David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  Talking about that season, it’s almost a cliché to say that, during it, we grew up as players. When I think back, though, what I really remember is how much growing up as a person I was doing at the same time. For a start, after sixteen years with Mum, Dad, Lynne and Joanne and then three years in digs that were family homes in their own way, I got my own place. Ryan Giggs had already moved into a house in Worsley, North Manchester, and he told me there was another three-storey townhouse nearby that was coming up for sale. It was perfect. Worsley was a nice, quiet village, the house was brand new and barely ten minutes from the training ground: now I’d never have an excuse for arriving late for work.

  I’d grown up in a suburban semi on the outskirts of London, in a house just about big enough for the five of us. Now here I was, collecting the keys to a proper bachelor pad and making it my own: a den with a pool table, a leather suite in the front room, a Bang & Olufsen television and music system, and a great big fireplace. The top floor was just one huge room, my bedroom. I had wardrobes made for it and, when the joiners put them in, I got them to build a cabinet at the bottom of my bed. You pressed a button and the television would come up out of it. When we first started going out together, Victoria used to rip me apart about that. And I had my mate, Giggsy, living next door, as well: what more could any boy ask for?

  Even then, Ryan was a legend at United. He was only a year older than me and we’d played in the same Youth Cup winning side, but it seemed as if he was already a star when I got to Manchester. Giggsy was a first-team regular by the time he was eighteen. He was a hero to the younger lads and he was also great to work alongside. Once I moved in next door, I got to know him really well. And that meant getting to know all his mates at the same time: the so-called Worsley Crew. We’d all meet up at the local pub, the Barton Arms, for lunch. I felt like I was keeping Manchester’s coolest company.

  Giggsy and I have stayed close ever since. He’s still someone who can win a game on his own, still a player every opposing defender will tell you they hate playing against. Think back to the ‘New George Best’ tag he grew up with. Giggsy’s had his ups and downs at United like any other player but, over the past twelve years, he’s had the ability and strength of character to live up to all the expectations people had of him. I hope Wales make it to Germany for the World Cup in 2006: it would be great to see Giggsy on that international stage. Whatever happens, by the time he packs it in – and there’s not much chance of that for a long while – he’ll go down as one of United’s all-time greats.

  I suppose lots of young lads in my situation would have been living on takeaways and looking for a phone number for a good cleaner. I’ve always been what you might call domesticated, though. Even when I was a boy, living at home, I can remember getting up early on a Sunday morning and cooking a full breakfast for my mum and dad. Not because I had to but because I wanted to: cooking was something I’d always enjoyed. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no Gary Rhodes or Jamie Oliver. Mum will tell you that when I was at home I’d cook the same thing every time for an evening meal. Chicken stir-fry. When Mum and Dad came up to the new house and I cooked for them in my own home for the first time, I don’t think they were all that surprised at what I’d made: chicken stir-fry. Not that what we were eating was all that important. I was really proud, being able to take my parents to my own place on a Saturday night after the game. I think they were pretty proud too.

  What’s more, I could drive Mum and Dad home in my own motor. As a boy, when I wasn’t thinking about football, it was because I was thinking about cars. I got a Scalectrix one Christmas and drove the thing into the ground through into my teens. As well as imagining myself playing for Manchester United, I’d spent plenty of rainy afternoons thinking about the car I might turn up at Old Trafford driving one day: how about a Porsche? When I passed my test, though, that kind of fantasy car was a long way out of my range. Instead, I bought Giggsy’s old club car, a red Ford Escort Mexico. Three doors, one previous owner and a full service history – that first car set me back about £6,000.

  A little later, when I was going out with Deana, I needed something a bit less laddish so I bought a brand new VW Golf. I used to get slaughtered by the other United players because of the number plate M13 EKS – which, with the letters bunched up, I had looking like M BECKS. Most of the lads have probably forgotten that. The one they never left me alone about was my first sponsored club car. At the time, United had a deal with Honda to supply the young players with a new Prelude once they’d played twenty first-team games. Gary and Phil and the rest all got theirs before I did, having been involved with the senior squad more often over the previous couple of seasons. By the time I was ready to pick up mine, I’d worked out exactly what I wanted to do.

  I chose one in a very dark grey. Then I paid extra to have them fit a leather interior, a new CD player and big alloy wheels. That was money I didn’t really have to throw around at the time and – because the cars would go back to Honda, eventually – it was money that I was never going to see again either. Of course, my new Prelude looked completely different to everyone else’s. And I loved it because it was just how I wanted it. We’d often take it in turns to give each other lifts into training. That particular model was pretty cramped in the rear seats, which is probably why Gary – an old man, you see, even then – changed his for a four-door Accord. One day at the Cliff, after we’d finished training for the day, I was getting ready to drive out of the car park and I already had someone in the front passenger seat. David May came running over and asked if he could jump in the back. Well, I’d just got this beautiful new car and I said no. David swears to this day that what I actually said was: ‘No chance. I don’t want you to scuff the leather.’

