Beckham

by David Beckham

  The farmhouse was right next to the first team’s training ground, in the shadow of the stadium itself, and we stayed there with the boys from other parts of Spain who were with Barcelona’s youth team. I was still only eleven and saw one or two things that I wasn’t used to from life in Chingford: in the evenings, prostitutes would walk up and down outside, on the other side of the railings, and all the older Spanish boys would be leaning out of the windows whistling at them. We used to have this hot chocolate drink at night that I liked so much I drank two one evening and made myself sick. I went to the toilet, turned the light on and saw a cockroach crawl across the floor. What was I doing here? The soccer was an experience. And so was the rest of it.

  We’d go out every day with Barca’s youth teams and reserve players. The training was amazing. The only catch was that Ridgeway had a Cup Final against a team called Forest United, at White Hart Lane, at the weekend. I was devastated at the prospect of missing that game; there was also my grandad, who was such a big Spurs fan and wanted to see me play there. He ended up paying for me to fly home for the game and then back to Barcelona again. There wasn’t a happy ending, though. Forest United had a young Daniele Dichio playing for them, aged twelve, already seven foot tall and growing a beard. They beat us 2–1 that afternoon. Then I was straight on the plane and back to Spain, on my own and not really sure if I fancied another week away from Chingford.

  Barcelona, the soccer club, was really impressive. The training facilities were excellent, although the young kids trained on a gravel field, which I wasn’t used to and didn’t really enjoy. The first team had an immaculate surface to play on, and the reserve team had a 20,000-seater stadium all of their own. We were taken inside the Nou Camp one day. You come up from the dressing rooms, past the club chapel that’s off to one side in the tunnel, and then up a flight of stairs onto the field. Sometimes you can’t help yourself: with acres of grass and the stands towering above, I started running up and down, kicking an imaginary soccer and pretending to be Mark Hughes. What would it be like, to be out there actually playing a game?

  All the boys who I was training with were probably sixteen and seventeen. The two lads who’d finished second and third at Old Trafford were fifteen and nineteen. Everybody was really friendly but, at first, it was like: What’s this child with the spiky hair and the funny accent doing here? Once we got started, everything was fine. Obviously, none of the coaches or the other players spoke English but, if we were playing, we could make ourselves understood. It was the first time I’d been in a professional set-up, training with professional players. It opened my eyes. We’d watch the first team most days and, one time, we went out and were introduced to Mr Venables and the players. Of course, I’m quite good friends with Mark Hughes now. He often laughs about that time in Spain: the Barcelona players didn’t have a clue who we were. I still have the photo of me, Mark, Terry Venables and Gary Lineker that was taken that afternoon.

  It was an exciting time. I was training with Spurs, and United had let me know they were more than just interested. I went up to Manchester a few times in the school vacations, always with Malcolm Fidgeon in that brown Sierra, and hooked up with the team when they came down to London to play. The club in general, and Alex Ferguson in particular, did their best to make me feel a part of it all. The older players, like Bryan Robson and Steve Bruce, mocked me about those times once I eventually joined the club. I was at pre-match meals and I’d be in the dressing room after games, helping clear away all the uniforms. One afternoon, when United were away to West Ham, they invited me to come along as the mascot. I was given a United tracksuit and there I was, at Upton Park, warming up on the field with the likes of Bryan Robson and Gordon Strachan. Then they let me sit on the bench for the game. I even spotted myself on Match of the Day that evening.

  United seemed pretty keen on me. Of course, I was so keen on United that it was almost embarrassing. I used to wear my hair spiky, wanting it to look like Gordon Strachan’s, and the day of that West Ham game I took him a tub of hair gel as a present. He got some grief about that; and so did I a year or two later. Another time before a game in London, they invited me and Mum and Dad to have an evening meal with the squad at the team hotel at West Lodge Park. Never mind that I ordered a steak and then couldn’t understand when a piece of tuna was put down in front of me. I was seated on the top table with the manager and the staff. They had a present for me: one of those padded bench coats. It was about six sizes too big for me. You couldn’t see my hands at the ends of the sleeves and it trailed round my ankles, but I didn’t take the thing off for a week. Better still, I had a present for the boss: a pen. Alex Ferguson took it and looked at me:

  ‘Thanks, David. I’ll tell you what: I’ll sign you for Manchester United using this pen’.

  Remembering that, it might seem strange that there was ever any doubt about who I was going to sign schoolboy forms with before I turned thirteen. But I’d been really happy training at Spurs and got on well with their Youth Development Officer, John Moncur. It was also important that White Hart Lane was fifteen minutes down the road from home. Much as Dad might have dreamed about me playing for United, he put that to one side when we sat down to talk. It wasn’t: this is what you should do. But: what do you want to do? We decided we should at least find out what Spurs had to say.

  Maybe I knew all along that it had to be United. The meeting between me, my dad and Terry Venables, who’d come back from Spain and was then managing Spurs, left me feeling like I had more questions than answers. John Moncur took us along to Terry’s office. I can picture the scene now: Terry had dropped something on the floor, either some crisps or peanuts, and was bent down in his chair, scrabbling on the carpet, trying to pick them up. He looked up at us:

  ‘So, John, what have you got to tell me about this young lad?’

  Never mind not remembering me from Barcelona: that must have seemed like ages ago. I got the impression that, although I’d been training at Spurs for a couple of years, the manager didn’t really have any idea who I was. I couldn’t help thinking about the times I’d been up to Manchester. Alex Ferguson knew all about me. He knew all about every single boy. He knew their parents, he knew their brothers and sisters. That seemed important to me, important for my future. It always felt like you were part of a family at United.

  Spurs made us a really generous offer, which amounted to a six-year deal: two years as a schoolboy followed by two years as a Youth Training Scheme trainee and then two years as a professional. A thought flashed through my mind. By the time I’m eighteen, I could be driving a Porsche.

  ‘So, David, would you like to sign for Tottenham?’ Terry said eventually.

  Dad looked at me. He’d never been one to make my decisions for me. I took a breath:

  ‘I’d like to think about it, Mr Venables.’

  In my head, though, I was shouting out: United! It’s got to be United!

  Of course, Mum and Dad and I talked about what we’d heard. I think Mum would have liked me to join Tottenham, because of Grandad and because it would have meant me being able to stay at home, but she kept that to herself. Neither she nor Dad were going to put pressure on me one way or the other. We all knew that, if I ended up signing for Spurs, things would be fine. I’d be happy and well looked after at White Hart Lane. We had an appointment at Old Trafford to get to first, though.

  I drove up with Mum and Dad and we had this conversation on the way up. We knew what Tottenham had offered, and Dad and I agreed that the actual amount of money involved wasn’t the important thing. This wasn’t some kind of auction. All I needed was a sense of security. I wanted to know I’d get a chance to prove myself. If United offered the same six-year commitment that Tottenham had, then my mind would be made up: the wages wouldn’t come into it. If not, we’d drive back to London and I’d sign a contract with Spurs.

  It was May 2 1988, my thirteenth birthday. United were at home to Wimbledon and Alex Ferguson was waiting for us:


  ‘Hello, David.’

  This bloke knew me. I knew him. And I trusted him. So did my mum and dad. I’d had a special blazer bought for the occasion and United gave me a red club tie that I wore for the rest of the day. We went away to have lunch in the grill room where the first team had their pre-match meal: there was even a birthday cake. Not that I felt much like eating. At half past five, after the game, we went up to Mr Ferguson’s office. He was there with Les Kershaw, who was in charge of Youth Development at the club. Malcolm Fidgeon was there too. It was all pretty simple. United wanted me to sign and the boss set out the offer:

  ‘We’d like to give you two, two and two.’

  I looked over to Dad, who was in another world. He’d been looking forward to this moment even longer than I had. I could see that he hadn’t taken in what Alex had just said. I knew, though, I’d just heard what I’d been wanting to hear : two, two and two, equalling the six years I’d been offered at White Hart Lane. I didn’t need to wait for the details.

