David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  ‘It’s over. He wants me out.’

  Something sank in as I sat there with the last few minutes of the game flickering past on the television. The gaffer had had enough. I’d grown up as a person and he didn’t seem to like what I’d become. I already knew that, deep down. Now it looked like he’d seen enough of me as a player, as well. As a player wearing a United shirt, anyway. His face in the seconds after I’d missed that second free-kick made me feel like a door had just been slammed in mine. I’d been flying all evening. I genuinely believed what I’d done during the game would force a way back in for me. No chance. If it was anything to do with the gaffer – and, of course, it would be – I was sure I was finished.

  There were three League games before the end of the season: three games to win to make sure United took back the title. I played every minute of those three games: away to Spurs, at home to Charlton and away to Everton. The rumours that had me going to the Bernabeu kept circulating. The gaffer had said he’d thought they’d disappear once the quarter-final was out of the way. They didn’t. It seems with some stories, once they get a head of steam on, they have a life of their own. We won 2–0 at Tottenham and, between then and the next match, there were quotes from Spanish newspapers saying Real weren’t going to buy me.

  ‘Never. Never. Never.’

  The next day, everybody was saying that ‘No’ obviously meant ‘Yes’. Hadn’t Real said they weren’t going to buy Ronaldo a year ago, too? I won’t pretend that the attention that I was supposed to be getting from Real, and from other clubs, didn’t make me feel better about myself. Reading that they might want me was reassuring at a time when it seemed like United didn’t. But the speculation was getting in the way. I wanted to get on with playing. I’m sure the gaffer wasn’t happy about the distraction, either. Maybe that’s why it felt as if I was involved, but out in my own private Arctic. The mood – for me, at least – before the Charlton game was intense in all the wrong ways.

  I scored the first goal in a game we had to win to keep Arsenal behind us. The shot took a deflection, going in at a strange angle. My reaction wasn’t the obvious one, either. Rattling around in my head had been the question: was this my last game at Old Trafford for United? A lot of other people had been asking the same that week. As I wheeled away towards the supporters at the Warwick Road End, the instinctive joy that comes with a goal collided with the thought that I might never be doing this again. The celebration juddered. I was happy to score but choking back tears at the same time. We beat Charlton 4–1. It turned out to be enough to win us the League, although we didn’t know that until the following day when Arsenal lost to Leeds.

  Meanwhile, we celebrated another win with the United supporters: if this was going to be a farewell to Old Trafford, I was happy there’d been a goal for them to remember me by. I found myself standing next to Gary and feeling very sad as I looked around the place I’d got used to calling home. He leant over. He asked me what was wrong. I told him:

  ‘They’re having talks with other clubs.’

  Gary just didn’t want to think it was true. I know we’re best mates. I also know how much he loves Manchester United. He wouldn’t ever have wanted me and the club not to be together. After I’d changed and had something to drink in the lounge, I took Brooklyn out on the pitch for a kickabout. Old Trafford was empty, sunshine still creeping over the roof of the stand. If I was going to go to pieces, that would have been the moment: the place looked beautiful, still echoing with the voices of the 60,000 Reds who’d been jammed in there an hour earlier. Brooklyn just wanted to play, though. He didn’t want his dad getting emotional on him with an open goal waiting. It was a bittersweet afternoon. I’m glad I finished it in the company of my boy. I was starting to feel resigned to my fate.

  And then, one last time, it all changed again. Was it just the relief of winning the title? Did we all relax, including the gaffer? For a week, never mind the gossip in the papers, all seemed well in the world. During training, I felt like I was welcome, like I belonged, for the first time in months, the boss laughing and joking with me in the way he had for most of the last ten years. The game at Goodison was a trip down the East Lancs Road to pick up the silverware. We were already champions before we kicked off on the last day of the season. The atmosphere in our dressing room during those few weeks had been as strong as I could remember at any time during my United career. I loved it now, feeling back in the thick of things with the lads. For a few days, anyway, those moments in front of the television watching the gaffer seemed not to matter. I couldn’t really believe I’d ever have to walk away from this group of players, this marvellous football club. I enjoyed the celebrations after beating Everton 2–1 as much as anybody. I’d even scored the first goal. Because we’d had to come from so far behind to beat Arsenal, this Premiership trophy was one we’d really had to work hard together to earn. We hadn’t lost a League game since the turn of the year. On the pitch at the final whistle, as we paraded the trophy, and in the changing room afterwards, I felt part of it all again. If you’d asked me that afternoon if I was leaving United, I’d have told you:

  ‘Not in a million years.’

  I won’t ever forget the feeling: winning in a United shirt. The million years, though? I was gone in less than five weeks.

  Two things happened in the middle of May after the season ended. The first was that United’s chief executive, Peter Kenyon, said that if someone came in for me offering enough money, the club would have to think about selling me. I know how things get taken out of context, but to me that sounded all wrong. I didn’t want to leave. Peter had asked me himself, face to face, a year before and I hadn’t changed. I thought I knew what the gaffer’s feelings were but I believed things between us could be straightened out as long as the club still wanted me. Now, it didn’t sound to me like they did. On 14 May, I had a new United contract put in front of me. I know some supporters probably thought: well, if you want to stay at Old Trafford, why don’t you just sign it? Maybe that was what the boss would have been thinking as well.

  My previous deal, agreed less than a year before, had taken a year and a half to sort out. The club had been very fair and open in their dealings with me over it. Now, all of a sudden, they stuck a new one in front of me as if to say: sign this or forget it. Despite what some people said or wrote at the time, my future at United was never going to be about money. In fact, the new contract included a pay rise. I remember talking to Dad about how I felt:

  ‘The only reason I’d ever leave United is if I could see they wanted me to. Well, at the moment it feels like they’re not really bothered either way.’

  There wasn’t time to sit at home and wait to see how things might turn out. This wasn’t a situation I was in control of anyway. I was off to South Africa for a friendly with England. That trip ended in another ride in the back of an ambulance after I broke a bone in my hand early on in the game. Then it was home and a rush to pack bags and get off on our summer holiday in the States. The travelling backwards and forwards was just about right: just how I felt. I didn’t know what was going to happen: one day I’d be feeling my time was up at United, the next that things could still be worked out for me to stay. Tony kept me up to date with what was going on back in England. He’s always had a good relationship with the United people – the gaffer apart – and they were honest with each other about what was going on. The club were talking to some of Spain’s and Italy’s biggest clubs. So was my agent.

  As far as I was concerned, signing a new United deal was still possible. Most days, despite everything, it was still what I wanted to do. That made what happened next even more of a bolt from the blue. While in the States, we were staying out at a resort in the desert, relaxing away from it all. I’d just woken up one morning. There was a message on my mobile from Dave Gardner.

  ‘Have you heard what’s on the news? Are you all right about it?’

  All the time we were away, I knew there’d been stories claiming I was rush
ing around trying to look busy, making a name for myself in America. I assumed Dave was talking about that stuff. I texted him back:

  ‘Yeah, fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  Minutes later, Tony was on the phone to put me straight. The story had come as a complete surprise to him as well. We knew – everyone knew – that Barcelona were one of the clubs who were interested in signing me and that one of the candidates in the presidential election at the Nou Camp had promised to bring me to Spain if he won. It was a huge jump, though, to the press release issued by Manchester United that Tony read out to me over the phone:

  ‘Manchester United confirms that club officials have met Joan Laporta, the leading candidate for the Presidency of Barcelona. These meetings have resulted in an offer being made for the transfer of David Beckham to Barcelona. This offer is subject to a number of conditions and critically to both Mr Laporta being elected President on Sunday 15 June and Barcelona subsequently reaching agreement with David Beckham on his personal contract. Manchester United confirms that in the event that all of the conditions are fulfilled then the offer would be acceptable.’

  Was I in earthquake country? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. No word from the gaffer, no word from anybody at the club, after a dozen years at United. Just the plain, bare announcement dated 10 June: we’re selling him. Mr Laporta, with all due respect, wasn’t even President yet but a deal had been done. It was like they couldn’t wait to get shot of me. Maybe they thought I was worth more before the Presidential election than I would have been after it. I just sat down on the floor where I was. I was angry all right. I didn’t like the news, and how I’d found out about it, some time after the rest of the world, was humiliating. Tony and I talked about what to say and what to do. Later that day, SFX released a statement for me:

  ‘David is very disappointed and surprised to learn of this statement and feels that he has been used as a political pawn in the Barcelona Presidential elections. David’s advisors have no plans to meet Mr Laporta or his representatives.’

  I know now that Manchester United regretted it coming out the way it had. They’d been under pressure, not just from the media but also from the club’s stockbrokers: if something was happening they had to let the City know about it. But that wasn’t the point, as far as I was concerned. I’d just heard the truth, hadn’t I? I wasn’t just up for sale. I’d been carted as far as the checkout. Something shifted inside me. I’d been uncertain about my relationship with the Manchester United manager all season long. Now, for the first time, it was my relationship with the club that was slipping away. And that broke my heart. I had to start thinking seriously now about starting a career away from Old Trafford, after a lifetime of knowing that playing for United was all I’d ever wanted to do.

  Barcelona are a great club: history, tradition, players, everything. I was honoured they wanted me. Just as I felt honoured when I heard about the two big Italian clubs who were interested in me as well. Deep down, though, as soon as I realised I might be leaving Old Trafford, there was only one club I wanted to join. A club as big as United and, over the years, even more successful. A team that included some of the best players on earth. From a football point of view, there was only one choice. Even more so once the President, Florentino Perez, had let us know that he was interested in me. It had to be Real Madrid.

  This wasn’t just a football decision, though. There were so many things to think about. This was something so huge in our lives – for me, Victoria and the boys – that, at first, I think we had trouble even knowing where to start thinking about it. For Victoria, with a career of her own, it was the first time a decision this big had felt like it was out of her hands. For the boys it meant a complete change from everything that had grown familiar. For all of us it meant a new language, a new culture, a new life. We talked to each other, Victoria and I. We talked to our families and to friends. But you can go on talking and never get things any clearer, can’t you? The one thing I was absolutely sure of was that if I didn’t go with my family, I wasn’t going anywhere at all. We were on our way back to England and then, within a couple of days, we’d be off again to the Far East on a promotional tour arranged months ago. I was determined we couldn’t run off to the other side of the world before we’d made up our minds.

  Sunday 15 June at the house in Sawbridgeworth. Sunshine and a perfect day for a family barbecue. And everyone here to help us with the hardest choice we’d ever had to make. Stay in Manchester and sign that new contract? Or leave England? And for where? As it happened, it was also the day of the Barcelona presidential election. The first thing I needed to do was talk to United. I knew the gaffer was away on holiday so I rang Peter Kenyon. I needed to know exactly where I stood. I asked him what the club felt about the situation and what the gaffer thought.

  ‘Well, David, if I’m honest with you, it seems to us that the relationship between you and the manager might never be the same again.’

  When I asked what his position was, Peter didn’t seem to want to commit himself. But then I asked him what he’d do if he was in my shoes.

  ‘Well, looking at it, I’d say you’ve had great years here but if something else is there, that might be a great challenge for you.’

  I’d heard what I’d expected to hear. Even if it hadn’t been what I’d been wanting to hear: that United wanted me to stay. I said:

  ‘Knowing how the manager feels, hearing what you’re saying to me now, maybe this is the right time for me to think about looking elsewhere.’

  I hadn’t actually said: I’m leaving. But Mr Kenyon thanked me for what I’d done at Manchester United anyway. I felt the club’s mind was made up. Now it was up to me.

