David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  I was back training with everybody else first thing on the Monday morning. We were away to Arsenal on the Wednesday night: as far as the Premiership goes, the biggest fixture of the season. We’d got ourselves into a position where, as long as we didn’t lose at Highbury, it would be very difficult for them to catch us over the last four or five games. The way we were feeling, we thought we’d win every game until the end of the season anyway. I was pretty confident I’d play. I knew I was fit enough to. No manager likes to change a winning team and 6–2 away was definitely a winning team. Even so, the gaffer had usually brought me back into the United side after a game’s rest or games missed because of injury. I felt I was part of his best eleven. I didn’t find out otherwise until the day of the game. We were having our pre-match meal. The gaffer came and sat next to me:

  ‘I’m starting with Ole. I can’t change the team.’

  I couldn’t help but be disappointed, but I didn’t feel like an argument over it. I wasn’t happy but the gaffer was doing what he thought was best. My job was to sit on the substitute’s bench and be ready.

  Because of the speculation about my future, people pointed to the boss leaving me out against Arsenal as proof things weren’t right between us. As far as I was concerned, though, I was a United player, and me not playing at Highbury wasn’t going to change that. It was a strange night: not much of a game when you compared it to the stuff that had been played in Madrid, by both sides, the previous week. But it had all the tension and drama anybody could have asked for. Ruud scored. Thierry Henry scored twice and then Giggsy equalised. Sol Campbell got sent off. Patrick Vieira had to go off injured and didn’t play again for the rest of the season. At the end, the gaffer went running onto the pitch, punching the air. He’s always loved beating them and I think he knew the 2–2 was just what we needed. I remember being in the tunnel afterwards, talking to Sol about the sending off. Gossip gets round players as well and the rumours hadn’t really stopped since the last time we’d played Arsenal, back in February up at Old Trafford. I remember Thierry Henry coming past us. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow:

  ‘What’s the matter? Why weren’t you playing?’

  Then he laughed:

  ‘You can come and play for us if you like.’

  I laughed too.

  The gaffer was really pleased with what had happened. I actually remember him saying, particularly, how well he thought Ole Gunnar Solskjaer had played. Even so, come the Saturday and home to Blackburn, Ole was on the bench and I started a game for the first time since we’d been beaten in Madrid. Blackburn were on a really good run and played well but we won 3–1. I was happy to be back in the team and happy with how I played. But something still didn’t feel right. The obvious picture was that I was fit again and the gaffer had wanted to give me a run out before the second leg against Real the following Wednesday. Everybody assumed I’d be playing in United’s biggest game of the season. Except me. Over the weekend I became more and more convinced the gaffer was going to leave me out for the second leg. I talked to some mates about it. They all said the same thing:

  ‘No chance. You’ll play. It doesn’t matter what’s gone on, you’ll play.’

  In the couple of days leading up to the Madrid game, I did my best to concentrate on our preparations like everyone else, but the thought that I was going to be dropped just nagged away at me like a sore tooth. Gary and I always used to joke that we’d learnt how to tell – from how the boss was behaving towards us – if he was getting a shock ready for us.

  ‘He was nice to me yesterday. So he’s going to leave me out of the team tomorrow.’

  That instinct, after so many years working with him, told me that the gaffer’s manner leading up to the Wednesday night was all wrong as far as my chances were concerned. No harsh words, no wind-ups, no little digs: it was as if I wasn’t even there. Out at Carrington on the morning of the game, we were playing head tennis before the training session started. The gaffer pulled me to one side. He just said what he had to say, and what I knew he was going to say:

  ‘David, you’re not going to start tonight. You’ll be on the bench.’

  I flinched. Although I’d been expecting it, to hear the gaffer say that was like being hit between the shoulder blades. It suddenly felt as if the whole of the season had been about him building up to doing this to me. I was on the outside looking in. Real Madrid: an important game, son. Too important for you to play in. I could taste the anger and the disappointment in the back of my throat. Sometimes, your feelings are so confused and so complicated you’re frozen to the spot. I looked at the gaffer, tried to look into his eyes: nothing there for me. I shook my head, turned round, and began walking back to the changing room.

