end, both crammed with supporters. It took a moment for my eyes to focus, stepping outside into bright sunshine again. I ran through the gap in the fence and a couple of footballs were chucked out towards me. I know I play for a living. Controlling a ball, keeping it up in the air, the odd trick: it’s all second nature. Out on a patch of grass, though, in front of a couple of thousand supporters who are thinking: show us? It felt a bit lonely out there, to be honest, even though the reception I got from the madridistas was all I could have hoped for: families everywhere, cheering and waving. I waved back. The photographers got their shots of David Beckham in a Real kit for the very first time.

  How long was I going to be out here? What else did we need to do? I kicked a ball up into the crowd behind the goal. I peered up into the stand in front of me, trying to see who’d caught it. Trying to get a clue as to how these same fans would take to me when I ran out at the Bernabeu, alongside the galacticos, for a game. I knew I’d be back in Madrid to start work on 24 July. The whirl of the last 24 hours suddenly rushed to a full stop. The significance of what had happened today and yesterday swept over me, filled my chest like a blast of pure oxygen. It felt fantastic.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, while the security guards followed my line of sight up into the crowd, I saw a figure away to my left. Darting out from behind the metal frame of a floodlight pylon. A lad – eleven, twelve – tanned, black hair stood on end, a bare chest and wearing a pair of jean shorts and some battered trainers. And he was haring towards me. I think I saw him before anybody else did. There were shouts of surprise from the crowd. The security people swivelled and looked towards me. Too late: the bo
y – named Alfonso, I found out later – was stood a couple of feet away from me. It was a shock but there wasn’t anything about him to make me step back. His eyes were wide open, pleading, like he wanted something from me without knowing what. My instinct was to just hold my arms out towards him. He didn’t need a second invitation: he just jumped at me, laughing. I caught him and held on, almost as tightly as he did. I waved away the security guys: this was just a boy who’d taken his chance. I managed to prize him off me long enough to motion over to Simon and Andy, who were in front of the other stand:

  ‘A shirt. I need another shirt.’

  We walked across and met them halfway. I tried to give the shirt to him but Alfonso just stood in front of me, tears in his eyes now. He raised his arms at either side. I dropped the shirt over his head. This was like some weird kind of ceremony going on here. I was just half-aware that people around the ground were cheering and whistling. He pushed his arms through and the shirt settled on him, almost down to his knees. He looked up at me. His eyes were like a mirror: happiness, fear, awe, the wonder of the impossible having happened. I put my hand to his face: Oh, I know how you feel.

  Alfonso had just made a bit of a name for himself at Real. Soon, it’d be time for me to do exactly the same.

  16

  Futbol, La Vida

  ‘You score two goals, we’ll score four.’

  I took a knock or two during my first year in Madrid. If I’d known what lay ahead, I might have chosen somewhere else to be sitting than on the physio’s bed – in the dressing rooms at the old Ciudad Deportiva – while I waited to meet my Real Madrid team-mates for the very first time. It’s the same at any training ground: the medical room often doubles as a bit of a social club. As well as players getting treatment, you’ll often find a group of lads gathered there, chatting while they’re waiting for something to happen. Now, in mid-July 2003, we were checking in for a long flight east. No sooner had I landed back in Madrid, it was time to head off for pre-season training on the other side of the world. New boy at the big school, I’d made sure that I wasn’t going to be late. Being first one there didn’t do much for my nerves, though.