  I got on with helping get stuff ready for the barbecue and then, about an hour later, I telephoned the Real President, Florentino Perez. Although Tony had met Senor Perez before, it was the first time I’d ever spoken to him. It was the eve of their last game but one of the season. I knew Senor Perez’s son wasn’t very well and wanted to wish him a speedy recovery. I wanted to wish Real good luck for the game, away to local rivals Atlético Madrid of all people. It would go down to the wire in La Liga. Real had to win to be in with a chance of beating Real Sociedad to the title. Atlético was a huge game: I felt a bit embarrassed that all the transfer speculation might be distracting from it. Before I made any kind of decision, though, I felt like I needed to talk to Senor Perez. He wanted to know where we were with everything.

  ‘At the moment, I’m still a Manchester United player and until I settle things at this end, it’s not right for me to talk about moving to Real.’

  Real had made their contact. And United were prepared to talk. He’s a remarkable man, Senor Perez. He’s powerful but there’s nothing loud about him. He’s inspiring to listen to. He was that day, too, even through a translator:

  ‘I understand. All I want to say to you now, David, is that if you come to Madrid you won’t ever regret it. We don’t want you here for the publicity or to sell shirts. I think you are one of the best players in the world and we believe you can make our team a better team.’

  By the time I hung up, I knew what David Beckham the footballer needed to do next. There was still a massive family decision to be made, though, and after the barbecue we talked about it for hours. Tony was there for a while. He talked to Mum and then, later, spoke to Dad on the phone. He explained the situation to Victoria’s mum and dad as well. Then he said to us:

  ‘You know the options. Staying at United, moving to Madrid, moving to one of the other clubs that are interested in you. You don’t need to think about the details, contracts, money, anything else. You and Victoria need to just decide what would be best for you as a family. Once you do, we’ll try and make it happen.’

  Over the course of the evening, things that had seemed scary when we’d first thought about them – leaving England, settling in a new country, learning a new language – started to seem more like an opportunity for all of us. I was so excited about
the idea of Madrid, the football club, that it was easier for me to get excited about Madrid, the city, and Madrid, the way of life, as well. Victoria didn’t have that to push her towards the move but she was brave enough, and we were honest enough with each other, to recognise that it was the right thing to do. And that it was something that, if we were together, could be something great for all of us. She’d lived through the last year with me and knew how unhappy I’d been as things went wrong in Manchester. She understood the situation perfectly.

  ‘United don’t seem to want you. Real have said they do. And now you want to play for them. Me and the boys want to be with you. Let’s go.’

  It was two in the morning when I rang Tony:

  ‘Real Madrid.’

  It was as simple as that.

  Well, simple for me anyway. Victoria and I were leaving the country for Japan on the Tuesday evening. Real wanted to have things squared away so that everybody could focus on La Liga. They’d beaten Atlético 4–0 on the Sunday evening and Real Sociedad had lost 3–2 at Celta Vigo. A win at the Bernabeu the following Sunday and they’d be Spanish champions for the 29th time. Tony wanted a deal agreed – a rough outline, at least – before we flew out. It was time for all the speculation to come to an end. Easier said than done. I know how hard my lawyer, Andrew, my accountant, Charles, and Tony, Sam and the rest of the team at SFX worked over those 48 hours. The people at the Madrid end, too, who also had to come to an agreement with the United board. It helped that signing for Real is pretty simple: every player puts pen to almost the same pieces of paper; you agree the salary and to split new image rights’ deals 50/50. It also helped that they trusted us enough to conduct the negotiations without employing an agent. There’s detail, though, like there always is and it’s not any easier to reach agreement when there are two different languages involved. Eventually, early on the evening of Tuesday 17 June, the transfer fee and my contract had been agreed in principle. Victoria and I were already at the airport, making our way from the lounge to the departure gate, when Tony called: