David Beckham: My Side
Page 1
Davic Beckham:
My Side
David Beckham
with Tom Watt
To Victoria, Brooklyn and Romeo
The three people who always make me smile
My Babies Forever
Love David
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
The Back Garden, August 2004
1 Murdering the Flowerbeds
2 The Man in the Brown Sierra
3 Home from Home
4 DB on the Tarmac
5 The One with the Legs
6 Don’t Cry for Me
7 Thanks for Standing By Me
8 I Do
9 The Germans
10 My Foot in It
11 Beckham (pen)
12 Bubble Beckham
13 About Loyalty
14 United Born and Bred
15 For Real: Hala Madrid!
16 Futbol, La Vida
17 It’s Christmas
18 Let’s Face It
Career Record
Index
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Back Garden, August 2004
‘What matters most in my life I can see in front of me.’
In Madrid, the evenings are perfect like this more often than not. It’s just gone seven, the sun’s down from the sky but it’s still warming my heart and warming my bones. There’s a glass of red wine on the table in front of me. And another in front of Victoria. Brooklyn’s being some kind of superhero, plunging in and out of the little pool a few yards down the garden from this terrace where Mr and Mrs are sitting, feet up, cheering him on. Romeo’s at the bottom of the steps that take you out onto the grass, being best friends with Carlos. That’s the dog, not the left-back. It’s a long way from Chingford but, just like the house I grew up in, it’s not just a casa. It feels like a home, somewhere you belong. Un hogar, they call it in Spain.
Back from a summer away and Euro 2004, we’ve found a place to live together, the four of us, here in Madrid. We’ve taken a three-year lease – my contract at Real finishes in 2007 – on a house in La Moraleja, a residential area to the north of the city. We’re twenty minutes from the training ground and from the Santiago Bernebeu; half an hour from the middle of town. And just a few minutes from where Brooklyn is going to start school next month. La Moraleja is green and quiet – todo tranquillo – and the trees spread shade across our garden, which I can see the end of from here, for most of every day.
I’ve got my first competitive game of a new season waiting for me in a week’s time, after last season left Real Madrid needing to qualify for the group stage of the Champions League this time around. It’s crossed my mind a couple of times recently that we had to do the same at United before going on to win the thing back in 1999. I don’t know if you could ever have quite the same feeling ahead of a new season with any other club: here at Real our own sense of ambition in the dressing room is as tangible as the sense of expectation around the streets of the city. This is a football club, after all, where anything – anything at all – seems possible. Each fresh start feels like history waiting to be made. What’s more, we know we owe the madridistas after what happened to us –and to them – last spring.
I’ve been in Madrid for twelve months now. A year ago, all of it was new, and as confusing as it was exciting. I was waiting to find out what was expected of me; what I could expect from life at a new club and in a new city. Now, I’ve found my way past most of those questions. I mean: I know now what I’m going to be asked. The answers, of course, will have to wait for kick-off. And a new manager at the Bernebeu, José Antonio Camacho, has already made sure we understand that we’ll need to find the right ones.
To say a lot’s happened since I left the club I grew up at, Manchester United, and came to Spain to start learning all over again, wouldn’t be the half of it. Some of what’s gone on I could perhaps have been half-expecting. Most of it, though, I had no idea at all about when I got here a season and a major international tournament ago. I can still remember the adrenalin rushing through my system the August morning I was introduced to Madrid as a Real player. At the Pabellon Raimundo Saporta, I’d been hurried through corridors and then ushered onto a stage alongside the President, Florentino Perez, and the greatest player ever to pull on the white shirt that I was going to wear for the next four years, Alfredo di Stefano.
Thinking back now, one thing nags me about that day. Especially after the shocks and challenges and lessons I’ve learnt over the months since. Amidst all that felt just right that morning, one thing jarred at the time and still does. Now, in August 2004, I’m grateful to put right a choice of words I made before my life was turned upside down during a year in Spain, back home in England and at Euro 2004. The last twelve months have reminded me – if I needed reminding – what’s made the whole adventure worth the living so far.
When it came time for me to speak to the press and to the Real supporters, my voice trailing away across that hangar of a basketball court, I remember I said:
‘I have always loved football. Of course I love my family and I have a wonderful life. But football is everything to me. To play for Real Madrid is a dream come true.’
Football and my family: know about them and you know most of what you need to about David Beckham. Back then, though, I had those things – the things that have made me the person I am – in the wrong order.
I probably knew then. And I definitely know it about myself now. Football’s the best game in the world, the best career I could possibly have been lucky enough to enjoy. It’s given me fulfilment and a lot more besides. But everything to me? No, I’m sitting here on a terrace at our new home in Moraleja and what matters most in my life – in anybody’s life, surely – I can see in front of me. I can put my arms around them right now: my wife and my two sons. They’re what I’m here for. I hope I’ll never have to, but I’d sacrifice what I do for a living and everything it’s brought my way without a second thought to have what I have having them. I met Victoria, fell in love with and married her and, together, we’ve made our family. Until you love your own children, you never realise quite how much your mum and dad loved you. I’m ready to do for my family what Mum and Dad did for me: everything. Doesn’t matter how exciting, frantic or rewarding the rest of it is, it’s Victoria and Brooklyn and Romeo who make sense of it all.
