Beckham

by David Beckham

  I’d always wanted to have children. Maybe it was growing up with a baby sister in the house. Maybe I’ve just got that paternal thing from my mum and dad, I don’t know. I can remember, when I broke into the United team, feeling jealous of the older players on the odd days during a season when they could bring their children in to training, to sit on the sidelines and watch Dad play. I wanted that really badly. And, I’ll be honest, I always wanted a son. Two sons, in fact: as much as I loved Joanne, I know—and she knows, we laugh about it—I always wanted a baby brother, too. That afternoon at the Portland, gazing down at Victoria nuzzled up against our newborn son, I knew that, whatever else had happened or was going to happen in my life, I’d been blessed.

  I remember Victoria turning to me as I cradled Brooklyn in my arms:

  ‘Whatever you do, please don’t leave him.’

  We’d had threats made to us since the summer and, again, just before Brooklyn was born. We’d talked about it all beforehand, how we were going to handle the security, and I went with the nurse when she took Brooklyn to get him bathed and all cleaned up and ready, even though it meant leaving Victoria. All our family came round to the hospital that evening. It was like having all the people you love most wrapped around you. Then, that night, I stayed. There wasn’t another bed in the room; Victoria was in the hospital bed, because she still had the pipes and monitors connected from the operation, and Brooklyn was in his cot. I slept on the floor with a terrycloth for a cushion and my head pressed up against the door, so it couldn’t be opened. Maybe we were a little nervous, but you can’t ever know. All I was sure of was how happy I was: just me, Victoria and Brooklyn, breathing, sleeping together in that little room, through until morning.

  Almost the first phone call I’d made was to Alex Ferguson, just to let him know there was another lad named Beckham about, and he was great. He’s got sons of his own and I think he understood just how I was feeling. After the congratulations, he told me not to bother coming up to Manchester to train: just to stay with Brooklyn and Victoria and come back the day before the next game. I played against Chelsea on the Saturday and then drove back to London. At first, Brooklyn had trouble keeping his milk down. That evening, Victoria got him dressed up in this little green and white outfit and I arrived just in time to see his latest meal come up all over his clothes and the bed. It was like a special welcome for me, to the real fun of being a dad.

  The day Victoria and Brooklyn came home was mad and, to be honest, I don’t remember it as a good experience at all. You looked out of the window and someone had hung this huge banner across the shops opposite, which said: ‘BROOKLYN THIS WAY’. We made arrangements with the hospital and with the police, who both did everything they could to help: a back way in for the car, curtains hung in the windows all around the back seats, everything we could think of to make trying to get past this army of press and photographers and well-wishers a bit less scary and upsetting for a baby boy, just a couple of days old, and his very tired mum. It turned into something like a military operation and, of course, when it came to doing my bit, I was all over the place. I’d never strapped in a baby’s car seat. Snarling the straps, putting the thing in the wrong way round, trying to line up the buckles: in the end, the midwife had to do it for me.

  We got settled in the car and then had to draw the curtains, which meant that—apart from hundreds of flashes from the cameras—we didn’t really see the fuss that was going on until we got home and watched it on television. The press had positioned cars along the route, to hold us up so the snappers could get their pictures. The police, though, saw what was happening, which was dangerous for us and everybody else, and they closed off the main road to traffic for a couple of minutes so that we could get away. Frank, our driver, was great; he put his foot down and, about forty minutes later, we were where we wanted to be: snug, safe and having a cup of tea in Tony and Jackie’s front room. We practically lived at the Adams’ house until we bought our own place down south a few years ago. And where better for a new mum to rest up than her family home?

  The grandparents were smooching over the baby and, for a few minutes, Victoria and I were alone, sipping our tea and looking at one another. I’m sure it’s a moment that hits every new mum and dad. This is about as real as life gets, and nobody can tell you what you have to do. You take a deep breath. Right. What happens now?

