England and England supporters knew all about Wayne Rooney before Euro 2004. Now everybody else does as well. He’s still young and he’ll get better but what he gives a team already reminds me of what we get from the top man, Ronaldo, at Real. Wayne’s got that same ability to make something out of the ordinary happen whenever he gets the ball. He’s got the same strength in possession, the same turn of pace to shake off defenders and he scores goals as well. Having him in the team at the tournament was a huge plus for us. Losing him when we did, half an hour in against Portugal, was just as big a knock.
We’d got accustomed to being able to look up and find Wayne. He and Michael were a perfect combination, probably the best at the tournament. One’s great at dropping off and then turning to run at defenders and the other’s got the pace to play on the last defender’s shoulder. In our first games, defenders knew about Michael and were set up to defend against him, which left them open to what Wayne could do. Come the Portugal game, it had switched round. They were so worried about Wayne being on the ball that their plan looked like being to drop Costinha back to keep an eye on him. That only gave us an advantage in midfield and left spaces in behind that Michael could run into.
It looked like a nothing challenge when Wayne and their defender went down together chasing a ball into the area. Wayne got up but we could all see straight away that he’d had it. Before Duscher broke mine, I’d never heard of a metatarsal. Now, breaking it has happened to too many England players: Gary Neville and Danny Murphy before the last World Cup and now Wayne. It’s not an excuse but losing him hurt us. There’s nobody in England that plays his type of game. We were set up for it at Euro 2004 and now we had to reorganise as best we could.
There was so much that was good in the game. I think the battle between Ashley Cole and Ronaldo down our left was just about the best thing at Euro 2004. Ronaldo’s got so much ability and had already made a big impact for Portugal, just as he has at United. But Ashley was amazing that night at the Estadio Da Luz and wouldn’t give him an inch. I think Ash won the battle but what made it such a good scrap was that Ronaldo, every time he got taken out by a tackle, just got up and came back for another go. They’re two of the best young players in Europe. If I hadn’t been playing, I’d have been happy to pay to watch the pair of them at it.
Portugal, like France in the opening game, had more and more of the possession as the game went on. We got pushed back deeper and deeper which meant when we won the ball there wasn’t much option but to launch it forward and hope for the best. I couldn’t see Portugal getting back, though: they didn’t really make a good chance until they scored. I charged down one cross from the left but the winger got it back and, with his right foot, got a cross in that nobody expected. Postiga headed in and suddenly it looked like we’d be hanging on hoping for extra-time.
As it happened, it should never have come to that. We got a corner on the left, bang on the 90 minutes. I wasn’t comfortable at all with how I was feeling physically but I still trusted myself to put a dead ball into the right area. Trusted a team-mate to get on to it, too. As Sol got up to score with his header, I was leaning round to look along the touchline to see where my corner had dropped. I’ve not had the stomach for watching it again on TV but I saw, there and then, that Ricardo had got himself in a terrible position. I didn’t see any England player foul him. He just couldn’t get past John Terry and Sol to the ball.
Like I say, any team needs some luck along the way to winning a major tournament. If the goal had been allowed, we’d have been looking forward to the semi-finals. Instead, we were looking forward to extra-time. If us having had two days since our last game – as opposed to Portugal’s three – was going to make any difference, you’d expect it to be in the added half hour. We were just doing our best to hold a line on the edge of our penalty area but Rui Costa had come on as a sub and scored a great goal which I think the Portuguese thought was going to win the game for them.
I wasn’t even thinking about it at the time but, if it had gone to half-time in extra-time at 2–1 we would have been out on a silver goal. But, even though it would have spared us the grief of penalties again if that had happened, I’m proud of the way we got ourselves back in it again that night. People get so involved in criticising individuals they sometimes lose sight of what we’ve got as an England team. We were out on our feet and, because we’d been under the cosh for so long, looked like being out of the tournament too. I think about the spirit of the best sides. I think about what we had while I was at United: we were never finished. And, against Portugal, England came back too.
We got a corner on the right and, when the ball broke back towards the edge of the area, Frank had got himself a yard and stuck it past Ricardo. We were almost too whacked to celebrate at the time but that moment counts for a lot with me. You can’t ask for better from a team that they have the belief, the sense of togetherness and enough ability to make sure you can’t ever write them off. Since Sven took over, we’ve lost just three competitive games: and it was only a break of the ball or one mistake or being on the wrong side of a referee’s decision in each one of those that made the difference.
In the second half of extra-time, we had one good chance when Darius Vassell got away but was pulled down. England at major tournaments, though? We’re all used to it going to penalties now, I suppose. Even though I’d missed against Turkey and had my last one saved by Fabien Barthez, I didn’t think twice about taking the first penalty against Portugal. And I’ll still take the next one that comes my way, too. If it comes down to beating a goalkeeper from 12 yards, unless something strange happens, my technique is good enough to make me sure I’ll score. Something very strange indeed, though, ambushed me in the shootout that night at the Estadio Da Luz.
