I was happy to have got my World Cup started, proud that the supporters had cheered so loudly when I came on in that second game. But nothing was clear-cut at France 98. No sooner did I have the feeling that things were starting to go my way, I took another knock. Glenn Hoddle told the press that he had been planning for Michael Owen and I to play the third game, against Colombia, all along. He’d hoped we’d have qualified for the next round by then. It was like being told that you were a squad member who’d get a run out when the manager wanted to rest his first-choice players. Knowing I was going to play was great. Glenn’s explanation as to why just left a bitter taste again.
At our base in La Baule, we had a small training pitch which didn’t get used all that much. It was somewhere you could go out with a ball and practise on your own. The day before the Colombia game, I bought some batteries and took this big portable stereo unit out with me. I borrowed two bags of balls. It was a boiling hot afternoon, so I was just in shorts and a vest. I stuck the stereo down, put on Tupac, the American rap singer, turned it up full blast and then spent a couple of hours on my own, practising free-kicks: putting a ball down and then bending it in to the corner of the goal, over and over again.
The day of the game was my mum’s birthday and, before going into the stadium, we spoke on the phone:
‘Score a goal for me.’
The free-kick against Colombia was my first goal for England. I suppose I should remember everything about it: the foul, the wall, the angle. But somehow, even at the moment itself, what it meant to me was more important than the goal itself. I knew it had a chance as soon as I struck it and I raced off towards the corner flag to celebrate. Graeme Le Saux tried to grab me round the waist and then Sol Campbell jumped on my back. I’d known Sol since we were twelve years old, training together at Tottenham. Right then, he knew as well as anybody how important this was for me. Even scoring, though, I couldn’t just enjoy plain and simple. Part of me wanted to run over to the bench to Glenn Hoddle. There you go. What did you make of that?
It was a pity I didn’t, because on the way to the dugout I might have remembered to do what I’d promised before the game: to go and hug Terry Byrne and Steve Slattery, the England masseurs, if I scored. Terry and Slatts had talked to me – and listened to me – through all the highs and lows so far. They’d been great company. The right company: they’d say what they thought, not just what they thought I wanted to hear. And they’d listen for as long as I had something to say. Terry has become a really close friend over the years. After the game, I was on the phone to everybody. I was so pleased at my own performance, that we’d won and that we were through to the next round. With that free-kick, I felt I’d proved a point as far as the manager was concerned.
But would I be in the team for the game against Argentina in the second round? I was still pretty confused about the manager’s attitude towards me. We had another awkward episode before we left for Saint-Etienne. Sometimes Glenn wanted us to take a walk to loosen up in the afternoon, just in tracksuits and trainers. This time, though, we got down to the training pitch and he suddenly announced he wanted to work on a new free-kick routine that involved someone flicking the ball up and me volleying it over the wall and in. I was worried about a tight hamstring; in fact none of us had warmed up. So when he told me to do it, I just lobbed the ball over the wall rather than hitting it with full power. Glenn got really angry:
‘Can’t you do it? Well, if you can’t do it, we’ll forget it.’
I hadn’t done what he wanted me to, because the last thing I needed was to injure myself. The atmosphere between us was strained afterwards, even though Glenn didn’t mention it again. It was the kind of clash that players remember: not just the ones directly involved but their team-mates, too, who were standing watching it happen. Despite that, I felt I was worth my place in the next game and just kept my fingers crossed.
England vs Argentina is always a huge game, for all sorts of reasons; not all of them to do with football. It’s one of the oldest and greatest rivalries in football. In Argentina, what we call ‘derbies’ they call ‘classicos’: not just games between neighbours, like United vs City or England vs Scotland, but fixtures with a history, like United vs Liverpool or England vs Germany. They reckon there’s only one ‘classico’ between teams from two different continents: and that’s Us against Them. No wonder it gets a big build up and that the game in Saint-Etienne in 1998 was no different. I was really excited and looking forward to it. I’d been made to feel insecure and had suffered emotional knocks since the start of the tournament. But I didn’t, for a moment, feel anything but ready for Argentina. I certainly didn’t have any idea what lay in store for me, during the game and after.
The evening started so well: a great game and us more than a match for them. After Argentina had taken the lead after only five minutes through a Batistuta penalty, Alan Shearer equalised, also from the spot. Over a year had gone by since his last penalty for England, but we all knew he’d lash it in. Then, five minutes later, I put the ball through for Michael Owen to score that fantastic second goal. They got one back and it was 2–2 at half-time. In the dressing room, there were a few words said about the defending at the free-kick from which Zanetti scored their second goal. Otherwise, we just couldn’t wait to go out and get started again: the game was there to be won. How could I have known that, for me, disaster was waiting to happen?
I think Diego Simeone is a good player. Good, but really annoying to play against: always round you, tapping your ankles, niggling away at you. It gets to opposition players and he knows it. Maybe, too, he was aware that Glenn Hoddle had said before the tournament that he was worried about my temperament in pressure situations. I’d not really had any trouble with him during the game until then but, just after half-time, he clattered into me from behind. Then, while I was down on the ground, he made as if to ruffle my hair. And gave it a tug. I flicked my leg up backwards towards him. It was instinctive, but the wrong thing to do. You just can’t allow yourself to retaliate. I was provoked but, almost at the same moment I reacted, I knew I shouldn’t have done. Of course, Simeone went down as if he’d been shot.
I’ve made a big mistake here. I’m going to be off. Gary Neville came up behind me, put his arm around my shoulder and then slapped me on the back.
‘What have you done? Why did you do that?’
He wasn’t having a go at me. Gary just wanted to know why I’d kicked out at Simeone. At that moment – and to this day – I don’t know the answer to that. The referee, Kim Nielsen, didn’t say a word to me. He just pulled the red card out of his pocket. I’ll never forget the sight of it as long as I live. Look at the video now: Simeone acting like he’s in intensive care; Veron telling the ref what he thought should happen; the ref with the card; Batistuta nodding, like hethought justice had been done; and me, just walking away, eyes already focused down the tunnel. It wasn’t as if I was angry. The look on my face tells you: I was in a different world. Simeone had laid his trap and I’d jumped straight into it. Whatever else happens to me, those sixty seconds will always be with me.
Even before I got to the touchline, Terry Byrne had run over from the bench. He put an arm round my shoulder and walked down to the dressing room with me. As soon as we got there, I phoned Victoria in the States. Obviously I hadn’t seen the replays on television and wanted to know what had happened. She was watching the game in a bar in New York. There was something not real about it she said. No-one could make sense of the fact that I’d been sent off. Why had it happened? There wasn’t much more to say.
Terry stayed with me. I went in and had a shower. A long shower, like it was going to somehow wash all this away. Suddenly, Steve Slattery came running in and was shouting:
‘We’ve scored! Sol’s scored!’
I jumped out of the shower, but a moment later, he was back and telling us the goal had been disallowed. I put on my tracksuit and a French guy, a FIFA official, came and told me I had to go through to t
he drug-testing room. At least they had a television in there so I could watch the game. At the end of ninety minutes, they told me I could leave and I went and watched extra-time from the tunnel leading out to the pitch. I couldn’t take in what was unfolding in front of me: it was as if the sending-off wiped away any other memories I might have of the game. But the moment David Batty missed his penalty, and the Argentinians went rushing towards their goalkeeper to celebrate, it sank in. I’ll be going home tomorrow.
That night was the worst of my life but I did have one miraculous thing to hang onto: I’d soon be with Victoria, who was pregnant with our first child. The day the England party had arrived in Saint-Etienne ahead of the Argentina game, we’d got off the plane and there’d been a message on my mobile.
‘David. It’s Victoria. Please call me as quick as you can.’
I’d got on the coach and rang her back.
‘I’ve got some news for you,’ she said.
‘What is it?’
‘We’re pregnant.’
I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to stand up in my seat and scream it out to everybody. It was mad. I couldn’t believe what I’d just been told. I went into the tiny toilet on the team coach and just jumped up and down, hugging myself. I was so happy. It’s the sort of news you want to share with people but, of course, I couldn’t tell a soul.
There are particular things about that evening in Saint-Etienne that stand out clearly, as if they’ve been lit up by the flashbulbs that go off around a stadium at night: the sending-off itself, talking on the phone to Victoria, remembering I was going to be a father and, then, seeing my dad in the car park after the game. But the rest of it? Probably for my own sanity, it’s a blur: the game’s going on, but it’s like I’m watching it through the wrong end of a telescope; the anger, the frustration and the shame; and the disbelief that this could all be happening to me.
When it was over, the England players went to the end where our supporters were massed. I didn’t feel like I could be any part of that, so I turned and went back to the dressing room. At the time, Glenn Hoddle was doing the television interview in which he said that, if it had been eleven against eleven, England would have won. The papers and everybody else, of course, turned that into him saying it was my fault England had lost to Argentina.
The players came back into the dressing room and it was deathly quiet. Alan Shearer sat down next to me. ‘Sorry Al,’ was all I could think of to say. Alan just stared at the floor in front of him. What could anybody say? Only each individual player knows what was in his mind after that game. I won’t ever forget that Tony Adams was the one man who came and found me. The first time I’d been in an England squad with him, Tony had scared me to death. Away to Georgia in a qualifier, just a couple of minutes before we went out for the game, he’d stood up in the dressing room. ‘Right, lads! This is ours. We deserve this. We’ve come out here to win it!’ It wasn’t just that Tony was loud, it was the passion and the determination in his voice. I couldn’t believe the ferocity of it. It was one of those moments when you’re shocked into a new level of commitment. Not that you didn’t care before: but being in that changing room, witnessing how much it mattered to Tony, was inspiring to someone who was just starting out as an international player. England losing in Saint-Etienne hurt him as much as it hurt anybody, especially as he thought he might not play for his country again. It was awful in the dressing room that night. There could be no disappointment like it. But Tony came over and put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Whatever’s happened here, I think you’re a great young lad and an excellent young player. I’m proud to have played for England with you. You can be stronger for this. You can be a better player after it.’
We left the ground and my mum and dad were waiting by the coach. I fell into Dad’s arms and started sobbing. I couldn’t stop. I’m a bit embarrassed thinking about it now but, at the time, I just couldn’t help myself. Eventually, I calmed down and Dad pushed me onto the coach. I sat down and leant my head against the cool of the window. Gary Neville got on and sat in the seat next to me. He could see I’d been crying. He could see I might be about to start again.
‘Don’t let anyone see you like this. You shouldn’t be like this. You haven’t done anything wrong. What’s happened has happened.’
I looked at him.
‘Victoria’s pregnant.’
Gary’s eyes opened that bit wider.
‘Well, there you are. Just get out there and be with her. That’s the best news anybody could ever have. Just think about that. It was a football match. This is a new life.’
When Seba Veron joined United, I remember we talked about the reaction of the Argentinian players, or at least some of them, when they saw me with my dad that night. As their coach pulled away out of the car park, we could see them looking back at the England coach, bare-chested, laughing and swinging their shirts above their heads.
We went straight to the airport and then flew back to La Baule for our last night at France 98. Some of the players went straight to their rooms; others went for a drink. I found myself in the games room with Terry and Slatts and Steve McManaman. Usually, we’d have hot chocolates and get off to bed a little after midnight. That last night, though, Terry told me I had to have something to drink. I had a couple of beers. I don’t usually drink but, that evening, the alcohol helped numb the pain a little. We hung around, the four of us, not saying all that much – there wasn’t much to say by now – and I don’t think I turned in until about four in the morning, even though we had to be up at nine for our Concorde flight back to England.
I made arrangements to travel to the States that same night. England were out of the World Cup. I wanted as much time with Victoria as possible before training for a new season started. My parents flew straight back to England from Saint-Etienne and were there to meet me at Heathrow the following day. By the time Concorde touched down, someone at the airport had been kind enough to offer us use of her office for the couple of hours before I got my connecting flight to the States. I found Mum and Dad, gave them my belongings and got changed for the onward flight. I knew I wouldn’t see them for the best part of a fortnight and I had news that I wanted to give them face to face rather than over a phone. I told them Victoria was pregnant.
They seemed very surprised. And worried, too. Maybe it was because they’d already got an idea of the reaction I was going to get back home after my sending off. Joanne was with them and she hugged and kissed me, but Mum was quite quiet and I remember Dad just said:
‘Are you sure it’s not too soon?’
We had to say our goodbyes. I headed off to the departure lounge and got to where I had to check in my luggage without any fuss at all. I’d been warned that there would be press around looking for me but it seemed like everything was quiet. Once I was through, I thought I’d be fine, that nobody would be able to get that side of immigration and passport control. I was wrong. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a group of photographers and a couple of camera crews heading towards me, together with this little guy who I recognised from previous times; he’d always be running alongside you, whispering things to you and trying to provoke a reaction.
‘Do you think you’ve let the team down, David? Have you let the country down? Do you realise what you’ve done, David? Should you be leaving the country right now?’
I had about two hundred yards to walk to the lounge. I slung my bag over one shoulder, just stared in front of me and marched on, not saying a word. It must have looked mad, with all these people trailing after me. Maybe it looked bad in the newspapers or on television, like I was running away. But I knew I just had to keep going. I couldn’t afford to react in the wrong way now. I didn’t need people telling me how bad I should be feeling. I already felt all that and worse. I wanted to be able to shut my eyes and be with Victoria. What could I do but try and blank the cameras out?
I made that finishing line and, a few minutes later, I was on Concorde again. The flurry
of snappers at Heathrow had given me an idea of what I could have expected had I stayed at home. As the plane took off, I assumed I was leaving all that behind: not my own disappointment about what had happened in Saint-Etienne, but having it stuck in my face by the media.
It was a little bit scary arriving at New York’s JFK. I’d been to America before but this was the first time on my own. I walked up to the security checkpoint. There were these security staff, with guns and dark sunglasses, looking really serious, wanting to know what was in this bag and that one. I’d arranged for a driver to meet me. As I walked out through the doors into the arrivals hall, there was a crowd of photographers, camera crews, and press waiting for me. This is New York. This shouldn’t be happening.
I jumped into the car and went to close the door but there were people holding it open so I couldn’t. It was ridiculous. I was having a tug of war with whoever was on the other side of the door. Then, when I got that one shut, the door on the other side of the car was pulled open, and a female photographer started snapping away at me in the back seat. I couldn’t believe what was going on. I thought that, once I’d reached America, I’d be all right. Instead, I was in the middle of a scene from a movie: I’d never experienced anything like this back at home.
When we finally got the doors shut and locked, we headed straight to Madison Square Garden and a Spice Girls concert. I hadn’t really organised things properly, so I didn’t even know how to get in to the place. We arrived outside and I was wandering around, looking for a stage door, until I spotted one of the tour managers. He took me inside and we set off down this corridor towards the Girls’ dressing rooms.
David Beckham: My Side Page 13