David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  I don’t blame Sunderland Football Club for what happened off the pitch that night. The crowd trouble before and during the game was a real blow, like going back to the bad old days: the idiots, too many of them to ignore, letting the rest of the England fans – and the England team – down. Afterwards, I found myself thinking that having to play our next game behind closed doors might not be such a bad thing. That was the threat from UEFA when they had their inquiry into the racist chanting and the pitch invasions at the Stadium of Light. I felt so strongly that I said it in public. If it took England having to play in an empty stadium to make people realise the damage done to our game by the racists and the troublemakers, then so be it. I don’t know how happy the FA were at the time about me speaking my mind but, before we played Slovakia at home in our next qualifier, we recorded an appeal to the supporters to get behind the team in the right way. I wasn’t at the Riverside Stadium that night. My booking against Turkey meant I was out for the game. Everybody’s told me, though, that the supporters in Middlesbrough did England proud. We changed the way people around the world thought about our fans during the 2002 World Cup. I hope that continues. It would be awful to qualify for the European Championships and then find ourselves banned from Portugal because we’ve let things slide.

  The crowd trouble took some of the shine off the night at the Stadium of Light. There were as many headlines about the hooligans as there were about the team. That was a shame because it was another England performance of which we could all be proud. We beat one of Europe’s strongest teams 2–0 and went top of our group. The previous Saturday, we’d been away to Liechtenstein and won by the same score. The pundits, as well as some of our supporters, had given us a roasting: how could England expect to be at the finals if they struggled to beat a bunch of part-timers? But football’s about results. We’d had a bad result, even though we’d played some decent football, down at Southampton against Macedonia. Other than that, despite playing in some difficult conditions, we’d won all our games in Group 7. Sven always says it: get three points. You win the games you’re expected to win and it doesn’t matter too much how you do it. When the big games come round, that’s when you expect to find your big performance to match.

  Turkey retain possession as well as any team in the world. It’s what they base their game around and, if you let them, they’ll take a defence to pieces. Sven and his assistant Brian Kidd, Steve McClaren’s replacement, said how important it was for us to break up their rhythm and to impose our own game on them instead. As captain, I thought it was up to me to try and lead by example. In the first half I did fly into a tackle or two and it cost me a booking but that’s not something I regret. I know it sounds a bit old-fashioned but getting stuck into Turkey was what we needed to do. They had their fair share of the ball but never got time to settle into any kind of pattern. I felt, all night, we were the team that would score. Turkey hadn’t ever seen many like Wayne Rooney: none of us have. Even though he didn’t score, the lad lifted us – and scared them to death – every time he got the ball. Michael Owen was making great runs off him and I was sure he’d get the goal. As it turned out, though, Michael picked up an injury after an hour and Darius Vassell came on and hit in a rebound from Rio Ferdinand’s header. David James made one fantastic save and then Kieron Dyer won a penalty. Well into injury time and the game already won: it wasn’t exactly Argentina at the World Cup. It felt fantastic whacking it in all the same.

  So much of the season had been about doubt and frustration and anger. I took off towards the corner flag at the Stadium of Light and those emotions might just as well have been worries from another lifetime. I couldn’t have wanted better: here we were, never mind the doubters, turning in a performance up there with the games in Munich and Sapporo. Sven was buzzing afterwards, handing all the credit to us. When we don’t play well, he always seems to be there, ready to take the stick. When we win, he’ll just nod and say to people:

  ‘The players were fantastic tonight. I’m very pleased for them.’

  Heading back to Manchester, early Thursday morning, I couldn’t help but take all the positive energy of the night before down the motorway with me. Could I put the problems between me and Alex Ferguson to one side? Gary Neville always used to say the boss got after every player at least once a season: that was his way. You couldn’t argue with the results. He’d always got more out of us, hadn’t he, year after year? Maybe things could be different for me between now and the end of the season. We’d made a mess of things in Cardiff and lost 2–0 to Liverpool in the Worthington Cup Final. We were out of the FA Cup too: I wasn’t ever going to forget that. But we were still right up there in the Premiership. It was going to come down to us or Arsenal again, I was sure. And in the Champions League, we’d drawn Real Madrid in the quarters. One way or another, nobody ever got bored playing for, or watching, United. I was as desperate as I’d ever been to be involved. The European Cup Final, to be played at Old Trafford, was less than two months away. More history was there to be made.

  We were out on the training ground when we found out United would play Madrid. As far as I can see, it’s the best game in Europe. Not just because it’s between two huge clubs but because of the way the two teams play football. We knew from past experience how good the games would be to play in. We knew what the atmosphere would be like as well. Who doesn’t get excited, stepping out to play at Old Trafford or the Bernabeu? All of us at United were convinced that, if we could beat Real, we could go on and win the competition. You could feel the buzz everywhere you went around Manchester ahead of those games against Madrid.

  I seem to remember that it was right around the time the draw was made – two weeks before the first leg – that stories started appearing in the papers about me being transferred to Real. I knew those rumours were nothing to do with me and didn’t imagine they could be anything to do with the club either. I thought the gaffer was right when he put them down to mischief-making:

  ‘What a coincidence that the story comes up just when we’re getting ready to play them.’

  He was right to be annoyed. We wanted to be ready for Madrid and we had a big game in the League the weekend before: Liverpool at home. My hamstring had felt a little sore after the Turkey game. Nothing serious: I didn’t think it would keep me out of the next United game. I was in the players’ lounge on the Saturday morning. We had an early kick-off against Liverpool. I got the call from one of the coaches, Mike Phelan, that the boss wanted to see me, so I went through to his office.

  ‘I don’t want to risk you, David. I want to save you for the game in the week. You’ve got this sore hamstring. I want to hold you back for Tuesday night.’

  I never made it easy for the gaffer to give me a break. I never want a rest. I never want to miss a game. I can’t help it: I just always want to play. Not that there was any point – now or ever – in me trying to get him to change his mind.

  ‘I know what you’re saying but I’m not going to play you. And that’s it.’

  I went out, muttering:

  ‘Okay. Fine. If that’s what you want.’

  I was on the bench but at least I understood why, however annoyed I was about it. I’m not quite as mad for Liverpool games as Gaz is. He’s always got himself into trouble, over the years, winding their supporters up. But, if I could, I’d always want to play against them too. Especially after the stick we’d taken, losing the Worthington Cup Final at the Millennium Stadium. Especially on an afternoon when Liverpool were a goal behind and down to ten men after five minutes. Sami Hyppia got sent off after conceding a penalty and Ruud scored. It was 2–0 by the time I got on for the last half hour. We ended up winning 4–0. I was involved in the last two goals and felt great: we’d done what we needed to in the Premiership and made up points on Arsenal who only drew. I’d come off the bench and got straight into the game and the hamstring the boss had been worried about hadn’t bothered me at all. Now, Monday, we’d be off to Madrid.

  Real hav
e so many world-class players. Their stars, the galacticos, are as well known here as they are in Spain. We’re able to watch La Liga on television every week these days and we knew most of them from previous games anyway. I’d also run into one or two of the Real lads in the past. I’d gone out to Spain with some of the other United players in early 2003 to shoot a spaghetti Western-style Pepsi advert for television. All of us were dressed up like Clint Eastwood – stubble, leathers, the lot – on a set that had been built to look like Nowheresville in the Wild West. With a bit of help from a horse, I had a shootout and won against the Madrid keeper, Iker Casillas. Then Roberto Carlos, at the end, stepped out on the boardwalk with his hair cut into a Mohican – who could they have been thinking of? – and gave me a look as if to say:

  ‘If you want to talk about free-kicks, you’d better talk to me.’

  When you’re up against the likes of Raul and Zidane, Luis Figo and Ronaldo, there’s always the danger of going out and playing against the reputation instead of against the player. Even at the very top level, you sometimes have to pinch yourself: you’re not here to get these blokes’ autographs, after all. We prepared well for the game in Madrid and trained at the Bernabeu late afternoon the day before the game. Even when it’s empty, it’s an amazing stadium. In the course of a training session you get what you never have time for in a game: the chance to look around and take the place in. I’d played there before but, that Monday, it got to me. The scale of the place, the sense of tradition: it’s got an aura, like Old Trafford does. The history of half a century of great games, great players, success and silverware just seemed to hang in the early evening air. Almost as soon as we came off the pitch, I was on the mobile to home:

  ‘I’ve never had a feeling like that. The place is giving me the shivers. I can’t wait for tomorrow night.’

  After dinner that evening, we watched a video that Carlos Queiroz had put together. I think the idea was to make us think less about what a good team Real were and more about why we had a great chance of beating them: it showed highlights of the best things each United player had done in games during the season so far. It was the right kind of inspiration and made us fancy our chances for Tuesday night even more.

  I’ve talked to Mum about the game at the Bernabeu since. She was up in one corner, on the first tier, with all the United fans. She says she had the strangest feeling when we ran out before kick-off, which she never mentioned to anyone else: a cold tingle ran up her spine. She was convinced then that I would end up playing at this stadium for Real Madrid. For all the paper talk, I’d no intention of ever making the move at that time and Mum knew that. What’s more, she would never have wanted me to leave England: it had been bad enough me moving to Manchester, hadn’t it? She couldn’t help her intuition, though: she just made sure she kept it to herself. While Mum was having her moment, I was down there and grinning from ear to ear during the warm-up. You come out of the tunnel into the glare of floodlights and the din of a 75,000 crowd who demand the absolute best. If you’re a player and that setting doesn’t turn you on, you might as well forget it: the alternative is to get intimidated by it, in which case you’ll have lost the game before you kick off.

  Mum was right to sense that something significant was about to happen for her boy that early April evening. I could pick out any number of incidents that took me down the path to what happened that summer. I’ve already written about some of them. My big moment at the Bernabeu wasn’t anything spectacular but I think it played its part in taking me back there as a Real player. About five minutes into the game, we got a free-kick just inside the Madrid half. I took it and, just as I struck the ball forward, I felt my hamstring tighten. It didn’t tear. If that had happened, I wouldn’t have had any choice about what to do; I’d have come off and been laid up for the next three weeks. I’d have missed the second leg at Old Trafford, no question. In hindsight, I guess I should have given the bench a wave and made my excuses. But that’s not me. It’s not most players. We’d just kicked off in what felt like one of the biggest games of our lives. I was desperate to play; desperate to impress in this stadium and against these players. It was uncomfortable but I convinced myself I’d run it off. And so I carried on.

  Over the next forty minutes, Real played football like I’d never seen it played in my life. It wasn’t that we were bad: we made chances all the way through the first half and if we’d taken one early on, it might have made for a different game. I doubt it, though. When they had the ball, they were making runs off us all over the place. It might have looked like we were standing back, watching them play. I think the truth was that they were getting so many players involved every time they came forward that we found ourselves defending one man against two or three all over the pitch. It meant there were holes for us to play in when we had the ball but the Real players were too busy running past us to worry about what was going on behind them. That’s why they’re so good to watch when they have that kind of night.

  As if the team play wasn’t good enough, Luis Figo scored an impossible goal early on to give Real the lead. He was about 25 yards out, on the left wing, maybe fifteen yards short of the byeline. I remember looking over and thinking:

  ‘That’s a good position for a cross.’

  But a cross wasn’t what Figo had in mind. He took a little pass from Zidane, checked back and then hit it right-footed, all power and swerve, over Fabien Barthez and in under the bar at the far post. You’re happy if you’ve got one or two players who’ll do something like that for you: Real have got half a dozen. I know the gaffer rates Raul as the best centre-forward in the world: Ruud van Nistelrooy would probably get sixty goals in a season playing alongside him. At the Bernabeu, Raul scored either side of half-time. We looked shot to pieces.

  But United don’t lie down for anybody. That’s the gaffer; that’s Keano and that’s anybody who wants to play for the club. I talked to people afterwards who were watching on television. They said that, at 3–0, it looked like it was going to be 7 or 8 the way Madrid were playing. But we kept getting our tackles in when we could; kept trying to pass the ball when we had it and, eventually, we got our goal. Ruud deserved it: when we’d been under the cosh, he’d been playing their back four on his own. At 3–1, with an away goal, we had half a chance. Right at the end, I missed one that would have made it 3–2. That really would have given us something to chase at Old Trafford. When the game ended, I was looking down at the pitch, catching my breath and putting a hand to the back of my leg, which was starting to tighten up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roberto Carlos coming towards me. He was smiling. I straightened up and looked at him. Now, he was laughing. I didn’t have a clue what about. There was something a little crazy about the moment. I didn’t know what to say or do. I smiled back as we shook hands. I could hear the camera shutters clicking and I remember thinking: That won’t make a very good picture back in Manchester.

  The gaffer didn’t say much afterwards. We’d all had enough nights in Europe together to have a pretty good idea what had gone wrong. There was no need for him to lay into us. What mattered was that we got ourselves up for the second leg.

  Paul Scholes and Gary Neville were pretty low. They’d both got bookings and were going to be suspended for the game in Manchester. I felt bad for Scholesy. He’d missed out on the European Cup Final at the Nou Camp in 1999 because he’d been suspended for that as well. He’s intense about his football, passionate about playing for United. Real at Old Trafford was another huge game. I’ve been playing football with Scholesy half my life, for United and for England. Think about the two of us, as people, and you’d probably say we’ve not got much in common. Paul’s quiet. He’s so private that the other lads are always giving him grief about it. The rumour is that he turns off his mobile straight after training and doesn’t turn it on again until he’s five minutes from Carrington the next morning. And as for his home number, he’s given it out to so few people down the years he’s probably forgotten what it is
himself.

  Scholesy’s always just kept his head down and got on with football. I don’t know a Premiership player, apart from him, who hasn’t got an agent. Actually there’s quite a few things that set Scholesy apart. He’s an amazing one-touch player, who scores all the goals from midfield any manager could ask for. Plus he’s got a temper as scary as Keano’s or the gaffer’s once he gets going. Like I say, we played through some history together at United and I hope we’ll play through some more with England over the next three or four years. I’ve always got on well with Paul but you’re never going to have a dressing room full of people who want to go out to dinner with each other every night. For a team to be successful, what you have to have is players who respect and trust each other. And it goes almost without saying – just look where we’ve been together – that I respect and trust Paul as much as any player I’ve ever known.

  After the final whistle at the Bernabeu, we went down to say thanks to the United fans. The club competes in the Champions League season after season. I wonder sometimes how people find the time or the money. They do, though. There are Reds away in Europe in their thousands wherever and whenever United play. I was hobbling a bit by then and when I got back to the dressing room, I was on the treatment table for a long while. The hamstring was really sore now the game had finished. It kept me out of the team for the Premiership match against Newcastle the following Saturday. I was frustrated about it but there was nothing I could do. It meant I missed the game that put the stamp on our season. I think winning 6–2 at St James’ Park was the result that pushed us on to winning the League. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer came in and did really well in place of me.