We’d trained at the ground the night before and taken some penalties. I’d noticed – a few of us had – that the turf around one of the penalty spots was unstable. We’d told the manager and I think he talked to the stadium people about it. When I walked down from the halfway line to take the first penalty against Portugal, though, I wasn’t thinking about that. All I had in my mind was: Score.
A lot of people had been criticising me during the tournament, but the people I cared most about, the England supporters in the stadium, were fantastic. ‘One David Beckham, there’s only one David Beckham.’ The reaction of those supporters means a lot to me. They were on my side then – whether they thought I’d had a good tournament or not – and I hope that they’ll be on my side over the next year and a half too while we’re trying to qualify for the next World Cup. They’re the best supporters in the world and I want to make sure they’ve got something to celebrate in Germany in 2006.
A penalty shootout is always tense but, like I say, I believed I’d score. Believed the rest of the lads would, too, and that David James, sooner or later, would be the goalkeeper who guessed right and made the save. It seemed to take an age for the whole process to get started but, eventually, I was ready to put the ball down in front of the Portuguese fans at the shaded end of the ground. It seemed as if it sat alright on the penalty spot, so I turned and walked away. One look upwards and a squint against the sun, I tried to put everything else other than where I was going to hit the ball – to Ricardo’s left, the opposite side to the one Fabien had got across to – out of my mind.
I ran up and just as my right foot came back to hit the ball, I felt the pitch move sideways underneath my standing foot. I couldn’t believe it. In fact, I think I was aware of where the ball had ended up going even before I understood what had happened. My kick flew up over the angle of the post and the bar: What’s happened? I couldn’t have hit it there, at that angle, if I’d tried. It took a split second to take in the cold fact of it. That I’d missed. I stared down at the spot and the turf around it, waiting for it to make sense. It didn’t.
I blew out and began walking back towards the halfway line where the rest of the lads were standing. Everything just seemed to have bee
n going wrong for me that possibly could have. I don’t know if any of the other England players said anything to me. I was away somewhere else. Is that going to cost us winning Euro 2004? And then, almost at the same moment as that thought came into my mind, the realisation what it might mean.
It was different when I was sent off against Argentina at France 98: then, the disappointment was for myself at first, not knowing what might happen in the rest of the game and then after I got back to England. Now, though, I was a husband and a father and I had the experience of having been the villain six years ago behind me. Even before Deco ran up and scored Portugal’s first penalty, it was roaring away in my head. I can’t put my family through this now. I can’t put Victoria through that all over again. That was all I could think of while the rest of the shootout unfolded what seemed like miles away down in the penalty area.
After Michael and Frank scored – everybody was trying to stamp down the turf now – Rui Costa, who I bet was as sure he’d score as I’d been, slipped too and missed. For those few minutes afterwards, it seemed possible that what had happened to me wasn’t going to matter after all. John Terry, Owen Hargreaves and Ashley Cole all hit great penalties. The Portuguese scored theirs as well, which meant it was all square after the first five apiece. Sudden death: Darius Vassell was first. It even crossed my mind before he took it that we’d come round again and I might have to take another one.
Ricardo saved and then scored himself. He’d made a mess of that corner at the end of normal time but he had enough about him now to be the hero for Portugal. I don’t know what Darius was thinking beyond being as disappointed as the rest of us. I just put an arm on his shoulder:
‘Don’t worry about it. You’ve done everything you could tonight. Done everything you could every time you’ve played for England. You’ll get another chance at all this.’
At the same time, the thought came to me: You’re a really nice lad. I know what might be around the corner here. It’s better if I end up getting the stick for all this than you having to.
It was very quiet in the dressing room afterwards. Mr Eriksson thanked us for what we’d done at the tournament, and in qualifying for it too. ‘I thought that we could win this competition. I thought we would. Now we’re out, but I believe that we were very, very close.’
Figo, who’d been taken off by the Portuguese manager Luis Felipé Scolari – the same man who’d been in charge of Brazil two years before – had asked if I’d swap shirts. I could have just headed straight back onto the coach and given it to him back in Madrid but I thought it was a time to be strong. I found my way into their dressing room. I gave the shirt to Luis, shook Scolari’s hand and congratulated their players.
‘Well played. Good luck in the rest of the competition.’
Back at the hotel we all had a drink together before we went up to our rooms. Victoria and I were alone together for the first time since the game had finished. I didn’t really know what to say. Thinking about what tomorrow – and the days after it – might bring:
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what? What’s there for you to be sorry about?’
Well, there was England being beaten, for a start. And that was bad enough. But it wasn’t what I meant, sitting next to Victoria, staring at our reflections coming back to us in the window glass:
‘I don’t know if it’s worth it. I’m sorry for what this’ll mean for us and I can’t keep putting you, putting my family, through what comes with these big tournaments. I love football. And I think I can play but…’
I’m lucky that Brooklyn and Romeo are still young enough that they probably won’t have to go through stuff like It was your dad’s fault, he missed the penalty from friends at school. I knew there was every chance, though, that Victoria would get whatever was coming my way and more.
I don’t know why it happened this summer after we’ve been together for so long. Victoria’s always supported what I’ve been doing as a footballer. During Euro 2004, though, she actually got interested in the game. We’ve talked about it since and she says that, in the past, she didn’t think she could affect my game in any way.
‘It never mattered, did it? We could have a huge argument on the phone an hour before a game. I knew you’d go out and play a blinder anyway.’
During the tournament in Portugal, though, she was the one person who knew how I was feeling physically. And, more importantly, how that had left me feeling uncertain about myself as a player before and during Euro 2004. She knew that my state of mind, for the first time in my career, was having a real effect on my performances and started watching the games more closely to try and make sure she could read my mood. And change it, if that was what I needed. In spite of herself, almost, she found herself getting into the football itself. For the first time ever, we were having conversations about other teams and other players: Don’t you think the Czech Republic played well last night?
What all that meant, in that room at the Solplay in Lisbon on a warm July night, was that Victoria knew exactly what I needed to hear:
‘You’ve lost and we’re going home. But you’re England captain. Do you know how many people would give their right arm to be able to say that? All that matters now is that you get this out of your system and get onto the next one.’
In the days that followed, she made sure that was what happened. Ever since I’d won the prize of a trip to Barcelona at Bobby Charlton’s soccer school, I’d always known, in the back of my mind, that I’d love to set up something like that. I’d had 15 years to dream about it and, during my first year in Madrid, a couple of chance meetings had made it seem like something for now instead of something for away off in the future.
Next summer – 2005 – David Beckham Soccer Schools will open in London and Los Angeles. My plan is to create something that combines coaching for youngsters from all sorts of backgrounds with some of the fun and the spectacle of a theme park. It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever been involved with in football aside from actually playing the game. And it’s something I hope I’ll still be doing long after I’ve finished pulling boots on myself. What I’ve had from football, it only seems right to pass a bit of it on.
Before Euro 2004, we’d set everything up for being able to announce the official launch in America and then back home in England during August. It would mean plane rides, public appearances, TV interviews, the lot. I think Victoria decided on the spot, in the hotel after we’d lost to Portugal:
‘Look, it’s your decision but I think you need to put all that to one side. You’re captain of your country. You play football for one of the biggest clubs in the world. We need to do whatever you need to make those things work.’
Over the next few days, she reorganised everything. The launch was put off until Christmas 2004 and, instead, we went off together – the two of us – for a week’s holiday in Morocco. Then we took Brooklyn and Romeo to the South of France for ten days. Being with them, the world and the fuss about Euro 2004 rattling on somewhere else altogether, was exactly the right thing to have done. I feel fitter now, a new season with Real waiting to start and a World Cup qualifying campaign to get going in Austria and Poland, than I have for nearly six months. I haven’t been near the gym. I made sure I was right, physically, for pre-season with the lads in Madrid and the new coach, José Antonio Camacho. During our two games on tour in Japan in August, I felt like the player who’d started out life at a new club twelve months before.
Even more important, I’m back in the right frame of mind. A month or so on, the frustration and the self-doubt had all ebbed away. You can’t ever pretend that what happened to us in Portugal didn’t happen. But you can put the headlines to one side and put the thing into some kind of perspective. First of all, I think I now understand why I felt like I did during Euro 2004. And time with the family made me remember that there are things that are more important than football. Victoria and Brooklyn and Romeo are the heartbeat my world turns to. Having them close to me, war
m to how much they mean to me every single day, doesn’t push my career to one side. The opposite. I can already feel our life together in Madrid setting fire to my passion for the best game in the world all over again. I’m a bit wiser, maybe. Contented with today and excited about tomorrow, I feel as happy right now as I ever have in nearly thirty years. There’s a lot of football to be played yet and I’m ready. A lot of living for the four of us Beckhams to do too. I can’t wait to find out what the next twist in my story – our story – will be.
Career Record
Compiled by Mark Baber of the Association of Football Statisticians to 1 July 2004
Personal Summary
Full name: David Robert Joseph Beckham
Place and Date of Birth: Leytonstone, 2 May 1975
Parents: Sandra and Ted
Sisters: Joanne and Lynne
Married: 4 July 1999
Wife: Victoria Caroline Adams Beckham
Sons: Brooklyn Joseph Beckham, born 4 March 1999 Romeo Beckham, born 1 September 2002
Height: 5ft 11in (180 cm)
Weight: 10st 13lb (75kg)
Early Career
As a junior played for Ridgeway Rovers, winning the Fyfield 5-a-side tournament.
At 11 years old won the Bobby Charlton Soccer Skills Competition.
Played for Waltham Forest under-12s.
Scouted to Manchester United by Malcolm Fidgeon.
Represented Essex Schools as a schoolboy.
Attended Tottenham Hotspur’s school of excellence.
David Beckham: My Side Page 46