‘To play for Real Madrid is a dream come true.’
That’s right enough. And it keeps coming true every time I pull Real’s white shirt over my head. But for us Beckhams, here together with the warm air wrapped round us, back in England or wherever else the future’s going to take us: it’s the together that counts: I could never have imagined how sweet it would be until it happened. And it has for me; and for my wife and for my children too. Our lives have come true: a family. Whatever lies ahead of us, I won’t ever let them go.
1
Murdering the Flowerbeds
‘Mrs Beckham? Can David come and have a game in the park?’
I’m sure Mum could dig it out of the pile: that first video of me in action. There I am, David Robert Joseph Beckham, aged three, wearing the new Manchester United kit Dad had bought me for Christmas, playing football in the front room of our house in Chingford. Twenty-five years on, and Victoria could have filmed me having a kickabout this morning with Brooklyn before I left for training. For all that so much has happened during my life – and the shirt I’m wearing now is a different colour – some things haven’t really changed at all.
As a father watching my own sons growing up, I get an idea of what I must ha
ve been like as a boy; and reminders, as well, of what Dad was like with me. As soon as I could walk, he made sure I had a football to kick. Maybe I didn’t even wait for a ball. I remember when Brooklyn had only just got the hang of standing up. We were messing around together one afternoon after training. For some reason there was a tin of baked beans on the floor of the kitchen and, before I realised it, he’d taken a couple of unsteady steps towards it and kicked the thing as hard as you like. Frightening really: you could fracture a metatarsal doing that. Even as I was hugging him better, I couldn’t help laughing. That must have been me.
It’s just there, wired into the genes. Look at Brooklyn: he always wants to be playing football, running, kicking, diving about. And he’s already listening, like he’s ready to learn. By the time he was three and a half, if I rolled the football to him and told him to stop it, he’d trap it by putting his foot on it. Then he’d take a step back and line himself up before kicking it back to me. He’s also got a great sense of balance. We were in New York when Brooklyn was about two and a half, and I remember us coming out of a restaurant and walking down some steps. He was standing, facing up towards Victoria and I, his toes on one step and his heels rocking back over the next. This guy must have been watching from inside the restaurant, because suddenly he came running out and asked us how old our son was. When I told him, he explained he was a child psychologist and that for Brooklyn to be able to balance himself over the step like that was amazing for a boy of his age.
It’s a little too early to tell with Romeo, but Brooklyn has got a real confidence that comes from his energy, his strength, and his sense of coordination. He’s been whizzing around on two-wheeled scooters – I mean flying – for years already. He’s got a belief in himself, physically, that I know I had as well. When I was a boy, I only ever felt really sure of myself when I was playing football. In fact I’d still say that about me now, although Victoria has given me confidence in myself in all sorts of other ways. I know she’ll do the same for Brooklyn and Romeo too.
For all that father and son have in common, Brooklyn and I are very different. By the time I was his age, I was already telling anyone who would listen: ‘I’m going to play football for Manchester United.’ He says he wants to be a footballer like Daddy, but United or Real? We haven’t heard that out of him yet. Brooklyn’s a really strong, well-built boy. Me, though, I was always skinny. However much I ate it never made any difference while I was growing up. When I was playing football, I must have seemed even smaller because, if I wasn’t with my dad and his mates, I was over at Chase Lane Park, just round the corner from the house, playing with boys twice my age. I don’t know if it was because I was good or because they could kick me up in the air and I’d come back for more, but they always turned up on the doorstep after school:
‘Mrs Beckham? Can David come and have a game in the park?’
I spent a lot of time in Chase Lane Park. If I wasn’t there with the bigger boys like Alan Smith, who lived two doors away on our road, I’d be there with my dad. We’d started by kicking a ball about in the back garden but I was murdering the flowerbeds so, after he got in from his job as a heating engineer, we’d go to the park together and just practise and practise for hours on end. All the strengths in my game are the ones Dad taught me in the park 20 years ago: we’d work on touch and striking the ball properly until it was too dark to see. He’d kick the ball up in the air as high as he could and get me to control it. Then it would be knocking it in with each foot, making sure I was doing it right. It was great, even if he did drive me mad sometimes. ‘Why can’t you just go in goal and let me take shots at you?’ I’d be thinking. I suppose you could say he was pushing me along. You’d also have to say, though, that it was all I wanted to do and I was lucky Dad was so willing to do it with me.
My dad, Ted, played himself for a local team called Kingfisher in the Forest and District League, and I would go along with my mum Sandra, my older sister Lynne and baby Joanne to watch him play. He was a centre-forward; Mark Hughes, but rougher. He had trials for Leyton Orient and played semi-professional for a couple of years at Finchley Wingate. Dad was a good player, although he always used to get caught offside. It took me a long time to understand how that rule worked and I’m not sure Dad ever really got it sorted out. I loved watching him. I loved everything that went with the game, and I could tell how much playing meant to him as well. When he told me he was going to pack in playing regularly himself so he could concentrate on coaching me – I must have been eight or nine at the time – I knew exactly what that sacrifice meant even though he never talked about it in that way.