  Victoria breastfed for about a month. I’m really protective about my family anyway but, during those first days, watching my wife-to-be and our boy together—her feeding him milk and love—made those feelings more intense than I’ve ever known. But, fantastic as that was, after a couple of weeks I found myself starting to wonder. You know what? I want to be able to help feed him too.

  Breastfeeding was really tiring for Victoria, just like it is for every mum, and so she let me go and raid the baby shelves at the pharmacists. I came back with the lot: bottles, warmers, pumps, sterilizers. I must have looked like some kind of mad scientist, setting it all up. I’m glad I did it, though. All the fiddling about to get a bit of Mum’s milk into a bottle was worth it: I’ll never forget Brooklyn with me on the bed that afternoon: there was my boy, cradled in my arms and glugging away like his life depended on it.

  It was an amazing time. Things were so exciting at United and then, every time I could, I’d get down to London to see Victoria and Brooklyn. It was a while before they moved up to be with me at the new flat we’d bought. I didn’t overdo the driving, although I’ve always found being behind the wheel more relaxing than tiring. It’s time on my own, after all, and I don’t get much of that. Even so, I never made the trip in the couple of days before we had a game. I think some people might have thought it would all be too much, but every time I saw the two most precious people in my life it gave me this amazing lift, like I’d been plugged in to recharge, and I’d go back to Old Trafford ready for more. If anything, what might have dragged me down would have been not being able to spend some time with them both.

  Brooklyn’s first few months were tough on Victoria. She’d worked so hard for so long with the Spice Girls and had put so much into a successful career, and then, all of a sudden, she had to stop and focus all her energy and attention instead on this tiny new baby who was completely dependent on her. I’m sure any mum must recognize those feelings. It’s not like it wasn’t what Victoria wanted to be doing but it was a giant shock to the system. Her life, and everything about it, changed almost overnight and in ways that nothing could ever have prepared her for. If anything, it was even worse when she moved up to Manchester, away from her family and friends.

  We hardly went out anywhere; hardly ever had people round unless it had been arranged in advance. I’d go off to training and Victoria would be left on her own, feeling trapped in the apartment. Even the gardens weren’t private. Photographers would suddenly turn up with their lenses pointed in over the back gate. I think Victoria got pretty down. She stuck it out, though, and I’m grateful and proud of her that she did: we’d both decided that what was best for Brooklyn would be for the three of us—our little family—to be together as much as we could.

  From April 1999 onwards, I was playing two games a week, which made trips to London pretty difficult to squeeze in. That was part of the reason Victoria decided to bring Brooklyn north when she did. It meant so much to me, having them there while the season flew by, getting more and more intense as each match came and went. I’d rush home afterwards and there would be my boy and his mum, waiting for me.

  There were so many big games that spring but one stands out above the rest: the one that made everything else possible. Ask any United player, any United fan, and they’ll tell you which one I mean: the Wednesday night, April 14 1999, at Villa Park. The FA Cup semi-final replay against Arsenal. We’d been disappointed not to win the first time, on the Sunday afternoon, when it finished 0–0, but as soon as we got to the ground on the evening of the replay, you could tell it was going to turn out to be something special.


  Semi-finals are always exciting to play in; an evening kick-off, under floodlights, just made it seem even more dramatic. Arsenal were the closest team to United in the Premiership and here we were, extra-time and penalties if necessary, to decide who’d be going to Wembley for the Cup Final. I remember sitting in the dressing room forty minutes ahead of kick-off. I’ve never scored against them. What would it feel like to get a goal against Arsenal tonight?

  Villa Park has always been a lucky ground for me: I’d scored the winner in our last semi-final there against Chelsea. And now, against Arsenal, I only had to wait a quarter of an hour for my chance. The ball rolled to me just outside the penalty area and I whipped it, first time, past David Seaman. The feeling wasn’t what I’d been expecting at all. I jumped up to celebrate but, at the same time, it seemed like I should be going over and having a laugh about it with Dave. We’ve joked our way through shooting practice at so many England training sessions together. If he reads my intention, he’ll just catch the ball as if to say: Is that the best you can do? If he doesn’t, and I score, then I’ll give him grief. Half of me that night at Villa Park wanted to run over, jump on Dave’s back, and give him a shake. I was really pleased with the goal but because of everything that came later in the game, it’s only me that seems to remember it now.

  When you score in a big game, you always hope your goal will be the winner. But Arsenal came back strong, and in the second half things seemed to be going their way. Dennis Bergkamp scuffed an equalizer and, five minutes after that, Roy Keane was sent off for a second yellow card. You could tell they thought they had us. All we could do was dig in and hope for the best. Whatever happens, they’re not going to score.

  Then, with almost no time left, Arsenal got a penalty, down at the end where I’d scored my goal, which seemed so long ago now it might have been in a different game. Oh, no. Bergkamp’s taking it. He never misses.

  Lucky for us, Peter Schmeichel knew better and he dived to his left to save it. I ran up to congratulate him and put my arms around him.

  ‘We’re going to get a goal now!’ he bellowed at me.

  Then he pushed me away. I mean, really pushed me. I went flying. We had to defend the corner kick and I think everybody was too busy concentrating on marking up to notice me stumbling away.

  The ninety minutes ended 1–1 and we went into extra-time. To be honest, it was a bit like a training game: attackers vs defenders, with Arsenal camped around our penalty area. But then, with about ten minutes left before penalties, Patrick Vieira—of all people, one of the best midfielders in the world—misplaced a pass near the halfway line. Ryan Giggs got the ball and just started running. Giggsy was one of the few of us who had any legs left because he’d come on as a sub after about an hour. He kept going and going, beat a couple of defenders, and when the ball bobbled off his shin it took him past Martin Keown, who was playing off him. Ryan was on an angle, to the left of the Arsenal goal. He’s got to pass it across the six-yard box now.

  Instead, he just smashed the ball in at the near post, into the roof of the net. All the United side of the ground erupted. Giggsy was running along in front of them, waving his shirt in the air. Loads of the supporters were spilling onto the field. I got to him, too, and I can still remember the smell of the fans around us: one bloke, in particular, must have been chain-smoking the whole game and he grabbed hold of me. I couldn’t get the smell of his cigarette smoke off my shirt and out of my nostrils for the rest of the game.

  When the final whistle went, United supporters came pouring onto the field again and it got a bit scary for a while. I got lifted up onto some people’s shoulders. Someone was trying to pull one of my boots off as a souvenir; someone else had hold of my shirt. I leaned over in all the din and tried to say to one of the fans who was carrying me: ‘While you’ve got me up here on your shoulders, could we try and head over towards where the dressing rooms are?’

  Like I say, it was a little frightening; and I was out on the field for what seemed like ages. I think I was the last person off. I was enjoying the moment, though. Times like that don’t come along too often, even if you’re playing for United, and I just wanted to experience it all. Finally, I managed to find my way back to the dressing rooms. The atmosphere was fantastic but completely different to the madness outside. No jumping around, no shouting: everybody, the manager included, was just sitting there, glowing. Something special had just happened. It was about as good a game of soccer as I’d ever played in. Right up there, as it turned out, with our next semi-final which came along the following Wednesday night.

  We hadn’t played well in the first leg of the Champions League semi against Juventus. They’d come to Old Trafford and got a 1–1 draw, which was almost as good as a victory because of the away goal. We had to win in Turin now. Nobody was ever supposed to win in Turin. Five minutes into the game, Juventus were 1–0 up and battering us. After ten, they were 2–0 up and still battering us. I found myself thinking back to those semi-finals against Dortmund and the chances we’d not taken. Was this going to turn out to be another year when we missed out on the final?

  Sometimes in a game, when you’re struggling, someone produces a moment of brilliance, like Ryan Giggs had at Villa Park, to turn everything on its head. Other times, it’s the team as a whole that finds something, which was what happened in Turin. Maybe Juventus relaxed a little, I don’t know, but we put a few passes together for the first time in the game. About twenty minutes had gone and we were still 2–0 down; but it didn’t feel like we were out of it. I remember us going close and me turning to Gary Neville:

  ‘They’re not that good, Gaz. We can win this, you know.’

  Just a couple of minutes after that, I took a corner on the left and Roy Keane came in with a fantastic header to get it back to 2–1. You lose count of how many great games Keano has played for us. That night, though, was special even by his standards. He scored the goal and, soon afterwards, got a yellow card: he knew, and we all knew, that meant he was going to miss the final if we got there. But his head didn’t go down for an instant. All he cared about was winning that game for United. Who were we to argue? Who were Juventus to argue? As soon as we pulled one back, you could sense it turning. They started panicking all over the field. Yorkie equalized before half-time and then Andy Cole scored the winner about five minutes from the end.

  It’s an ambition for any player to be involved in the biggest games for your club and your country. The European Cup Final, though: that was a mission at United. Every one of us knew that winning it was what the boss wanted more than anything else in soccer. When we came off at the end of the game in Turin 3–2 winners, we knew we were almost there. We had good enough players; it felt like luck, perhaps, was starting to run our way when we needed it to; and there was a spirit in that team, that season more than ever, which made us all feel like we couldn’t be beaten. Every game we played during the last couple of months of 1998/99 was a cup final in its way: if we’d lost any game, in the League, in the FA Cup or in Europe, it would have meant the Treble had gone. No-one knew if we’d ever be in the same kind of situation again and, so, none of us wanted to miss a single game of it, even though the manager kept coming up to us and saying he could rest us if we were feeling tired. We were on the kind of roll where you’d finish one game and the adrenaline kidded you into believing that you could play another one the following day, however heavy your legs were.

  The Premiership title was between us and Arsenal, as close as the FA Cup semi-final had been, and they had their noses in front almost to the end. We had two games each left to play and, the night before we visited Blackburn, Arsenal were away to Leeds. For weeks we’d been waiting for them to slip up. I watched that game at Elland Road on television. The tension’s terrible: you can’t do anything about it, can you? Right at the end, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink scored and it felt like I had. We went up to Blackburn the next night and drew 0–0, which meant as long as we beat Spurs on the last day of the season, we’
d be champions again. The Treble came down to ten days in May, starting at Old Trafford: our final Premiership game.

  All the press had been saying it would be easy: that Tottenham wouldn’t want Arsenal winning the League. On the day, especially in the first half, it didn’t seem easy at all. How could we have come this far and be playing this badly? I missed a really good headed chance. Dwight Yorke hit the post and, then, Tottenham ran up the other end and Les Ferdinand scored. It wasn’t what was meant to be happening. Just before half-time, though, the ball got played into me and I whipped a shot into the top corner and ran off to celebrate. I watched the video of the game later and the look on my face after I scored that equalizer gave me a bit of a shock. I’ve seen that expression on the faces of United fans crammed in at Old Trafford. I don’t think I’d ever seen it on mine: that desire, wanting to win so badly; it looked like fury. Smile, mate. You’ve just scored. But, at the time, all the frustration of that first half burst out, along with the tension that came with knowing what was at stake. I just ran off towards the supporters, screaming.

  The manager was a bit calmer than I was and he changed things around at half-time. We were surprised, and so was the crowd, that he took Yorkie off and brought on Andy Cole. It took all of a couple of minutes to prove his point: right at the start of the second half, Andy went round the goalkeeper and scored what turned out to be the winner. There were a few nervous moments at the end but the job had been done. In the dressing room afterwards, nobody mentioned the FA Cup Final against Newcastle at Wembley or the European Cup Final against Bayern Munich at the Nou Camp. Nobody mentioned the Treble. Nobody had to. It seemed like it was ringing round the dressing room, inside my head and, I’d guess, everybody else’s. This is it. We’re going to do this now.