Beckham

by David Beckham

  ‘Not in a million years.’

  I won’t ever forget the feeling: winning in a United shirt. The million years, though? I was gone in less than five weeks.

  Two things happened in the middle of May after the season ended. The first was that United’s chief executive, Peter Kenyon, said that if someone offered enough money for me, the club would have to think about selling me. I know how things get taken out of context, but to me that sounded all wrong. I didn’t want to leave. Peter had asked me himself, face to face, a year before and I hadn’t changed. I thought I knew what the gaffer’s feelings were but I believed things between us could be straightened out as long as the club still wanted me. Now, it didn’t sound to me like they did. On May 14, I had a new United contract put in front of me. I know some supporters probably thought: well, if you want to stay at Old Trafford, why don’t you just sign it? Maybe that was what the boss would have been thinking as well.

  My previous deal, agreed less than a year before, had taken a year and a half to sort out. The club had been very fair and open in their dealings with me over it. Now, all of a sudden, they stuck a new one in front of me as if to say: sign this or forget it. Despite what some people said or wrote at the time, my future at United was never going to be about money. In fact, the new contract included a pay rise. I remember talking to Dad about how I felt:

  ‘The only reason I’d ever leave United is if I could see they wanted me to. Well, at the moment it feels like they’re not really bothered either way.’

  There wasn’t time to sit at home and wait to see how things might turn out. This wasn’t a situation I was in control of anyway. I was off to South Africa for an exhibition game with England. That trip ended in another ride in the back of an ambulance after I broke a bone in my hand early on in the game. Then it was home and a rush to pack bags and get off on our summer vacation in the States. The traveling backwards and forwards was just about right: just how I felt. I didn’t know what was going to happen: one day I’d be feeling my time was up at United, the next that things could still be worked out for me to stay. Tony kept me up to date with what was going on back in England. He’s always had a good relationship with the United people—the manager apart—and they were honest with each other about what was going on. The club were talking to some of Spain’s and Italy’s biggest clubs. So was my agent.

  As far as I was concerned, signing a new United deal was still possible. Most days, despite everything, it was still what I wanted to do. That made what happened next even more of a bolt from the blue. While in the States, we were staying out at a resort in the desert, relaxing away from it all. I’d just woken up one morning. There was a message on my cell phone from Dave Gardner.

  ‘Have you heard what’s on the news? Are you all right about it?’

  All the time we were away, I knew there’d been stories claiming I was rushing around trying to look busy, making a name for myself in America. I assumed Dave was talking about that stuff. I replied to him:

  ‘Yeah, fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  Minutes later, Tony was on the phone to put me straight. The story had come as a complete surprise to him as well. We knew—everyone knew—that Barcelona were one of the clubs who were interested in signing me and that one of the candidates in the presidential election at the club had promised to bring me to Spain if he won. It was a huge jump, though, to the press release issued by Manchester United that Tony read out to me over the phone:

  ‘Manchester United confirms that club officials have met Joan Laporta, the leading candidate for the Presidency of Barcelona. These meetings have resulted in an offer being made for the transfer of David Beckham to Barcelona. This offer is subject to a number of conditions and critically to both Mr Laporta being elected President on Sunday June 15 and Barcelona subsequently reaching agreement with David Beckham on his personal contract. Manchester United confirms that in the event that all of the conditions are fulfilled then the offer would be acceptable.’

  Was I in earthquake country? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. No word from the manager, no word from anybody at the club, after a dozen years at United. Just the plain, bare announcement dated June 10: we’re selling him. Mr Laporta, with all due respect, wasn’t even President of Barcelona yet but a deal had been done. It was like they couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I just sat down on the floor where I was. I was angry all right. I didn’t like the news, and how I’d found out about it, some time after the rest of the world, was humiliating. Tony and I talked about what to say and what to do. Later that day, he released a statement for me:

  ‘David is very disappointed and surprised to learn of this statement and feels that he has been used as a political pawn in the Barcelona Presidential elections. David’s advisors have no plans to meet Mr Laporta or his representatives.’

  I know now that Manchester United regretted it coming out the way it had. They’d been under pressure, not just from the media but also from the club’s stockbrokers. But that wasn’t the point, as far as I was concerned. I’d just heard the truth, hadn’t I? I wasn’t just up for sale. I’d been carted as far as the checkout. Something shifted inside me. I’d been uncertain about my relationship with the Manchester United manager all season long. Now, for the first time, it was my relationship with the club that was slipping away. And that broke my heart. I had to start thinking seriously now about starting a career away from Old Trafford, after a lifetime of knowing that playing for United was all I’d ever wanted to do.

  Barcelona are a great club: history, tradition, players, everything. I was honored they wanted me. Just as I felt honored when I heard about the two big Italian clubs who were interested in me as well. Deep down, though, as soon as I realized I might be leaving Old Trafford, there was only one club I wanted to join. A club as big as United and, over the years, even more successful. A team that included some of the best players on earth. From a soccer point of view, there was only one choice. It had to be Real Madrid.