  ‘David. Come back here. Don’t walk away from me.’

  The boss didn’t shout. He didn’t lose his rag. It was as if he was asking me, not telling me, David, please come back. I want to finish what I was saying.

  As if there was anything that needed to be said. I just kept walking. Thinking back to that scene now, I’d say that if the gaffer had still cared about me as a person or as a player, we’d have had a row there and then. He wouldn’t have let me walk away from him like that. It was different for me. I had to keep going, to make sure I didn’t say or do anything that I’d regret later. I was a professional footballer, with responsibilities to myself and to the club. I needed to behave like one, not make things worse.

  When I found out the starting eleven, frustration made way for disbelief. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer had done really well playing in my place off and on during the season. If I stepped back from my own disappointment for a moment, I could understand the gaffer picking him ahead of me. Which of us would be the best choice to start wide right against Madrid came down to a matter of opinion and it would be a manager’s job to make the judgement. I could see, after how he’d been playing, it would be hard to leave Ole out. He’s been so patient in his time at United, game after game as a sub. No-one could say Ole hadn’t earned his chance. What I couldn’t believe – and what made me sure that the gaffer was leaving me out for personal rather than football reasons – was seeing Seba Veron’s name on the teamsheet. Don’t get me wrong. Seba and I get on really well and I think he’s a marvellous player. I’d never resent him getting a game ahead of me. But what was the gaffer thinking? Seba had been out injured for seven weeks. He’d trained for just a couple of days: hadn’t even been fit enough to be a sub against Blackburn four days before. But, for the biggest game of the season, he was in ahead of me. Nine months of what felt like hard knocks and, now, the hardest of the lot. I was shatterd by it: my football world snatched from under my feet.

  I went in and got changed without saying anything to anybody. Most of the other lads were already heading off to have lunch. I went out to the car. I had to let Tony Stephens know what had happened: it felt to me as if this was something that would make staying at United more difficult. For the first time in my life, I wondered if playing football somewhere else might be better than playing it here. I needed to let someone know how upset and angry I was. Tony couldn’t believe what I had to tell him. He said that trying to behave as if everything was fine was the right thing to do: sit on the bench and be ready when I got the chance he thought I would. He was sure this could all still be an opportunity for me. I can’t say I was as confident as Tony sounded but talking to him calmed me down a bit at least. I rang Victoria. She needed to know what was going on too.

  You look to your wife for support and what do you get? From Victoria, I always seem to get just what I need. It was another of those times when the pressure was becoming that intense I wasn’t sure I knew how to handle it. Like during the build-up to the game against Argentina in Sapporo. Since that boot had hit me, my situation and my future had been talked and written about to the point where I was getting suffocated by it all. You know you’re in trouble when you start to think: well, maybe they’re right. Even when you’re the person it’s happening to an
d you actually know that they’re wrong. Victoria understood how much playing against Madrid meant to me. She knew why I thought, after the injury at the Bernabeu, I had to play – and play well – at Old Trafford. So Victoria let me talk and then said her bit:

  ‘So you’re on the bench. Well, don’t forget to take your Preparation H out there with you. You spend more time sitting on that bench than you do playing. Piles will be next.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘And make sure you keep a smile on your face so, if the camera’s on you, nobody will know there’s anything wrong.’

  We laughed, both of us. She meant what she said. She was telling me just to get on with it, which I knew was what I had to do. But she’s the only person in the world who could have said it to me the way she did. Victoria brought me back to the real world. It didn’t matter, the day of a game, how I was feeling. What mattered was that the team went out and beat Real Madrid. By the time I got back to Old Trafford, I’d got a lid on the morning’s emotions. I got changed, went out for the warm-up with the rest of the lads. Walked round the dressing room, shaking hands and wishing my mates good luck. And then got a sweatshirt on, made my way along the touchline from the tunnel and climbed the flight of stairs to squeeze in alongside the other subs. The seven of us sat tight and watched United start the job of trying to pull two goals back against the best team in Europe. We sat and watched. And I waited.

  I tried to keep that smile on my face too. Or, at least, keep a frown off it. I knew the cameras would be cutting away to the bench. I knew how much fuss had been made in the media about me being left out. The evening was supposed to be about the game, though. Not about a player falling out with his boss. I didn’t want to take the focus away from the players out there. If there was anything to be said, I could say it if I got on. Meantime, it was all about not letting on how sick I was feeling. I wonder if any other game, against any other team, could have made me forget, even for a minute, where I was and what had happened that day. Real Madrid were 3–1 up, in a position they didn’t need to take any risks to protect. But they just came at us the same way they had at the Bernabeu, pinging passes about, making runs off our players, looking like they were going to score every time they attacked. I was swept away in it along with 67,000 others.

  Ronaldo destroyed us. Raul was out with appendicitis, so the big man was on his own up front and Madrid played an extra midfielder, Steve McManaman. Steve and Zidane, Figo and Guti along with Roberto Carlos were free to get up and support Ronaldo whenever they wanted. As if any of them needed an invitation. As if Ronaldo needed any help. He scored a fantastic hat-trick in the hour he played. I got the call from the coach Mike Phelan to go on a couple of minutes after Ronaldo’s third goal. I was desperate to be out there. Not to make my point now, just to be involved in an amazing game of football: we were 3–2 down on the night, 6–3 down on aggregate, half an hour still to play. United were definitely in the game, even if the tie seemed long gone. The atmosphere when Seba came off and I went on was a bit eerie. He’d played well and deserved the applause. What was weird was that, when I stepped up the slope to the touchline to replace him, it sounded as if the cheer I’d usually get stuck in some people’s throats. I could understand the United fans not knowing where they stood with me right at that moment.

  ‘Whose side are you on? Whose side are we on?’

  It was uncomfortable. But the uncertainty in the crowd just made me all the more determined to make a mark in the time we had left. A minute or two after I got on, Ronaldo was subbed. He’d had a great game. He’d won the tie for Real. Everybody inside Old Trafford knew it. The whole crowd got to their feet and gave the bloke the kind of ovation a United player would have got. Never mind we looked like we were going out of the Champions League. The Manchester crowd knows its football and they knew they’d been privileged to be there, watching Ronaldo play. I’ve got my own reasons for having great memories about United’s supporters: they always stood by me when I needed them. But I felt really proud of them in a different way that night, watching their reaction as Ronaldo walked off, hands above his head, clapping back.

  If I enjoyed Ronaldo’s moment, I enjoyed my own even more. We got a free-kick on the edge of the Real penalty area, just to the right of the ‘D’. If I’d been picking and choosing, I might have wanted to be a yard or two further out. The closer you are to goal, the quicker you need to get the ball up and then down again to beat both the wall and the keeper. This one looked like a tricky 50 pence worth to me: from this range and against this opposition. I’d practised it tens of thousands of times on my own, on a training pitch – Wadham Lodge, the Cliff, La Baule, Bisham Abbey, Carrington – after everyone else had gone home. Teaching my foot, my leg, the rest of my body how it felt when I got it right. And learning how to make it right more and more often. So that now, head swirling, gasping for breath, the future bearing down on me like a dead weight, I could switch distraction off like a light. It’s the ball in front of you. The glimpse of white goalpost you can see beyond the wall of defenders. It’s the spot on your boot and the angle at which that meets the ball. Step up. Strike. All the practice leaves you knowing, instinctively, when one’s on its way, barring a save. I was up in the air before the ball had even settled in the net behind Casillas. It’s flown in. Nothing to do with the circumstances. I was celebrating what I’ll remember as my best free-kick ever in a Manchester United shirt.

  At 3–3 in the game, I was buzzing. I felt like I’d been plugged into something. Still two-down on aggregate but there was more in this, I was sure. But then, all of a sudden, Madrid players were coming up to me and having a chat, while the football – this incredible match – was crackling on around us. First, Guti ran alongside me and asked me if we could swap shirts at full-time. Then, Roberto Carlos was grinning at me again:

  ‘Are you coming to play for us?’

  Ten minutes left and it was Zidane’s turn.

  ‘David? Your shirt?’

  I was chasing around, still trying to make things happen. Those players weren’t trying to distract me or wind me up. They were just stone cold sure they could beat us all night long. Why not sort out the formalities now? Maybe they were right to be so relaxed. Maybe they did always have enough that, however close we got to them, they’d just find another gear. Five minutes from time, though, Ruud made a great run into the box. His shot came back off the keeper and I stretched out at the far post and toed it over the line as me and Ivan Helguera fell down in a heap together. I could glimpse supporters’ faces in the crowd behind the goal in the Stretford End. Not just celebrating, but their eyes widening:

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Because of their away goals – Ronaldo’s goals – we still needed another two to go through. But there was enough time to get them. The Real coach, Vicente del Bosque, brought on an extra defender: for the first time in three hours, Real were going to try and hold on to what they had. I got one cross in that Ole, who’d played really well, couldn’t get proper contact on. It was the kind of chance that, five minutes into a game, he’d have scored from. And then we got another free-kick, on the edge of their box. It was almost dead centre and, this time, my shot went over the bar. There went my match ball.

  We’d won the game, but lost the tie. I couldn’t help it. Of course I was disappointed we were out of the Champions League. As we shook hands with the Real players, there was a moment or two of: if only. And then, elation washed over me. I felt more fulfilled by the 30 minutes of football I’d just played than I had by any game all season. The crowd, when I’d come on as a sub, had seemed a little subdued. The reception I got after the final whistle was better than any I could remember at Old Trafford. I’m always the last player off anyway and after the Real game I wanted to hang around and soak it up. I certainly wasn’t saying goodbye to Old Trafford that night. The opposite: I thought I’d done all I could to put doubts about my commitment and worth to the club behind me. During the ninety minutes, it had been all ab
out the team. Now, though, I let my feelings show and went to the four corners of the ground to return the applause.

  By the time I got back to the dressing room, I had Guti and Zidane’s shirts under my arm. And a warm glow inside. I remember the gaffer saying to me quietly:

  ‘You played well, David.’

  I wondered if he thought then that he’d made a mistake about me and about the team that night. It wasn’t the time, or the place, to ask.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, boss.’

  I’ve never been changed and out of Old Trafford so quickly. Half an hour after the game, I was at the Malmaison Hotel in Manchester to meet Tony and Ellen Healy, Pepsi’s Marketing Director, for dinner. They must have thought I was on something: I was that high. I hadn’t felt so clear about things, happy in myself, for what seemed like months. I wanted to talk about the game. About my goals. About the crowd. About Ronaldo and the rest of them. I had a grin on my face all evening. I kept ringing Victoria who was away working in the States. I told her everything that had happened the first time I called. But I kept ringing back to say it again. I missed her being there. I went on from the Malmaison to the Lowry to have a drink with Dave Gardner. The two of us went over the whole night again. We had to. The weirdest thing, though, happened just as I was getting ready to leave. I half thought I was being set up. This Spanish guy, a Real supporter, came over. He didn’t speak much English. There was quite a lot of thumbs up and ‘good game’ going on. He motioned to me: an autograph. On his shirt. He turned round for me to sign. He was wearing the No. 7, Raul’s shirt.

  When I got back to the house in Alderley Edge, everything was quiet. Mum had got the boys off to bed for me. I poked my head round the door but decided not to wake them up and tell them about Daddy’s great night. I was still hyped up: sleeping would have been out of the question. I made myself a bowl of noodles and ran myself a pint glass of iced water. I put the television on: Manchester United versus Real Madrid. I hadn’t taped it. When I’d left home eight hours earlier I’d had other things on my mind. This was a second broadcast of the whole game. I slurped my noodles and settled into it. The hat-trick. The free-kick and scrambling my second goal. The free-kick I’d missed: I was annoyed with myself, watching it. But then the camera cut away to the gaffer’s reaction and my blood ran cold. He was craning his neck, watching. He turned away as the ball went over the bar. Then, when he looked back, his face just told me everything I needed to know. His rage, his frustration: and it was all Beckham’s fault. He reacted as if I’d just lost us the game. As if, in that moment, I’d just got us knocked out of the Champions League. Maybe anybody watching the pictures would have seen the same. Maybe you needed to have lived through the past six months to really understand what was obvious to me: