David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  ‘Everything’s fine. I bet there are cameras pointed at you right now, aren’t there?’

  There were, as we hurried along the corridor.

  ‘Well, just be sure you and Victoria realise they’re taking pictures – the first pictures – of you both walking into a new adventure, a new world, together. It’s all agreed. Enjoy yourselves.’

  I whispered to Victoria:

  ‘It’s done.’

  And suddenly the frowns of two people hurrying off to catch a plane were wiped away by smiles from ear to ear. We had tickets for Tokyo but we knew, right then, we were headed off towards the rest of our lives.

  The tour was exciting enough anyway: shooting a couple of television commercials; photographic sessions; meeting sponsors and public appearances in Japan, Thailand, Malaysia and Vietnam. People were buzzing about us being there and, by the time the plane touched down, buzzing about the news of me joining Real Madrid. In England we still don’t realise what a passion there is for football in the Far East. It was so busy. Every minute of every day seemed to be accounted for. But the reception we walked into everywhere, and the fact that me and Victoria were enjoying it together, made it more than a flying visit for work. Victoria had seemed tense while things remained undecided and she’d been feeling unsure. Now these were settled, she let herself get excited – almost as excited as I was – about what lay ahead.

  Everything had happened so quickly. I felt like I’d been running alongside myself for the best part of a month, just trying to keep up with what had been happening to us. It’s the story of my life: you’re on to the next adventure so quickly, there never seems time to take in the one you have just had. Suddenly, though, one day in Thailand, what had been a blur seemed to slow down long enough for me to glimpse things in focus. It’s always the same questions, when you find the time for yourself to ask them:

  ‘Who are you? Where have you been? Where are you going?’

  We spent one lovely day down by the beach near Hua Hin, filming and shooting stills for a Japanese sponsor, TBC. The setting was beautiful: pale milky sunshine, little resort villas clustered up amongst the palms away from the promenade, the sand stretching away to water so clear you couldn’t tell where the beach ended and the sea began. There were hammocks to laze in between takes while you watched the crew racing around, trying to convince each other, and anybody else who might be watching, that they were working really hard. Always with filming, as the time passes there’s more pressure to squeeze everything in before you have to finish. People start to get a little tetchy, hurried and tired. Almost the last shot of the day, we actually went down onto the beach. Eight Thai lads, about nine or ten years old, appeared: they’d been hidden away somewhere waiting for the highlight of their day. The highlight of my day, too, as it turned out. We were shooting a sequence where I was playing football with them: no goals, just us chasing each other across the sand. There was a tatty old ball chucked across for us to use. The director told us: ‘You just play. The cameraman will keep up with you best he can.’ Me and the lads were just in shorts. We’d nothing on our feet to spoil the feel of the sand and the ball and we scuttled, backwards and forwards, nicking the ball away from each other. You’d try a little trick, all one- and two-touch, and slip a pass to the person nearest you who, for that moment, looked like he might be on your side. There, in the warm breeze of late afternoon, I suddenly felt lifted away. I could have been the father of any one of those boys. Any of them could have been me, a youngster, sweat running down my temples, in the middle of a five-a-side over at Chase Lane Park. They could play a bit, these lads. I realised it was the first time I’d had a game since I got injured against South Africa in Durban. We weren’t doing the bloke with the hand-held camera any favours: we’d forgotten all about him. Lost in the game. Like boys – this boy included – have always been and always will be.

  Back at the hotel that night, we ate and went to bed. I guess it was the travelling catching up with me. How long had I slept? Two hours? Three? My eyes opened wide in the darkness. Victoria was fast asleep beside me. I hadn’t been woken by a dream or anything else: I lay still for a moment or two, half expecting I’d just drift off again until morning. It wasn’t as if I was fretting about anything. My body clock had just decided this was time for being awake. No point arguing. I started being able to pick out the room around me. I slipped out from under the mosquito net and went through to the bathroom. I found a bottle of water and padded back, the cool wood floor under my bare feet.

  Victoria, I thought, probably didn’t want me to shake her awake for a chat. The television was far enough away from the bed that I thought: if the sound’s turned down, it won’t disturb her. I let my hand run across a low sideboard until it settled on the remote. I carefully pulled a chair across the room, up close, a yard or so from the screen. I switched on and sat back.

  That little crack of electricity and then the picture comes swimming up to the surface. As things come into focus on the bright screen in that dark room on the other side of the world, my mouth drops open. I’m watching this team in an all-white kit. The others are in red and white stripes. I squint to try and pick out individual players. That’s Luis Figo. This is Real Madrid. And there’s Zidane, stabbing a ten-yard pass into the penalty area, away from the defender, into the path of Ronaldo’s arcing run. The big man’s not even had to break his stride. He doesn’t have to give his first touch a second thought. Because his first touch is a shot from fifteen yards, across the keeper, into the far corner. Roberto Carlos is there, jumping all over him. On the screen the caption comes up: Real Madrid 3 Athletic Bilbao 1. Just as well: I’ve got the sound turned down.

  And it’s only then that I realise. I’m watching Real keep the ball for minutes at a time, passing amongst themselves, twisting and turning away from challenges, playing out the twenty minutes that remain. Thousands of miles away, Real are winning La Liga, right now. Because of the time difference, I’m watching it live in the middle of my night. The final whistle goes and the celebrations begin. Streamers and confetti come cascading down from the stands. Fireworks explode over Madrid. The floodlights snap out, everything goes black – for a moment I think there’s something wrong with my television – and then spotlights pick out the Real players, all in t-shirts, white as their kit, saying: ‘Campeones 29’. They carry the trophy – their trophy – along the touchline, dancing around it, holding it up to the four corners of the Bernabeu.

  I’m breathless watching. Gasping at the spectacle. Gasping at the sight of my future. I glance across and can just make out the outline of Victoria under the bedcovers: my wife’s still sleeping tight. No need to wake her, even for this. We’ll be there soon enough.

  I’m sitting alone, knees tucked up under my chin now; perched on my chair in front of the television as the air cools before morning. I shiver and then I’m aware I’ve got this huge smile on my face: a boy from Chingford. United born and bred. And going to play for Real Madrid.

  15

  For Real: Hala Madrid!

  ‘David esta como nuevo. Fisicamente esta perfecto.’

  My Manchester United contract expired on the last day of June 2003 and I arrived in Spain to sign my name at the Bernabeu for the first time the following morning. The Real adventure was about to begin.

  Whatever doubts and worries I had seemed to be blown away within a minute or two of climbing into the car that Real Madrid sent to collect us – me, Victoria, Brooklyn and Mum – from the airport. We soon realised we were all in for a pretty dramatic 48 hours.

  Six motorcycle policemen surrounded us. Fine: a few blue lights and sirens always make Brooklyn’s day. And then we nosed out onto the motorway. It was like something out of The French Connection. We barrelled down the outside lane, then across into the inside lane, then back outside again. Other traffic was left to fend for itself. The paparazzi kept up, in their cars and on their motorbikes, as best they could. And as dangerously as they could. The schedule had my first sto
p as the hospital where I was going to have my medical. If the crash that seemed about to happen every thirty seconds did happen, at least I was headed towards the right place. It wasn’t until much later in the day that I realised it wasn’t just the police and the press: everybody in Madrid drives like they’re chasing pole position for the Spanish Grand Prix.

  When I’d first spoken to Real, I’d thought it was only fair to let them know that I was a bit uncertain about the idea of moving to another country with my wife and my children. Would I feel settled enough to be single-minded about my football? I knew I’d have to be if I was going to make a success of a career with the club. I could hardly believe how understanding they were. None of my concerns came as a surprise to them. Perhaps it’s to do with how things are in Spain, where family life is really important to everyone:

  ‘Your family must be as happy here with us as you are, David.’

  They took it for granted that they’d try to help us feel at home. While I was dropped off at the hospital, Victoria and Brooklyn and Mum were whisked away to look at some houses that Real’s people thought we might be interested in. I wished I could have gone with them but I knew there’d be time for me to join in with the househunting later. While they headed off to the suburbs, I kept my appointment with Doctor Corral.

  We galloped round that medical: cardiovascular, biomechanics, blood, urine, electro cardiogram, x-rays and scans. Then Senor Corral, Real’s club doctor, got his hands on me. We were done and dusted in just over two hours. A camera from Real Madrid’s TV station followed us up and down the corridors of the Zarzuela Hospital before getting the door shut in its face each time I went into a clinic for a particular test. There wasn’t anybody the whole time I was there who didn’t seem to be grinning from ear to ear: the specialists, the staff, other patients, the cameraman with the black eye. They checked my left metatarsal and the scaphoid bone in my right hand. Could we have a photo taken? Could we have an autograph? It all seemed very relaxed. The doctors had been given my complete medical records from 15 years at Old Trafford and I’m sure they had done their homework. Dr Corral himself gave the impression of knowing exactly what he was looking for. And was happy enough when he found it. Someone told me afterwards what he’d told the waiting press:

  ‘David esta como nuevo. Fisicamente esta perfecto.’

  He reckoned I was in half-decent nick, then. And that my pen hand was up to signing on Real’s dotted line. I went to the hotel to meet up with Victoria, Brooklyn and Mum. I think the fans who’d started to gather outside the Fenix were as excited about Victoria as they were about the new footballer in town. She seemed tense, though: driving round the new city, looking for somewhere to call home. What we were about to take on had started to sink in. Me and Brooklyn had time for a little kickabout on the terrace. I wonder how much of all this he’ll remember once he’s grown.

  The cars came back at five to take us to the Bernabeu. The stadium was just a drive up the main road through the early evening traffic: Real have built their home ground on Madrid’s equivalent of Regent Street. I’d been there before, of course, as a Manchester United player but, as we swung in through the gates, I didn’t recognise much. The place was a building site: cranes arching in from the road, diggers and dumpers bumping along between the piles of supplies. José Angel Sanchez, Real’s Marketing Director, told me they were having to remodel the stand on the side of the ground where the players come out:

  ‘When Santiago Bernabeu built this stadium in the forties, he put the presidential suites in the stand opposite the one with the players’ facilities. It was supposed to say: our boardroom won’t ever be in competition with our dressing room. Now, though, UEFA’s Champions League regulations say we have to have both together.’

  We went upstairs to the club offices. Nothing to do with the climb, but I felt a little breathless. And held Victoria’s hand a little tighter. I think we must have come up the back way because we suddenly turned a corner and there we were: a corridor, heads poking out of doorways, half a dozen blokes in suits shifting from foot to foot. It looked like any suite of offices in any modern block anywhere in Europe. All very simple. Nothing grand, nothing flash. I liked that: Real saved their grand and their flash for out on the pitch. And there was an electricity in the air. I was excited to be there. I could tell, as people came up to shake hands and be introduced, that they didn’t mind me knowing they were excited about it too.

  José introduced me to the Director of Football, Jorge Valdano. Probably the man most responsible, along with the President, for bringing me to Madrid: great presence and a great smile. I don’t know how old Senor Valdano must be but he’s still got the build and the energy of the international player he was. I’d fancy my chances in a running race: I wouldn’t be so keen on a tackle. He was one of the few people at the club who didn’t speak any English, which was fine by me. The two of us were on an equal footing, weren’t we? Senor Valdano showed me into the office he’d been standing outside. Carlos Quieroz stood up from behind the head coach’s desk. It was a surprise to see him. I knew all about Madrid having released Vicente Del Bosque. I knew Carlos had left Old Trafford to replace him. And I knew, first hand, how good Carlos was at his job. I just hadn’t known – hadn’t even wondered – if he’d be at the Bernabeu already. It was an odd moment, a reassuring moment: who’s following who around here? We had a hug. We’d see each other – two new boys – for pre-season at the end of July.

  Right now, they were ready to show me around my office. We all trooped back downstairs, with José leading the way and doing his best official Real tour guide impression:

  ‘And this is where the tours never go,’ he said, swinging open the door to the Home dressing room. On every locker door: the image, bench to ceiling, of the Real player it belonged to. For a moment, it made me feel like an opponent again, seeing them all, almost life-sized around the walls: Raul, Figo, Ronaldo, Zidane, Roberto Carlos and their team-mates. What was it going to be like, playing alongside them instead of against them? We moved through and out into the tunnel. I could remember standing here back in April, itching to get started. It felt the same now.

  ‘José? Is there a ball anywhere? I can’t wait.’

  One appeared. I gave it to Brooklyn to carry and I walked out into a narrow strip of sunlight by the touchline, Victoria beside me. It was getting late: shade stretched away from us across the low camber of the pitch. It was just our little party in the place. The Bernabeu to ourselves: the stands around us banked like mountainsides, the building work behind us finished for the day. I glanced at Mum. Three months ago, she’d been sitting over there in the far corner, watching me play for United, all her instincts telling her I’d be back to play for Madrid. I headed off towards the penalty area.

  ‘Come on, Brooklyn. Let’s score a goal.’

  We kicked it between us for a minute or two. He seemed a little tired, a little distracted. This wasn’t Old Trafford. I looked back at Victoria. She was watching Brooklyn. Then she let her glance stray away and around the ground. I thought I knew what she was thinking. This was a time to be brave and I’d found the right girl for that. I caught her eye: a little smile. And then José was saying:

  ‘Shall we go back inside?’

  There was a stir back up in the offices. It was time for what we’d come here to do. Senor Perez had arrived. We’d spoken on the phone but this was the first time I’d met the President of Real Madrid. In Spain, the top man at a football club is elected by the club’s supporters. Senor Perez has a huge building company, one of the biggest in Europe. He’s President of one of world football’s great powers. But he didn’t seem to need any of that hanging round his neck like a badge of office. The really big men have humility about them. You can tell how important Real’s President is – and how highly he’s thought of – from the respect he’s given by the people around him. He’d never tell you about those things himself. He welcomed me to the Bernabeu and made a point of welcoming Victoria and Brooklyn
and Mum to Madrid.

  We went through to the boardroom. Everybody from the club was gathered along one side of a long, slightly curving table. They shuffled for a view while Mr and Mrs Beckham and Senor Perez sat down on the other side, the three of us bunched up towards one end. I had the President on my left, Victoria on my right. The paperwork was waiting, laid out in front of us: two neat sets on the pale oak table top. Victoria had given me a beautiful new pen to sign with before we’d left England; she’d also chosen one for the President. Maybe before we sat down would have been the time to give Senor Perez the present we’d bought him. But before we could do anything, he’d reached across the table and picked up a biro that had been left over from a previous meeting. Ink’s ink, after all, I suppose. He signed. I signed. Brooklyn scooted along behind our chairs, my mum not sure whether she ought to try and catch him. No chance of this all getting too serious, then.