Beckham

by David Beckham

  Two cup finals in a week: I was happy, of course. It meant two new suits. I think Gary Neville organized things with Prada—blue suits, white shirts, blue ties, not bad at all—for Wembley on the Saturday. For the European Cup Final I wanted us to have something really special and volunteered to sort it out. My only instruction came from the manager: whatever I got, it had to have a United club badge on the jacket pocket. Earlier in the year, Donatella Versace, who was quite friendly with Victoria, had invited me out to Italy for the Spring Fashion Show. When I rang her up, she said she’d design our outfits: a light grey suit, a white shirt, a charcoal tie with a little United badge on it and then a much bigger badge on the jacket. All my life I’d had the importance of looking the part drummed into me. I couldn’t let the lads down when it came to the Nou Camp, could I?

  The final against Newcastle was more straightforward than any of us had been expecting. We were flying and played really well. Once Teddy Sheringham scored the first goal, everybody in the ground knew we were going to finish off the Double. During the week before the game, the boss had told me that he was thinking of resting me. Because of injuries and Keano’s suspension we were going to be short of midfielders the following Wednesday. Obviously it was his decision, in the end, that I started on Saturday, too, but I can still remember pleading with him: it was the Cup Final, after all. I didn’t want to miss a single moment of this.

  One strange thing happened during the course of beating Newcastle 2–0 that Saturday afternoon. I went in for a challenge with Gary Speed and his elbow caught me on the mouth. I’d cut my lip. It really stung—killed me—for the rest of the game and, when we were climbing the steps in front of the Royal Box to pickup the FA Cup, it bled quite a lot. Gary Neville pulled his shirt down over his fist and went to wipe some of it away: I didn’t know how bad it looked. What I did know, though, was that it was sore enough not to want anyone near it. Back at the hotel we were staying at that evening, I met Victoria. We were in our room and I took a sip from a glass of mineral water and suddenly realized that it was dribbling out through my lip. I couldn’t understand it at first. The cut had gone right through. I closed my mouth and blew, and water came spurting out through the hole: it was a weird party trick to celebrate winning the cup.

  Thinking back, it feels like we had a couple of weeks after that to get ready for the Champions League Final against Bayern Munich. Actually, the game at the Nou Camp was the following Wednesday. Time just seemed to move really slowly: it was a new experience for all of us and I think we were just taking in every moment of the build-up. This was something absolutely massive, after all. Having won the Premiership and the FA Cup already, it felt like we weren’t under any kind of pressure. I remember everybody being really relaxed, just looking forward to it. And I’ll never forget, either, what the manager said to us in the dressing room just before we went up the tunnel to play in the biggest game of our lives.

  ‘Trust me: you don’t want to have to walk past the European Cup at the end of the game tonight. Not being able to pick it up would be the most painful thing you’ll ever feel in soccer. Make sure you don’t end up having to just look at that trophy, not able to touch it, knowing you had the chance to win the thing but then let that chance pass you by.’

  I don’t know how much the boss’s warning helped focus us on what we had to do. The fact that it stuck in my mind so clearly says a lot, I think. What I know for sure is that every word he said about the pain and disappointment was true. We didn’t have to endure it but you just have to watch the video of the game. Look at the Bayern Munich players as they go up to get their losers’ medals. Some of them glance at the trophy—sitting there, waiting for United—and you can see, in their eyes, that they’re devastated. Most of them can’t even bring themselves to lift their heads and look.

  Brooklyn was only two months old and Victoria hadn’t planned to come to the Nou Camp in Barcelona. She doesn’t come to many United away games anyway: she’s wary and so am I. In the end, though, this was the European Cup Final; this was, just maybe, the Treble. Tony and Jackie babysat and Victoria came out with a couple of people to look after her. She may not know all that much about soccer but she supports me and enjoys the sense of occasion and the excitement of the big games. I was really pleased she made the trip although, before kick-off, I got nervous. If Victoria comes to a game, I can’t relax until I’ve spotted her in the crowd and I know she’s all right. At the Nou Camp, she did have a bit of trouble getting settled. I was looking up to where I thought she should be and it wasn’t until we came back out, just before kick-off, that I saw her and had my mind put at rest. I think Victoria was pleased she made it. I remember what she said to me after the game:

  ‘That was unbelievable. I’ve never experienced anything like that in my whole life.’

  Which just about took the words out of my mouth. Unbelievable is exactly what it was. Because of the injuries and suspensions, I played central midfield against Bayern. I know, whatever I might say or other people might think, the manager always preferred me to play wide on the right. But with Scholesy and Keano missing through suspension that night, he put faith in me playing in the center and it meant a lot to me that, afterwards, he praised my performance in that position when he talked to the press. And I loved it in there, alongside Nicky Butt. I was right in the thick of things, involved all game long.

  It was hard, though. Unbelievably hard. And, to be honest, not the best of games. Bayern scored early on. They were a strong side, very well organized, like all German teams. We knew them and they knew us: we’d drawn twice in those group games earlier in the season. It felt like they were sure they were in control of it all. And, especially in the middle of the second half, they looked more likely to score another goal than we did to equalize. Peter Schmeichel made a couple of great saves; they missed a couple of chances. That twenty-minute spell, though, instead of taking the heart out of us, lifted us. They had a shot that came backoff the crossbar and into Peter’s hands. All these chances, why haven’t they scored again? Keep going and you never know. This could still happen for us.

  All of a sudden—none of us knew how close we were to the end—we got a break. I turned on the ball, beat my man and played it out to our left. Ole had come on as a sub just a few minutes before and he won a corner. I sprinted over to take it. I remember that, even though the field at the Nou Camp is so big, you hardly have any room down by the flags to take corners. I saw Peter come charging up into the Bayern area and tried to steady myself. Don’t mess this up. Just float it in and try to put it in a dangerous area.

  I sent it over. The ball bounced out to Giggsy. He mis-hit it and it bounced through to Teddy Sheringham, the other sub, who knocked it in. Teddy was so close to being offside. But he wasn’t. And we were level, 1–1. Everybody went up. I just went mad. I swear I felt like crying. At that moment, it felt like the whole season caught up with us. I was shattered. I looked over and saw Gary, celebrating on his own. He was happy but he couldn’t get his legs to carry him over to the rest of us. People came running over from our bench. Every single person on the field, every single person in the crowd must have been thinking the same thing. Here we go. Extra-time.

  The thought of another thirty minutes of soccer barely had time to sink in. Maybe the manager was the only person inside the Nou Camp that night who wasn’t already looking ahead to the final whistle. I glanced over towards our bench. Steve McClaren was trying to say something to the boss, trying to reorganize the team. The boss was ignoring him, just waving him away. Was it my imagination or was he acting like he knew we were going to score again? He was screaming to us to get back to the halfway line and kick off as fast as we could.

  Almost at once, we won another corner. It was all happening so quickly that, when I went over to take it, I could see United supporters still jumping around, shouting into their cell phones, and celebrating Teddy’s goal. I think the Bayern players were still trying to get to grips with what had just happened,
too. In the blink of an eye, I’d whipped the ball over and Ole had got to it and we’d scored again. Even after the celebrations, even though the second goal was already well into injury time, Bayern did get the ball forward one more time. My legs had gone. Everybody’s legs had gone. Oh, no. Please don’t score now.

  Someone just booted the ball away from our penalty area and the whistle went. I don’t know where it came from: the sound of that whistle was like an electric shock and I got this last burst of energy. I ran—sprinted—with my arms stretched out beside me, almost the length of the field and down to our fans. Most of the lads had just fallen on the floor: collapsed with exhaustion. Which was probably the best thing to do, but I couldn’t help myself. The roar that broke out from the United supporters when the game finished was deafening and I felt like I was being shot out of a gun towards them. I don’t know if I’ll experience moments, or see celebrations, quite like those ever again.

  We were out on the field for what seemed like hours afterwards, having a private party in the warm Spanish evening air: the lads who’d played and those who hadn’t been able to, and the thousands of United fans who’d taken over the Nou Camp for the night. These were the supporters who’d welcomed me back to Old Trafford at the start of the season; who’d stuck by me after France 98, no matter what flak I was getting from anybody else. You could see on people’s faces how much what had just happened meant to them and they could see how much the United players were enjoying being out there celebrating with them. It felt even more special for me: if it hadn’t been for the supporters at that first Premiership game of 1998/99 at Old Trafford, I’m not sure I’d have been there at the Nou Camp on the season’s final night. I’ll never forget what they did for me. I know they’ll never forget what we did for them in the dying minutes of the biggest game of them all.

  It was pretty mad in the dressing room, too, once we finally found our way back there. Champagne was flying everywhere. Everybody seemed to be singing, screaming and laughing. We’d played a lot of soccer together, and now was the right time to go a bit crazy together. Eventually, people started getting dressed. We were looking forward to meeting up with our families. I remember just sitting in my place in the dressing room, watching it all go on around me, and trying to take in what we’d done. I looked over to the far corner and that huge trophy, the European Cup, was just standing there, on top of a bench, all on its own.

  This is my chance. I found the United club photographer:

  ‘Will you take some pictures of me holding this?

  I walked back up the tunnel, past the little chapel and out onto the field again. Half the floodlights were still on. Half of them were off. There were strange shadows being cast across that huge stretch of turf, and the empty stands just sort of loomed in the darkness. You could still imagine an echo of the crowd shouting and cheering during the game. It was an amazing feeling. Forty minutes, an hour ago, this place was full of people. We were playing out there. We were getting beaten out there.

  And then I looked down at the trophy, which I’d set on the grass in front of me. It made me shiver. For a moment, I felt like the thirteen-year-old boy who’d jogged out onto this same field for the first time, nervous about meeting FC Barcelona’s star players and trying to imagine what it would be like to play at their ground. I picked up the European Cup and the photographer snapped away. One of the proudest moments any player could ever experience in his career and I found myself standing there, in the half light with a winners’ medal hanging round my neck, feeling humble in the face of what had just taken place. I got the same sensation later that evening, when the players walked into the hotel room for dinner. Victoria was there, my mum and dad too, along with all the families and closest friends. Everyone stood up at their tables and clapped.

  I hung onto that trophy. I thought I could make it my job to get it safely out of the ground. I walked out into the parking lot to look for the coach. Everyone else seemed to have drifted away and there was this eerie quiet in the air. The one or two voices you could hear sounded like they were coming from miles away. I looked up and saw Dad walking towards me. He just appeared out of the gloom, from nowhere, walking along with Mum and some other people. It wasn’t as if we’d arranged to meet straight after the game: I’d been expecting to see them back at the hotel. Ninety thousand people inside the Nou Camp that night and your mum and dad are the ones you bump into by chance. We were the only people there.

  Dad didn’t need to say a word. He hugged me. It felt like he was crying or, at least, trying hard not to. And my eyes were tearing up too. The two of us knew what it had been like when we’d met less than a year before, in another parking lot, after the Argentina game in Saint-Etienne. My parents knew better than anybody what had happened to me since that night. It had happened to them, too, in a way. That’s how it is with your children. Their lives become the most important part of your own. I knew what it felt like to be a father now, of course. So I put down the cup and just hugged my dad back.

  8

  I Do

  ‘Beckham. Here. I want a word.’

  ‘Victoria hates it up north…’

  ‘David is joining Arsenal…’

  ‘…or, if he isn’t, he’s going to buy a helicopter to fly up to Manchester three times a week.’

  There was plenty of speculation when we bought our house just outside London. The truth was a lot simpler, but also a lot less controversial. The story needed to shift newspapers, I suppose, which meant that the boring and the obvious had to make way for something people could talk about. Actually, Victoria didn’t have a problem with Manchester at all or with me playing there. And as for me, I had absolutely no intention of ever leaving United. I think even the manager read more significance into us buying a new place than there was. He was aware of the gossip and pulled me to one side:

  ‘Why have you bought that?’

  His main concern was probably that I might end up trying to commute from Essex for training. In fact, even after we talked, I think he spent a year or more believing that, secretly, that’s what I was doing. He didn’t realize the place was a building site. I did my best to explain:

  ‘London is where I’m from and that’s why I’ve bought a house there. When I finish playing, I’ll move back: my family’s in London and so are lots of our friends. That’s all it is. We’re a family now, boss: Mr and Mrs Beckham. We’ve got our first baby boy. And when I retire London will be the natural place for us to call home.’

  Once Brooklyn arrived and we knew we were getting married, I think instinct kicked in. We knew we wanted somewhere to bring up a family, somewhere we could always call home. We had a pretty good idea where we wanted the Beckhams to be based: north and east of London, near our parents, and not too far from the highways. We knew we wanted space for Brooklyn to run around, safely and in privacy. We knew we wanted room to have friends and family over without having to squeeze anyone in. We wanted to be able to throw a decent party. Me? I had to make sure I had enough space for a snooker table and a long enough wall for my collection of signed shirts. It was time to stretch out a little after a year and a half of living out of suitcases, stopping at Tony and Jackie’s or at the apartment in Cheshire.

  The place we found was in Hertfordshire, on the edge of a little village called Sawbridgeworth. The first place we looked at belonged to the boxing promoter Frank warren. I liked it but Victoria wasn’t sure: perhaps it would have been too big for us. The house in Sawbridgeworth hardly needed a second look: Victoria fell in love with it straight away. The buildings and the grounds were the right sort of scale. I know people call it Beckingham Palace but it’s a family home when all’s said and done. It’s manageable without needing an army of helpers. There was plenty of work to be done to it, and maybe that was what got Victoria so excited about it. I’m like her in that I’ve got very particular tastes in things: you could say we’ve got a liking for ‘subtle over-the-top’, the pair of us. What Victoria had, though, was the imagi
nation to see how she could turn the place into somewhere we’d love. She also had a dad who had the knowledge and found the time to organize the details. Tony was the unpaid project manager for Sawbridgeworth when he wasn’t running his own building business. I bet he had no idea what he’d be taking on when we said: please, we need someone we trust. It took the best part of four years to make all the changes that Victoria had imagined the moment we first drove through the gates.

  Sawbridgeworth was about putting down roots. Until I pack in the game, though, I’m the same as any other player. It’s something you take on as part of being a professional: your life revolves around training and games. It has to. Even one of the biggest days of my life, my wedding day, had to get squeezed into its place in the middle of the United calendar. At least there wasn’t a World Cup or a European Championship to rush off to over the summer of 1999. Once I’d come down from the incredible high of the European Cup that May, and once I’d been convinced I should take off the winners’ medal I had slung round my neck for days afterwards, we were able to concentrate on the planning, and all the excitement, of the Beckhams’ own cup final: David and Victoria getting married on the fourth of July.

  It’s fair to say the Big Day took some organizing. It’s also fair to say I didn’t have that much to do with it. We knew what we wanted: the general idea. Life had turned into a fairy tale since the Prince met his Princess and that’s how we wanted it to feel. But when it came to the details, Victoria did most of the hard work. Together, we imagined something special, not just for us but for our families and friends too. Then, the day-to-day inspiration came from the bride. We talked. I didn’t have anything sprung on me at the last moment. And, in the middle of all the bustle and arrangement-making, I was allowed to have my say. But it was Victoria, and her mum and sister Louise, who took on the responsibility for getting things right.