  This wasn’t just a soccer decision, though. There were so many things to think about. This was something so huge in our lives—for me, Victoria and the boys—that, at first, I think we had trouble even knowing where to start thinking about it. For Victoria, with a career of her own, it was the first time a decision this big had felt like it was out of her hands. For the boys it meant a complete change from everything that had grown familiar. For all of us it meant a new language, a new culture, a new life. We talked to each other, Victoria and I. We talked to our families and to friends. But you can go on talking and never get things any clearer, can’t you? The one thing I was absolutely sure of was that if I didn’t go with my family, I wasn’t going anywhere at all. We were on our way back to England and then, within a couple of days, we’d be off again to the Far East on a promotional tour arranged months ago. I was determined we couldn’t run off to the other side of the world before we’d made up our minds.

  Sunday June 15 at the house in Sawbridgeworth. Sunshine and a perfect day for a family barbecue. And everyone here to help us with the hardest choice we’d ever had to make. Stay in Manchester and sign that new contract? Or leave England? And for where? The first thing I needed to do was talk to United. I knew the manager was away on vacation so I rang Peter Kenyon. I needed to know exactly where I stood. I asked him what the club felt about the situation and what the boss thought.

  ‘Well, David, if I’m honest with you, it seems to us that the relationship between you and the manager might never be the same again.’

  When I asked what his position was, Peter didn’t seem to want to commit himself. But then I asked him what he’d do if he was in my shoes.

  ‘Well, looking at it, I’d say you’ve had great years here but if something else is there, that might be a great challenge for you.’

  I’d heard what I’d expected to hear. Even if it hadn’t been what I’d been wanting to hear: that United wanted me to stay. I said:

  ‘Knowing how the manager feels, hearing wha
t you’re saying to me now, maybe this is the right time for me to think about looking elsewhere.’

  I hadn’t actually said: I’m leaving. But Mr Kenyon thanked me for what I’d done at Manchester United anyway. I felt the club’s mind was made up. Now it was up to me.

  I got on with helping get stuff ready for the barbecue and then, about an hour later, I telephoned the Real President, Florentino Perez. Although Tony had met Senor Perez before, it was the first time I’d ever spoken to him. It was the eve of their next to last game of the season. I knew Senor Perez’s son wasn’t very well and wanted to wish him a speedy recovery. I wanted to wish Real good luck for the game, away to local rivals Atlético Madrid of all people. It would go down to the wire in La Liga. Real had to win to have a chance of beating Real Sociedad to the title. Atlético was a huge game: I felt a bit embarrassed that all the transfer speculation might be distracting from it. Before I made any kind of decision, though, I felt like I needed to talk to Senor Perez. He wanted to know where we were with everything.

  ‘At the moment, I’m still a Manchester United player and until I settle things at this end, it’s not right for me to talk about moving to Real.’

  Real had made their contact. And United were prepared to talk. He’s a remarkable man, Senor Perez. He’s powerful but there’s nothing loud about him. He’s inspiring to listen to. He was that day, too, even through a translator:

  ‘I understand. All I want to say to you now, David, is that if you come to Madrid you won’t ever regret it. We don’t want you here for the publicity or to sell shirts. I think you are one of the best players in the world and we believe you can make us a better team.’

  By the time I hung up, I knew what David Beckham, the soccer player, needed to do next. There was still a massive family decision to be made, though, and after the barbecue we talked about it for hours. Tony was there for a while. He talked to Mum and then, later, spoke to Dad on the phone. He explained the situation to Victoria’s mum and dad as well. Then he said to us:

  ‘You know the options. Staying at United, moving to Madrid, moving to one of the other clubs that are interested in you. You don’t need to think about the details, contracts, money, anything else. You and Victoria need to just decide what would be best for you as a family. Once you do, we’ll try and make it happen.’

  Over the course of the evening, things that had seemed scary when we’d first thought about them—leaving England, settling in a new country, learning a new language—started to seem more like an opportunity for all of us. I was so excited about the idea of Madrid, the soccer club, that it was easier for me to get excited about Madrid, the city, and Madrid, the way of life, as well. Victoria didn’t have that to push her towards the move but she was brave enough, and we were honest enough with each other, to recognize that it was the right thing to do. And that it was something that, if we were together, could be something great for all of us. She’d lived through the last year with me and knew how unhappy I’d been as things went wrong in Manchester. She understood the situation perfectly.

  ‘United don’t seem to want you. Real have said they do. And now you want to play for them. Me and the boys want to be with you. Let’s go.’

  It was two in the morning when I rang Tony:

  ‘Real Madrid.’

  It was as simple as that.

  Well, simple for me anyway. Victoria and I were leaving the country for Japan on Tuesday evening. Real wanted to have things squared away so that they could focus on winning La Liga. They’d beaten Atlético 4–0 on the Sunday evening and Real Sociedad had lost 3–2 at Celta Vigo. A win at home the following Sunday and they’d be Spanish champions for the 29th time. Tony wanted a deal agreed—a rough outline, at least—before we flew out. It was time for all the speculation to come to an end. Easier said than done. I know how hard my lawyer, Andrew, my accountant, Charles, and Tony, Sam and the rest of the management team at SFX worked over those 48 hours. The people at the Madrid end, too, who also had to come to an agreement with the United board. It helped that signing for Real is pretty simple: every player puts pen to almost the same pieces of paper; you agree the salary and to split new image rights’ deals 50/50. It also helped that they trusted us enough to conduct the negotiations without employing an agent. There are details, though, like there always is and it’s not any easier to reach agreement when there are two different languages involved. Eventually, early on the evening of Tuesday June 17, the transfer fee and my contract had been agreed in principle. Victoria and I were already at the airport, making our way from the lounge to the departure gate, when Tony called:

  ‘Everything’s fine. I bet there are cameras pointed at you right now, aren’t there?’

  There were, as we hurried along the corridor.

  ‘Well, just be sure you and Victoria realize they’re taking pictures—the first pictures—of you both walking into a new adventure, a new world, together. It’s all agreed. Enjoy yourselves.’

  I whispered to Victoria:

  ‘It’s done.’

  And suddenly the frowns of two people hurrying off to catch a plane were wiped away by smiles from ear to ear. We had tickets for Tokyo but we knew, right then, we were headed off towards the rest of our lives.

  The tour was exciting enough anyway: shooting a couple of television commercials; photographic sessions; meeting sponsors and public appearances in Japan, Thailand, Malaysia and Vietnam. People were buzzing about us being there and, by the time the plane touched down, buzzing about the news of me joining Real Madrid. In England we still don’t realize what a passion there is for soccer in the Far East. It was so busy. Every minute of every day seemed to be accounted for. But the reception we walked into everywhere, and the fact that me and Victoria were enjoying it together, made it more than a flying visit for work. Victoria had seemed tense while things remained undecided and she’d been feeling unsure. Now these were settled, she let herself get excited—almost as excited as I was—about what lay ahead.

  Everything had happened so quickly. I felt like I’d been running alongside myself for the best part of a month, just trying to keep up with what had been happening to us. It’s the story of my life: you’re on to the next adventure so quickly, there never seems time to take in the one you have just had. Suddenly, though, one day in Thailand, what had been a blur seemed to slow down long enough for me to glimpse things in focus. It’s always the same questions, when you find the time for yourself to ask them:

  ‘Who are you? Where have you been? Where are you going?’

  We spent one lovely day down by the beach near Hua Hin, filming and shooting stills for a Japanese sponsor, TBC. The setting was beautiful: pale milky sunshine, little resort villas clustered up amongst the palms away from the promenade, the sand stretching away to water so clear you couldn’t tell where the beach ended and the sea began. There were hammocks to laze in between takes while you watched the crew racing around, trying to convince each other, and anybody else who might be watching, that they were working really hard. Always with filming, as the time passes there’s more pressure to squeeze everything in before you have to finish. People start to get a little tetchy, hurried and tired. Almost the last shot of the day, we actually went down onto the beach. Eight Thai lads, about nine or ten years old, appeared: they’d been hidden away somewhere waiting for the highlight of their day. The highlight of my day, too, as it turned out. We were shooting a sequence where I was playing soccer with them: no goals, just us chasing each other across the sand. The director told us:

  ‘You just play. The cameraman will keep up with you best he can.’

  Me and the lads were just in shorts. We’d nothing on our feet to spoil the feel of the sand and the ball and we scuttled, backwards and forwards, taking the ball away from each other. You’d try a little trick and slip a pass to the person nearest you who, for that moment, looked like he might be on your side. There, in the warm breeze of late afternoon, I suddenly felt lifted away. I could have been the father o
f any one of those boys. Any of them could have been me, a youngster, sweat running down my temples, in the middle of a five-a-side over at Chase Lane Park. They could play a bit, these lads. I realized it was the first time I’d had a game since I got injured against South Africa in Durban. We weren’t doing the bloke with the hand-held camera any favors: we’d forgotten all about him. Lost in the game. Like boys—this boy included—have always been and always will be.

  Back at the hotel that night, we ate and went to bed. I guess it was the traveling catching up with me. How long had I slept? Two hours? Three? My eyes opened wide in the darkness. Victoria was fast asleep beside me. I hadn’t been woken by a dream or anything else: I lay still for a moment or two, half expecting I’d just drift off again until morning. It wasn’t as if I was fretting about anything. My body clock had just decided this was time for being awake. No point arguing. I started being able to pick out the room around me. I slipped out from under the mosquito net and went through to the bathroom. I found a bottle of water and padded back, the cool wood floor under my bare feet.