  ‘I want to sign.’

  And out came that pen. How long had it taken? A minute? It didn’t matter. I’d been ready, waiting to say those words, for the best part of ten years.

  3

  Home from Home

  ‘You may have signed for Man United, but you haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘You know I’m Man United, but I don’t want that to put pressure on you. If you decide to sign for somebody else, I won’t be upset.’

  Dad had always made that clear to me. Of course, I’d always known he was lying about the last bit. So the day I signed at Old Trafford was as fantastic for him as it was for me. By the time we left Mr Ferguson’s office, Mum was in tears. She was happy for me but she knew it meant that, sooner rather than later, I was going to be leaving home. She’d put so much love and so many hours into a kid who was mad about soccer; and the moment we’d arrived at our destination was also the moment she was going to have to get used to the idea of her boy heading north to start a career.

  She did a fair bit of crying in the months between me signing up and starting my YTS at United. But I knew, deep down, she was as proud of me as my dad was. Not letting my parents down meant everything to me. They never made me feel like I owed them for the support they’d given me, but I felt I had to do all I could to make sure they didn’t end up disappointed. Think about it: if I let them down, it would mean I’d let myself down as well. It’s never been a case of me having to live up to their expectations. It’s just that I’ve taken my parents’ expectations of me and made them the starting point for what I expect of myself. Even now, when my own family and career mean I don’t see as much of them, I think I still judge myself by the standards I learned from Mum and Dad.

  What could have been more exciting than that day? Everybody shaking hands, me in my blazer and club tie, a United player; or, at least, a lad from Chingford who’d just taken the first step towards becoming a United player. Out in the corridor, Dad and I met up with the United captain, Bryan Robson. We’d spent hours in front of the television watching videos of this man, our absolute all-time hero. Dad had tried to hammer his qualities into me: courage, commitment, energy, vision and the ability to inspire players around him.

  I’d met Bryan before, but this was the boss introducing me to him as United’s latest signing:

  ‘Congratulations, David. You’ll find out for yourself but, I’d say, you couldn’t be joining a better club.’

  I don’t remember us driving back to London at all. At least Dad didn’t forget we were on a busy highway. I couldn’t have thought about anything else that evening, and I didn’t want to. I’d just lived through the happiest day of my life.

  Although I’d done the adding up in my head and got the answer I wanted, that first contract at Old Trafford wasn’t actually for six years but for four. It was against regulations, anyway, for a boy signing schoolboy forms to have full professional terms set out there and then: I was only thirteen, after all, and so much could change before I turned eighteen. The rules were there to protect youngsters from getting trapped somewhere they didn’t want to be; not that there was any chance of that happening to me. United told me that, if everything went well, I could expect to sign as a professional in four and a half years’ time.

  In a really important way, I think that bit of uncertainty was best for me and for all the other lads who joined the club at the same time. I knew I was wanted. But I also knew that I had to prove myself over the next four years. If I’d known all along that achieving the ambition of becoming a professional player at United was already settled—down on a piece of paper in black and white—who knows if it wouldn’t have taken the edge off my determination to seize the chance I’d been given? I think that extra hunger has had a lot to do with my success and the team’s success in the years since. The day I signed didn’t feel like the day I’d made it. The hard work was just starting. I wanted a challenge and Manchester United was the biggest challenge there was.

  I knew I was in good hands. Even before I signed at United I had the feeling I was joining a family. It’s about there being really good people everywhere at the club. I don’t just mean the ones everybody would know about like the manager or the players, but people like Kath Phipps, who still works on Reception at Old Trafford. I can still remember, when I was just a boy, every time I went up to a United game she’d be there. She’d lean across her desk and give me a little kiss and the program she’d saved for me. Later on, Kath used to help me with answering my mail. She’s part of United and she was with me right through my career there.