From the time I was seven, Dad was taking me to training with Kingfisher on midweek evenings down at a place called Wadham Lodge, just round the North Circular Road from us. I’ve got great memories of those nights, not just being with Dad and his mates, but of the ground itself. It was about ten minutes from the house in the car. We’d drive down this long street of terraced houses and pull in through a set of big, blue wooden gates, past the first car park and onto the second car park, which was right next to the training ground. The pitch was orange-coloured gravel and cinder, with proper goalposts and nets, and there was a little bar, the social club, that overlooked it. Beyond that pitch, there were three or four others, including the best one which was reserved for cup games and special occasions. It had a little wall all around it and two dugouts. It seemed like a massive stadium to me at the time. I dreamt about playing on that pitch one day.
Wadham Lodge wasn’t very well looked after back then. I remember the changing rooms were pure Sunday League: mud on the floor, really dingy lighting and the water dribbling out of cold showers. Then there was the smell of the liniment that players used to rub on their legs. It would hit you as soon as you walked in. There were floodlights – just six lamps on top of poles – but at least once every session they’d go out and somebody would have to run in and put coins in a meter that was in a cupboard just inside the changing room door.
As well as training with Kingfisher during the football season, we’d be back at Wadham Lodge in the summer holidays. Dad used to run, and also play for, a team in the summer league, so I’d come to games with him. We’d practise together before and after and then, while his match was taking place on the big pitch, I’d find some other boys to play with on the cinder next door. I’ve had most of my professional career at clubs with the best facilities and where everything’s taken care of, but I’m glad I had the experience of a place like Wadham Lodge when I was a boy. I mean, if I’d not been there with my dad, I might have grown up never knowing about Soap on a Rope. More to the point, it was where I started taking free-kicks. After everybody else had finished and was in the social club, I’d stand on the edge of the penalty area and chip a dead ball towards goal. Every time I hit the bar was worth 50p extra pocket money from my dad that week. And, just as important, a pat on the back.
The other dads might bring their boys along sometimes but, once I started, I was there week in and week out. I’d sit in the bar and watch the men training and then, towards the end of the session, they’d let me join in with the five-a-sides. I was so excited to be out there playing with the rest of them – these grown men – that I took whatever I had coming. I do remember an occasion when one of them came flying into me with a tackle and Dad wasn’t happy about it at all but, usually, if I took a knock he’d just tell me to get up and get on with it. He warned me that I had to be prepared to get a bit roughed up now and again. If he’d been running around telling people not to tackle me all evening, it would have been pointless me being there in the first place. The fact that I always seemed to be playing football with players who were bigger and stronger than me when I was young, I’m sure, helped me later on in my career.
On the nights when I wasn’t at Wadham Lodge, I’d be in Chase Lane Park. We had this secret cut-through to get there: across the road and then four or five houses down from my mum and dad’s where there was a private alley.
We’d wait around at the top of it until there was nobody about and then sprint fifty yards to the hedge, then through it and the hole in the fence. I still have one or two friends who I first met in Chase Lane. I went on to school with Simon Treglowen and his brother Matt, and I’m still in touch with Simon now. We decided we got on all right after one particular row about whether or not I’d scored past him in goal. That turned into a big fight, even though Simon’s four years older than me. Fighting: it’s a funny way boys have of making friends. Usually we’d just kick a ball around until it got dark, but there also used to be a youth club, in a little hut, run by a lady called Joan. My mum knew her and would phone up to say we were on our way over. You could play table tennis or pool and get a fizzy drink or some chocolate. There was an outdoor paddling pool at the back that got filled up in the summer. Some days, Joan would organise a minibus and we’d all head off down to Walthamstow baths. There was also a skate ramp by the side of the hut. I suppose my mum knows now that some of my cuts and bruises were from skateboarding, even though I wasn’t allowed on a skateboard back then. The one bad knock I got happened one evening when I fell getting our ball back from the paddling pool after it had been closed up for the night. Joan was still there and she phoned home to tell my parents how I’d got the cut on my head. For about six or seven years, into my early teens, it was a whole world in that park. All those facilities have gone now. It’s a shame. Times change and some kids started messing the place up until it had to be closed down.
My very first close friend was a boy called John Brown who lived just up the road. John and I went through both primary and secondary school together. He wasn’t really a footballer so, when I couldn’t talk him into a kickabout over at the park, we’d play Lego or Gameboy round at one of our houses, or ride our bikes or rollerskate up and down our road. Later on, when I started playing for Ridgeway Rovers, John used to come along to some of our games even though he didn’t play. A few of us, especially me and another Ridgeway boy named Nicky Lockwood, were always up for the pictures and John used to come too; I remember Mum would drop us off at the cinema over in Walthamstow. When we were little, John Brown and I were best mates but I suppose my football took me in a very different direction. John went off and became a baker after we both left school.