  It took about half an hour for everyone at the club to hear about it; and then several years for me to stop hearing about it. I don’t remember saying it but – if I’m really honest with myself – I can imagine I did. I am particular about looking after the things I like and, in a football club dressing room, whether it’s on Hackney Marshes or at Old Trafford, that can get you into trouble. Footballers will always find each other’s weak spots and, once they do, they’ll never leave it alone.

  I’ve always had a streak in me, which might seem flash if you don’t know me, of being particular about the things I want and of valuing individuality, even if I get stick because of it. When I was about six years old I remember a family wedding where I’d been invited to be a pageboy. We all went along to get fitted for our outfits and I got my heart set on a particular look: maroon knickerbockers, white stockings up to the knee, a frilly white shirt, a maroon waistcoat and a pair of ballet shoes. My dad told me I looked stupid in it. Mum said she needed to warn me that people were going to laugh at me. I didn’t care. I loved that outfit and I just wanted to wear it. Never mind at the wedding: I wanted it on all the time. I think I’d have worn it to school if they’d let me.

  Along with being very particular about what I like, I’m very careful about looking after what I’ve got. My mum will tell you how, when I was at school, I used to come in and change but would only go out to play football after I’d folded up my dirty clothes. I’m still tidier than almost anyone else I know. When I first arrived at United, the other boys of my age weren’t convinced about me, and maybe put some of my character, as they saw it, down to fancying myself a bit too much. The truth is, though – whether you’re talking about a pageboy outfit, a club car with leather seats or a tattoo or a sarong, come to that – it’s got nothing to do with one-upmanship or with making a point. My friends and my team-mates know that now, just as my family always have: I’ve got my own tastes and if I can indulge them I will, whatever other people might say. I’ve always been the same: knowing what I like is just part of who I am.

  Everything that was happening away from football just added to the excitement at Old Trafford during my first season as a regular. I’d wake up every morning hardly able to believe what was going on around me. I’d driv
e into training, thinking to myself: I’m a first-team player. I’m doing my work on the main pitch at the Cliff. I’ve got my own spot in the car park, with my initials there in white paint. When I went to the training ground for the first time as a boy, those white lines marked out with the initials of the United players I idolised seemed to represent everything I dreamt of achieving for myself. Now, I belonged and it might have been easy to get swept away with it all. People at the club, though, and the manager in particular, didn’t let that happen. They didn’t suddenly start behaving differently towards me and the other young lads just because it said ‘DB’ on the tarmac and me, Gary and the rest were on the teamsheet every week.

  I was excited every morning about going in to train with Eric Cantona, too. We’d made a good start without him during that 1995/96 season, but the captain being back at the club and back in the team counted for a lot. I don’t know about the other players but, if Eric was in the dressing room, I’d find myself watching him: checking what he was doing, trying to work out exactly how he prepared for a game. If he was there, I hardly seemed to notice anything else that was going on. I’ve always been a fan: a Manchester United fan. And I still am. When I had my first chance to go into the dressing rooms at Old Trafford as a boy, I asked where Bryan Robson sat and then walked across to sit there myself. I was the same about Eric and couldn’t quite get over the fact that I was sitting alongside him in the build-up to games, never mind that we’d be playing together later that afternoon.

  We played some great football that season. I remember one night at Old Trafford when we played Bolton and won 3–0. It could have been ten. Paul Scholes scored twice, Giggsy got the other and we absolutely battered them. When the team was flying, Eric Cantona was usually at the heart of it. The difficult games, though, were the ones in which he really left his mark. After Christmas, we had a run of 1–0 wins. United supporters didn’t even need to check: it was always Eric who scored. I remember one game against QPR down at Loftus Road. We were terrible and they were winning 1–0. I’d actually been substituted and the injury time at the end just dragged on and on. The home fans were going mad and then Eric arrived in the penalty area right on cue to equalise. Goals like that – results like that – turn a whole season.

  We spent month after month chasing Newcastle United, who were twelve points ahead of us going into 1996. We went up to St James’ Park in the spring and Eric – who else? – scored the only goal. From then on, we knew that we could do it. The penultimate game that season, at home to Nottingham Forest, was the night I realised we actually would. We beat Forest 5–0. I still remember the two goals I scored. Eric hit a volley which skewed off target and I headed in as the ball came across me. Then, I received a ball just inside the area which I turned on and hit under the keeper. In the end, we had to win our final game at Middlesbrough to be absolutely sure of the title, but everyone – players and supporters – at Old Trafford that night just knew we were going to be champions.

  We’d just kept coming in for training, turning up for games and were all on the kind of high which has you half-expecting things to go wrong at any minute. In the United first team? Winning the Premiership? There had to be a catch. But there wasn’t. Instead, it got better and better. We weren’t just on our way to winning the League. How many FA Cup Finals had I been to at Wembley with Dad? Every time, both of us imagining what it would be like for me to play in one? And now, March 1996, here were United at Villa Park for a semi-final against Chelsea, who had Mark Hughes in their side. I didn’t know if I’d ever have a better chance.