  Whenever I came up to Manchester to train or to be at a game, I’d be looked after by Joe and Connie Brown, who had an office at the ground. They would take me—and Mum and Dad, if they were with me—around Old Trafford, take us for a meal, show us down to the dressing rooms and introduce us to the players and staff. Joe and Connie made me feel really welcome. Joe was Youth Development Officer at United. He was responsible for young players’ expenses and travel arrangements but that job stretched to him and Connie taking care of just about everything when youngsters from outside Manchester and their families spent time at the club.

  Then, when it came to the soccer, there was Nobby Stiles. I worked with Nobby after I joined the club, and he was really hard, just like he was as a player, but I think he cared more about the youngsters he worked with than anything else in the world. Dad knew all about Nobby as a player, of course, for United and as a World Cup winner with England: he and Dad got on really well, even though every now and again Nobby would have to catch himself about his language when he was getting carried away during one of our games:

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Beckham. Excuse me, Mrs Beckham.’

  Not that Dad was too worried about that:

  ‘No problem, Nobby. You carry on.’

  Nobby was great with us and he was great with our parents as well. He knew mums and dads needed to be involved, not treated as if they were in the way. If you watched videos or heard stories about him as a player, you’d never believe how gentle he was with the boys, or how polite he was with the parents. No-one took liberties with Nobby, mind. For all that he didn’t look a big man and used to wear these huge glasses when he was coaching, he still had something about him you respected straight away. Fifteen years later, he would still come straight up and give me a big hug like nothing’s changed since.

  I could have moved up the year after I signed schoolboy forms, in August 1989, and finished my last two years of school in Manchester but, in the end, we decided I’d stay in London until I started full-time as a YTS trainee at United. That meant I could be at home, with my friends and family, while I turned fourteen and fifteen. And I could keep playing for Ridgeway Rovers, which by then had become a team called Brimsdown: we were the same players more or less, just the name had changed. United were happy for boys to get on with their lives and play for their Sunday League teams until they moved to the city. Malcolm Fidgeon would come and watch me play for
Brimsdown and, as long as I was enjoying my soccer and playing regularly, that was enough. The time for United to take all the responsibility was still a couple of years away.

  I used to go up to Manchester two or three times a year to train during the school vacations. In the summer, I’d be up there for the whole six weeks. I loved it and didn’t want to do anything else with my time off from school but play and train and be at United. Those summers were fantastic. There would be thirty or so of us together at a time, all looked after by Malcolm and the rest of the coaching staff, in halls of residence. I’d think about the place where I’d stayed in Barcelona; that lovely old house with the mountains rising up behind us. This was a bit different: a concrete block in Salford, stuck on top of a hill and freezing cold. You shared a room with another young player, the facilities were basic but at least there was a snooker table and a table tennis table for us to use in the evenings.

  Not that where we were staying made much difference to me. We’d go to United’s second training ground at Lyttleton Road every day and train morning and afternoon. Then, in the evenings, we’d live it up: trips to the movies, fish and chips, all the glamorous stuff. I met other boys who had signed at the same time as me, like John O’Kane, who I spent a lot of time with back then. John was from Nottingham. He was a massive prospect at United all through our first years there together, a really good player. As a person, he was very relaxed. Maybe it was because he was so laid back that it didn’t really workout for him at United. He ended up leaving to go to Everton, the season we went on to do the Treble, and is playing for Blackpool now.

  Lads would come from everywhere for those vacation sessions. Keith Gillespie, who’s now at Leicester, came over from Ireland. He was a lovely lad, and I used to get on really well with him. Colin Murdock, who’s just moved from Preston to Hibs, came down from Scotland. We were all miles from home, in the same boat, and that made it easier for us all to get on, even if, in the back of our minds, we knew we were in competition with each other as well. The soccer was what mattered above everything and it was a new experience, training day in day out and being introduced to more technical coaching. It couldn’t have been more different from Sunday League. All the time I was with Ridgeway, I’d tried to imagine what it would be like and this was it: soccer was my job. I didn’t have to do anything else.