David Beckham: My Side

by David Beckham (with Tom Watt)

  I think I’m a pretty patient person, but I found myself losing my rag over some of the gossip and rumours that turned up last autumn. As a family, we were trying to find our feet in Madrid and these stories just seemed to be making that more and more difficult. It felt like we were trapped: everything we did was gossiped up into a big issue. When Victoria and the boys weren’t here, it’d be reported that they didn’t like Madrid and that I was out partying every night. When they were in Spain, we couldn’t just be having that time together as a family. Instead, it had to be that there was a crisis and Victoria was only out here while we dealt with our problems; problems that didn’t exist other than in some people’s imaginations. They were always looking for an angle and, of course, some of the more hurtful stories, even though they were rubbish, found their way back to England and to our families and our friends.

  We’d planned to all come to Madrid and settle straight away: find a house, find schools for the children and get started with learning Spanish together. Over the course of the first few months I was at Real, though, we found ourselves having to think again. I love the city we live in now and I love the Spanish people but there were certain things Victoria and I weren’t comfortable with at all. I lived in a hotel for the best part of four months while we looked for somewhere to live. We’d decided to rent first before buying. It’s what most players do when they move to a new club in a new city and gives you a chance to find an area and a house that you’re going to be happy with in the longer term.

  Eventually, I was going stir crazy – nice as the hotel was – and we rushed into a rental which we got charged well over the odds for because it was the Beckhams moving in. And then, when people found out we’d just taken a year’s lease – how do they find that out in the first place, by the way? – everyone started saying: Oh, you see. They don’t like Madrid. They’re leaving after a year. At the same time, we had looked around for a school for Brooklyn to go to and that had turned out to be even more difficult.

  We met head teachers, read prospectuses, found out everything we could in advance. But when it actually came to going to look around the place we had in mind with Brooklyn before making a decision, the situation got completely crazy. We walked up to the school and there must have been fifty or more people – photographers, film crews, journalists – waiting for us. There were others – dinner ladies, cleaners, who knows? – hanging out of the windows shouting down at Brooklyn for his autograph. I couldn’t believe it: Leave him alone! He’s a five-year old boy!

  Back in England, Brooklyn had settled in at school the year before and was just starting to feel confident in that environment. At his age, so much of it is learning about making friends and getting on with other people. No fuss: he and the other children and the teachers just got on with it. We sat down together that evening after we’d been to the school we’d chosen in Madrid and Victoria and I made the decision together: until things settled down, we couldn’t put our children through this. We’d wanted to give life in Madrid together a go, right from the start, but now it seemed obvious that we had to find another way to make it work, for the time being anyway.

  I remember talking to one of the other Real players who told me that, when his little boy had started school, there’d been camera crews outside, filming his son and his friends in the playground, for the first three months. We weren’t ready for that and we didn’t think Brooklyn was either. At that stage, we couldn’t see what else to do: we both agreed that if we were going to have to live apart for a while and just be together at the weekends then that was what we’d do. We made a family decision. We knew what was right for us – and, most importantly, right for the boys – at the time.

  I think Romeo’s young enough that any strain we were feeling has mostly passed him by. He’s happy as long as he’s around Mum, Dad, his big brother and Carlos. But I hope none of it will have upset Brooklyn over the past few months. Obviously, we did what we could to make light of it all for him. When he was in Madrid at weekends, if he and I wanted to go somewhere together – to play for half an hour in the park, perhaps – we’d lie down on the back seat of the car and pull a blanket up over us.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Brooklyn: let’s play a hide and seek game.’

  He doesn’t seem to take photographers and the fuss too seriously, anyway. The boys went skiing in France at Courchevel and, because Real gave me a couple of days off at around the same time, I decided to fly over and see them. Obviously, I knew I wouldn’t ski but just being together made it worth going. When we came out of our chalet and the flashbulbs started going, Brooklyn turned round to me and asked what was going on. I told him the men wanted to take photos of him because they knew what a good skier he is. I could see him having a think to himself about that. And then he gave a little smile.

  ‘No, Daddy. I think they want to take my picture because I’m so handsome.’

  I just laughed. I wasn’t going to argue with that.

  We decided to have last year apart but we always knew we’d want to think it through all over again before the summer. There’s nothing Victoria and I want more than a routine like any other family: for me to be able to drop Brooklyn off at school on the way to training and pick him up again in the afternoon; for us all to be able to sit down together in our own home for dinner in the evening. I love my boys and they like it when I’m around: that first season in Madrid was hard on me and hard on them, too. Victoria and I could say to ourselves: It’s difficult but it’s just for this little while. It’s not like that for children, though, is it? They can’t see ahead and make plans; they don’t necessarily understand why decisions get made. Come the spring, with us a bit wiser about how life in Madrid was going to be for us, we started making our plans for being a family together again here in time for the new season. We can’t be sure if things will be any easier this year but it’s what Victoria and I both want and it’s what our family needs. At least, we won’t be taken by surprise by it all next time around.

  I’m grateful I’ve got help right here when it comes to making the big decisions; particularly the most important ones, the ones that involve football. I’ve known Terry Byrne for a very long time now. Terry’s been the England masseur, so we’ve spent a lot of time in each others’ company. He’d probably tell you that’s meant a lot of me talking and him listening. What’s certain is that Terry became a really close friend, someone I knew I could trust and whose opinionI respected. At the start of2003/04,hewas still working for Watford. Gianluca Vialli had worked with Terry at Chelsea and had taken him to Vicarage Road as General Manager. After Luca left, Terry had become Watford’s Director of Football, responsible for transfers, scouting and the youth system at the club.

  During my first couple of months in Madrid, as I began to get an idea about what a four-year contract might mean in terms of the day to day, my instinct told me I needed to have someone out in Spain with me who I could rely on. Tony Stephens had done a lot for me during our time together but SFX, the company he works for, are a big organisation with clients all over Europe. Everything seemed different in Spain: my responsibilities and what I needed to make sure I met them. I now felt that SFX and I were moving in different directions. I talked to Victoria and she agreed it was time to bring things back to basics. Above all, I decided I needed the daily one-on-one with someone who I could trust to be as focussed as I was. When it came to thinking about who the ideal person might be, Terry was the first and only name on my list.

  There have been some difficult days and weeks since I moved to Spain. If Terry hadn’t agreed to leave Watford – and leave England – with Jennie to come and work with me here, things might have got out of hand once or twice. Within a couple of weeks of saying yes to a job as a personal manager, Terry had flown out, got himself somewhere to live, and found us an office that was somewhere we could meet people, take care of business and – from time to time – escape from it all, right in the heart of the city. It’s funny to think people wondered about h
ow committed I was to a new life in Madrid. That office was bricks and mortar proof of me putting down roots here. Terry understands me and he understands football. I get the right stuff from him, not what he thinks I’d like to hear. The success of my time at Real has had – and will continue to have – a lot to do with Terry and Jennie having come out to Spain to be part of the adventure.

  As much as I was enjoying my football, I was really looking forward to the first Christmas break of my career. More than anything, it meant time with my family over a couple of weeks when, back in the Premiership, I’d have been grabbing an hour or two with Victoria and the boys in between games and training. My body felt like it could do with a break too. Real Madrid are like Manchester United: for the opposition, the game’s always a cup final, which means the intensity in La Liga never drops. In central midfield, I was getting more whacks too. I’d picked up my fair share of little knocks: the groin strain against Villareal, a kick on the foot against Valencia, a hamstring pull against Partizan in the Champions League and a thigh injury against Leganes in the Copa Del Rey.

  It was the first time in ten years that I’d have the whole of Christmas Day at home. I knew that would mean a lot to Brooklyn: I’m the worst putter-together of toys in the world and for the last few years he’s been in tears by the time I’ve had to head off to join up with United. Part of it was Brooklyn not wanting me to go, but he also wanted to know who was going to finish building his new things and then put the batteries in them the right way round. That was Dad’s job, after all. There are sacrifices at home every player – and his family – have to get used to when playing football in England. No wonder, really, I couldn’t wait to try out how they did things in Spain.

  A proper Christmas? I couldn’t help myself. I took Victoria and the boys off to Lapland for a day to meet Santa Claus which, when we got there, didn’t seem at first like the best idea I’d ever had. It was the coldest I’ve ever been – minus 30-something – and as soon as we got off the plane the air you breathed in made it feel like your nose was going to freeze and drop off. Brooklyn and Romeo were wrapped up in so many jumpers and coats that I don’t know how much of it they got to see. Once we got used to the shock of it, though, we had a fantastic time. The boys met Father Christmas and saw his reindeer. We took a ride across the snow on a sledge, had a huge dinner together and then stayed overnight. I don’t know about the rest of them but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, even if we won’t be rushing back to the Arctic again for a while.

  It was a wonderful couple of days. We got back from Lapland on Christmas Eve. Come bedtime at home in Hertfordshire, Brooklyn and I got a glass of milk for Santa and put it out by the fire with a mince pie and a tangerine. We’d actually met him now, of course, and wanted to look after him properly. After we’d got the boys off to sleep, Victoria and I had a glass of red wine together while we wrapped all the presents and put them out round the tree. Just before we went up, I drank the milk, took a bite out of the mince pie and then got some snow powder, sprinkled it on the soles of a pair of Timberland boots and marked out some footprints between the chimney and the tree. I sprinkled some glitter around, too, and scribbled a note from Father Christmas for Brooklyn and Romeo to find in the morning.

  When I was a boy, on Christmas morning Dad would always get Lynne, Joanne and me to wait at the top of the stairs so he could go and see if Santa had been. He’d turn round shaking his head: No, not yet. And then laugh as we all charged down to see for ourselves. I do the same thing with Brooklyn now. I love those few moments before he realises I’m joking. Both boys were so excited: almost as excited as me maybe. Then, early afternoon, we were able to sit down together to a real family dinner: parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, everybody. It was great. And, for once, I wasn’t having to look at my watch. I was still there for the turkey sandwiches and Only Fools And Horses on Christmas night. I enjoyed every single minute of it.

  We were back in Madrid for New Year. Usually, we have a quiet night in, just the four of us but this time we decided we’d go for it. My mum and Victoria’s parents came over and we went to a do at the Ritz Hotel together. It meant us all dressing up to the nines. Victoria looked absolutely amazing. The boys had identical Spanish suits on: it’s a Spanish tradition that brothers wear exactly the same outfits when they go out. At about a quarter to twelve, party bags came round with fancy dress hats: my luck, I ended up looking like Biggles for midnight. On each stroke of the clock in Spain, you’re supposed to eat a grape. I was struggling with that because the ones I was left with still had the seeds in and I coughed and spluttered my way into 2004. I know Mum has had some bad memories of New Years but she said that night was the best she’d ever had. That, on its own, made it a night to remember for me.

  The break was only a couple of weeks but I have to admit that plunging straight back into games came as a bit of a shock to the system. The other lads at Real were probably used to the routine. For me, it meant a completely different rhythm to the season. In England, Christmas is one of the most intense times of the year for professional players. It wasn’t that I let myself go or anything: I’m not a drinker and I like my sleep, after all. But, in hindsight, I think I should have done more fitness work while we were away from the club. When we came back we weren’t doing any extra running or conditioning to get us back up to speed. It was straight back into it, as if we’d only been away for a couple of days. Something like forty-eight hours after reporting back, we had our first game of the new year and I’d have to admit I wasn’t quite as ready for it, physically, as I’d have liked to have been.

  Not that me being slightly off the pace was the problem against Murcia. No, the problem was yet another Argentine defender. What is it about me and them? The game itself was pretty hard going, not just for me but for everybody, and we were happy to get a 1–0 win against a team that struggled against relegation all season. Early in the second half, I got a gash on my ankle after a challenge from their centre-half, José Luis Acciari. I think the crowd at the Bernebeu could see straight away that it was pretty serious and gave me a big cheer for carrying on. I responded to that but, to be honest, I didn’t feel too much pain at first. Adrenalin blocks so much of that out during a game.

  Ten minutes later, I went down again and I rolled down my sock. I lifted it away from my leg and the whole bottom half was soaked in blood. When the boot came off, I could actually see the stuff spurting out of the cut. It was pretty obvious it needed stitching and they got me off to the dressing room. Twenty-four hours later, the ankle was hurting like I might have expected it to when Acciari actually caught me. I showed it to the Real medical people and they put me on a course of antibiotics. The gash had somehow become infected in behind the stitches. I missed the Copa Del Rey game against Eibar that midweek and then had to sit out the defeat at Real Sociedad at the weekend too, only the fourth La Liga game I’d missed since the start of the season.

  If I had to pick out a turning point in the season for me personally, I think that injury against Murcia would be it. If I’d played the next couple of games, I’d have been back to the physical level I’d been at before Christmas, I’m sure. As for the injury itself, over the next few months it began to seem like my ankle had become some kind of kick magnet. Every time I got a knock, it would be right on the spot where the stitches had been put in at the start of January at the Bernebeu.

  As a team, we picked up after the break where we’d left off. Ronaldo seemed to be scoring every game and, after losing to Real Sociedad, we went on another unbeaten run. Before the home game against Valencia in the middle of February, I think we were eight points clear at the top of the table. Looking back, though, that match at the Bernebeu was where the tide started turning against us. Valencia are an excellent team. They stayed strong and deserved to win La Liga last season. We’d lost at the Mestella in the autumn but we’d beaten them 3–0 in the Copa Del Rey at home at the end of January, although the edge had been taken off
that night for me by getting sent off: I wasn’t happy with the decision at all but I wasn’t happy with having got myself into the situation where I could get a second yellow either. The referee definitely played his part in that game. Three weeks later, so did the man in charge of the La Liga fixture.

  It was a Sunday night game at the Bernebeu and Valencia got a goal and were winning 1–0 until the last minute when Raul got a nudge in the back inside the area and went down. Luis Figo put the penalty away and we were happy we’d saved a point. Real being Real, though, as far as opposing supporters and some of the papers are concerned, that was only the start of the fuss. I thought we’d done enough to earn the draw but, according to the headlines, Valencia had been robbed. They must have showed Raul getting nudged on TV a million times. At the time, I thought it was a penalty and I still do even if I’d have been unhappy if it had been given against us. But it was just one incident in one game, wasn’t it? No. Within twenty-four hours, we were in the middle of a national crisis. And we were the bad guys. Everybody had an opinion and most people, except for our own supporters, thought that there was some kind of conspiracy going on to make winning the title easy for us. It was crazy and I think it backfired on Real in the end.