  I couldn’t wait, although I promised myself I’d stay well out of Sparky’s way when the day came. I’m really friendly with Mark now. We see quite a lot of him, his wife Gill and their three children, who are the nicest, politest kids you’ll ever meet. I always used to say to Victoria that they were how I hoped our children would be. I knew back then, though, that it didn’t matter how well I knew Mark or how close we were off the pitch; on it – if he had to – he’d smash me as soon as he’d smash anybody else. He was one of those players whose character changes when they go out to play. Mark Hughes would fight for the ball, and fight anyone for it, all day long, which is why supporters and team-mates loved him like they did. I’ve seen games where he didn’t just bully the centre-half he was playing against, he’d bully the entire opposing team.

  Chelsea took the lead on the afternoon, Ruud Gullit scoring with a header. Then Andy Cole equalised for us. Well into the second half, one of their defenders, Craig Burley, misplaced a pass. Steve Bruce, who was on the bench, shouted: ‘Go on, Becks!’ As the ball came towards me, I took a touch and it bounced away a bit off my shin. That took me wider of the goal than I would have wanted. But the keeper came out – we actually caught each other’s eyes for a split second – and I slotted it past him into the corner. I ran off to celebrate: I jumped up in the air, threw my fist up and, I swear, at that moment I felt like I could have reached out to touch the roof of the stand, like I could have hung there till the final whistle went. I remember being desperate, as we played out time, for that goal – my goal – to be the one that took us to Wembley.

  My mum and dad were sitting up in the stand and, at full-time, I looked up towards them and felt the tears welling up inside of me. Wembley held so many memories for us, going back as far as the first time Dad took me. I can still remember going to a schoolboy international one Saturday afternoon when I was only seven and having to stand on my seat to be able to see. Dad kept telling me to get down. I kept getting back up. Eventually, the seat gave way and I fell and knocked out my two front teeth. There was blood everywhere and Dad had to take me home.

  Wembley always meant the Cup Final, too: we were there for that amazing 3–3 draw between United and Palace in 1990, which had every bit of drama you could hope for, with Ian Wright coming on as a substitute and almost winning them the game. I remember not being able to go to the replay because it was a school night and going mad at home, jumping off the settee and dancing round the front room, when Lee Martin scored the winner. Every time United got to a final, I’d hang a flag in my bedroom window, with a picture of Bryan Robson stuck next to it, so everybody could see from the street who I supported. I don’t know who said it first, but it’s true: kids don’t dream about playing for a team that wins the League. Every schoolboy’s dream is about playing in the Cup Final. As we celebrated at Villa Park, I knew – and my parents knew – that dream was about to come true.

  Wembley was six weeks away and we had Premiership games we had to win but, in the back of my mind, was the thought that I had to stay fit and keep playing well enough to make sure I was in the team against Liverpool. As it turned out, it was close. Steve Bruce told me later that the manager had been thinking, just before the final, about leaving me out. Liverpool played with three centre-halves and the boss and Steve and the coaching staff met to talk about matching their shape – playing with wing-backs – which would have meant I’d have been on the bench. At the time, and I’m glad about it, I didn’t know any of that. All I had to think about was beating Liverpool and doing the Double.

  For me, the FA Cup Final had always seemed like a very special occasion. It was for the club I was playing for, too. Manchester United have been in more finals – and won more of them – than anyone else. The club and the gaffer knew how to do it in style. We travelled down to London a couple of days before the game, all fitted out in new suits, and stayed at a lovely hotel down by the Thames, near Windsor. As well as training, there were things like clay-pigeon shooting organised, which obviously weren’t part of the regular routine before an away game. It was all about building us up to the game but making sure we were relaxed as well. I think us young lads were just wandering around with big grins on our faces the whole time. Playing for United in the Cup Final? We were pinching ourselves.

  It’s amazing how often it’s sunny on Cup Final day. In 1996, I remember being surprised how hot it was, even before we got started. I was
sweating during the walkabout on the pitch an hour or so before kick-off. The Liverpool players were strolling around Wembley like it was their own front room: they’d been fitted out in white Armani suits. Some of them were just wearing trainers. Michael Thomas was filming it all on a camcorder. I looked up towards where my mum and dad were going to be sitting. I knew, even then, that the day was going to mean as much to them as it meant to me.

  The game was really tough. Tiring, too: the pitch was very sticky because the grass had been left quite long. Things might have been different if someone had been able to get a goal early on. That might have opened up the game. I had a chance in the first five minutes but David James saved my shot and it went out for a corner. Liverpool tried to stop us playing. We tried to stop them playing. And, well into the second half, it looked like neither team was going to score.

  I’d almost missed out on a place in the starting line-up. And I was almost taken off just before the moment that won the game. The boss told me later that he had been about to make a substitution. He’d not been pleased with my corners all afternoon: ‘crap corners’ he called them. But before the board went up for the change, we won another. I ran over to take it and, as I turned my back on the crowd to put the ball down, I was somehow able to hear this one United supporter’s voice above the din: