Beckham

by David Beckham

  He assured me that he wasn’t trying to pick on me on purpose. That he wasn’t treating me any differently than he was the other players. I’d said most of what I had to say and it felt strange that the boss hadn’t jumped back at me. It never blew up into anger. Maybe that’s why the meeting didn’t get to where I’d thought it might: either a genuine reconciliation or me telling the boss that I was planning to retire. Instead he said he wanted us to move on:

  ‘You communicate with me. I’ll communicate with you. We’ll be professional and we’ll go on from there.’

  I stood up and went to walkout of the office. The manager said to me in that half-joking, slightly sarcastic way he has:

  ‘Come here and shake my hand before you start crying.’

  I didn’t feel like crying. I’m not sure it felt like the time to shake hands either, but I did. I left feeling that nothing had been resolved; that nothing had really changed. The next morning at training, though, it felt like something had. The manager was completely different, or seemed to be: positive, encouraging, friendly even. For a while, it was great. It seemed as if the meeting had, after all, done the trick. It was all I needed to lift me out of the gloom I’d sensed myself slipping into. Not getting it in the neck every other day meant I could enjoy training and playing again like I hadn’t for weeks. It felt like me and the boss had found our way past something: the tension that had been between us since the broken rib and my visit to Buckingham Palace.

  I was wrong. In fact, it was the calm before the storm.

  The Sunday before I went off to join up with England, we played Manchester City at home. Earlier in the season, we’d lost the game 3–1 at Maine Road. I hadn’t played, so that couldn’t have been my fault. Just as well. The next day, Gary Neville told me that, in the dressing room, the manager had been as angry as he’d ever seen him after a game. The result at Old Trafford wasn’t much better. We conceded a late goal and drew 1–1. The manager picked me out for criticism in the dressing room afterwards, saying I’d given the ball away too often. I could only think of a couple of passes that had gone astray. I didn’t rise to it, I just sat and let him have his say, but then, during the week, regretted that I hadn’t. If I’d stuck up for myself that afternoon rather than waiting until after our next home game, perhaps things wouldn’t have blown up in our faces the way they did.

  People say a change is as good as a rest. The week England lost 3–1 to Australia at Upton Park, it certainly wasn’t. The senior side played the first half and we never really got going: it was a strange atmosphere, knowing that after 45 minutes the young players were going to come on instead, a completely different team. The Australians, most of whom play their club soccer in England, were really up for it and they were worth their two-goal lead at half-time. I was really angry about what was happening. As soon as we got back to the dressing room, I asked Sven if I could play for at least part of the second half as well. I thought we owed it to the England supporters and to ourselves to try and put the situation right. He said no, that the arrangements had been made and so it wasn’t a good idea. This was an exhibition and a chance for him to have a look at players like seventeen-year-old Wayne Rooney.

  If you think about the Euro 2004 qualifier against Turkey at the Stadium of Light later in the season and the difference Wayne made in that game, I suppose nobody can say Sven’s decision wasn’t the right one against Australia.

  Our next competitive games were weeks away, so nobody was looking that far ahead. After losing to Australia that night in February, the England manager and the players took a beating in the press. There had been criticism of Sven ever since the World Cup. Our first European Championship qualifier for 2004 had been a really hard game, on a terrible field, away to Slovakia. We won but that didn’t seem to matter: we were criticized in the press for playing without any style and without any passion. Me, I thought it was a great three points. Then, at home to Macedonia, despite playing some good soccer during the game, we only drew against a team we were supposed to beat easily. The flak got worse and, all of a sudden, it was as if the people who’d disapproved of Sven being appointed England coach had spotted their chance to try and hound him out of the job.

  A lot of the criticism was focused on the fact that we’d fielded two completely different teams and on the club versus country debate. Ridiculous things were being said, like Sven not being strong enough to face up to the Premiership managers. For me, it wasn’t a choice of playing for United or playing for England. United had been my life, as far as soccer was concerned, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud every time I played for my country too, especially as captain. Reading and listening to the fuss, I found myself wondering what the boss would be making of it all. Wondering if my career as an international soccer player—as well as the way I lived my life as a husband and father—might be part of the ‘David Beckham Problem’, as the Manchester United manager saw it. Of course I could think about all that, but there wasn’t anything I could do about any of it right now. The important thing was getting back to Carrington to prepare for Arsenal at home in the FA Cup fifth round.

  I remember the boss getting us all together beforehand. It wasn’t just the England lads who’d been away from Old Trafford on international duty:

  ‘You’re back at the club now. It’s a big game on Saturday. Make sure you get your heads right for it.’

  There was a chill in the air between the two of us again. Something had annoyed the boss. I didn’t know what. All I knew was I could feel the tension and I was convinced things were going to snap.

  The game didn’t go well. Arsenal scored from a lucky deflection off a free-kick. At half-time, the manager said he wasn’t happy with how I was playing. That it wasn’t my job to be a right-back. I should be pushing up, further forward, he said. I couldn’t understand what he meant. I looked across at Gary who, of course, was playing behind me, and I could see he didn’t agree with him either. There wasn’t any point in me saying anything. We were only 1–0 down and we had 45 minutes, now, to put things right.

  It got worse, though. Early in the second half, Edu played a through ball for Wiltord and Arsenal were two up. I didn’t play well. Nobody else did, either. We trooped back into the dressing room afterwards. I took my boots and shin pads off straight away because I’d got a kick on my leg and had been substituted. The boss came in, shut the door, took his jacket off and hung it up on a hook. His first words were:

  ‘David. What about the second goal? What were you doing?’

  Was he blaming me? I was taken completely by surprise.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault. Their bloke made a run off someone in central midfield.’

  The boss kept going: ‘We told you about it before the game. The problem with you is you don’t let anyone talk to you. You don’t listen.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d been listening—and wanting to listen—my whole career. I’d listened to the boss since the first day we’d met and I was listening now.

  ‘David. When you’re wrong, you’ve got to own up.’

  ‘Boss, I’m sorry. I’m not wrong here. This wasn’t my fault and I’m not taking the blame for it.’

  ‘No. Take the blame is what you’re going to do.’

  Everybody in the dressing room could hear what was going on. Surely, everybody else knew I was right: you could have pointed your finger at half a dozen of the team in the build-up to Arsenal’s second goal.

  But it was all down to me, according to the boss. I felt like I was being bullied, in public, and being backed into a corner, for no reason other than spite. I was trapped. And I swore at him. Something no player, certainly no United player, should ever do to the manager. What happened then still doesn’t seem real now, thinking back to that afternoon.

  The boss took a step or two towards me from the other side of the room. There was a boot on the floor. He swung his leg and kicked it. At me? At the wall? It could have been anywhere, he was that angry now. I felt a sting just over my lef
t eye, where the boot had hit me. I put one hand up to it and found myself wiping blood off my eyebrow. I went for the manager. I don’t know if I’ve ever lost control like that in my life before. A couple of the lads stood up. I was grabbed by Giggsy first, then by Gary and Ruud van Nistelrooy. Suddenly it was like some mad scene out of a gangster movie, with them holding me back as I tried to get to the boss. He stepped back, I think quite shocked at what had happened. Probably a minute, at most, was how long the real rage lasted. I calmed down a bit and went through into the treatment room.

  One of the medical staff stopped the eye bleeding. I was in there for about five minutes. As much as anything, the doctor and the trainer were trying to make sure I didn’t go back and start at it again. Eventually, I told them I was all right and went through into the dressing room. I got dressed and started to leave. As I got to the door, the boss was there:

  ‘I’m sorry, David. I didn’t mean to do that.’

  I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him, I was still that angry about what had happened and didn’t want to react. I didn’t say anything, just walked straight past and through into the players’ lounge. Victoria was there. I wanted to get out of Old Trafford and home.

  ‘What’s wrong? What have you done to your eye?’

  I told Victoria I’d tell her later but she wanted to know right away. I explained what had happened and, all of a sudden, Victoria was as angry as I’d been. She’d had to live with how low I’d been for most of the season. And now she thought she could do something about it:

  ‘He can’t treat you like that. I’m going to see him right now.’

  I don’t know what Victoria might have said or done if she had. I wouldn’t want to get into a scrap with my wife. I knew it wasn’t right to stay and insisted we left there and then. Later that evening, the eye started bleeding again and I had to call out the doctor. He came round and sealed the wound with a couple of steristrips.

  I should have known what to expect. It’s hard to keep secrets these days and, even before the Arsenal and United players had left Old Trafford that afternoon, the story of what had happened—or, at least, bits of it—had got out to the press. I walked out of the house in Alderley Edge the following morning, with my hair pulled back to stop it falling against the cut over my eye and, within a couple of minutes, someone had taken the photo that was all over Monday’s papers. Along with all the other emotions I was trying to get to grips with, I felt like Exhibit A.

  It’s bad enough having a dispute with your boss. It makes setting things straight all the harder when it seems like millions of people are looking over your shoulder, waiting to see what’s going to happen, speculating about what might before it does. For a couple of days, at least, when I didn’t feel like I was wandering around in a daze—how and why had things between me and the boss come to this—I was still seething about what he’d done in that dressing room, accident or not. Even though he’d said sorry straight afterwards, now this thing was in the public eye, I really believed the boss’s apology should be made public too. I certainly didn’t think it was up to me to make the first move.

  Outside Old Trafford, the whole thing became this huge issue. In a way, everybody else saying what they had to say, whether they really knew or understood what had happened, made me concentrate harder on seeing the incident for what it was. We’d had a big argument, me and the manager. I’d said things I shouldn’t have. He’d reacted. Badly.

  And now I had a little cut over one eye. The tension of the past few months seemed to explode in those few moments. Only the boss could tell you what he’d been feeling but I knew—and he’d said so straight away—that he hadn’t meant that boot to hit me, however angry he was. That much of it was a fluke. I thought things through. United had a huge game midweek against Juventus in the Champions League and I didn’t want a personal problem between me and the boss to get in the way of our preparations.

  I realized that, whatever the boss said or did, I could soften the situation ahead of the game on the Wednesday night at Old Trafford. It felt like the right thing to do: for me, for my team-mates and the club. I released a statement saying that what had happened had been an accident; that it was behind us now and that all that mattered was focusing on beating Juventus. Which we went on to do, 2–1. The manager made a point, after the game, of saying publicly that I’d played particularly well. I appreciated that. And the next time we sat down to talk, it was about soccer. There wasn’t a big meeting or anything. We watched the video of the Arsenal defeat. The boss pointed out where he thought I’d been caught out of position for the second goal but he also admitted that half the team had actually been in the wrong place at the same time. It was as close as I was going to get to an admission that singling me out for criticism in the dressing room that afternoon hadn’t been fair.

  At any other point in my career as a United player, we’d have called it quits there and then. A month later, it would have seemed as if nothing had ever happened. I didn’t realize, though, in the days after that Arsenal game, what I know now: the boss and I had already reached a point where there was going to be no turning back. Had Alex Ferguson already made up his mind about David Beckham back then? Decided he didn’t want me at the club any longer? Even if he had, I bet that it didn’t have him any better prepared than I was for how things would turn out over the coming six months.

  14

  United Born and Bred

  ‘For the first time, it was my relationship with the club that was slipping away.’

  Turkey were fantastic at the 2002 World Cup. Their passing, their movement, their edge. They play the right way and it makes them a great team to watch. For pure soccer, their two matches against Brazil, in the group and, then, in the semi-final, were the best of the summer. They came back from Japan and South Korea supposedly the third best team in the world. And, of course, we’d pulled them out of the hat for the Euro 2004 qualifiers. From the moment the draw was made, the England–Turkey games were always going to be the ones to decide who’d qualify from Group 7. And here we were, April 2 2003, after dropping points at home to Macedonia earlier in the season, knowing we had to get a result against Turkey at the Stadium of Light to give ourselves a decent chance of finishing top—especially with our last qualifier being the away game in Istanbul at the end of October.

  Although I think we need to have a national stadium for England games and FA Cup Finals, I’ve really enjoyed playing international soccer at different club grounds around the country. It’s given people who otherwise would never have made the trip down to Wembley the chance to see England close up and I’d say the relationship between the fans and the players is better because of it. It feels like club loyalties get pushed to one side on these days and supporters get behind the team as a whole. It seems a long time ago now that England supporters would boo United players when their names were announced in the line up. For pressure games, it’s helped us to have a passionate crowd close up to the field, cheering us on. We were all looking forward to playing Turkey at the Stadium of Light: the atmosphere there is as intense as at any ground in England.

  The crowd trouble before and during the game was a real blow, like going back to the bad old days: the idiots, too many of them to ignore, letting the rest of the England fans—and the England team—down. Afterwards, I found myself thinking that having to play our next game behind closed doors might not be such a bad thing. That was the threat from UEFA when they had their inquiry into the racist chanting and the field invasions at the Stadium of Light. I felt so strongly that I said it in public. If it took England having to play in an empty stadium to make people realize the damage done to our game by the racists and the troublemakers, then so be it.

  The crowd trouble took some of the shine off the night at the Stadium of Light. There were as many headlines about the hooligans as there were about the team. That was a shame because it was another England performance of which we could all be proud. We beat one of Europe’s strongest teams
2–0 and went top of our group. The previous Saturday, we’d been away to Liechtenstein and won by the same score. The pundits, as well as some of our supporters, had given us a roasting: how could England expect to be at the finals if they struggled to beat a bunch of part-timers? But soccer’s about results. We’d had a bad result, even though we’d played some decent soccer against Macedonia. Other than that, despite playing in some difficult conditions, we’d won all our games in Group 7. Sven always says it: get three points. You win the games you’re expected to win and it doesn’t matter too much how you do it. When the big games come round, that’s when you expect to find your big performance to match.

  Turkey retain possession as well as any team in the world. It’s what they base their game around and, if you let them, they’ll take a defense to pieces. Sven said how important it was for us to break up their rhythm and to impose our own game on them. As captain, I thought it was up to me to try and lead by example. In the first half I did fly into a tackle or two and it cost me a yellow card but that’s not something I regret. I know it sounds a bit old-fashioned but getting physical against Turkey was what we needed to do. They had their fair share of the ball but never got time to settle into any kind of pattern. I felt, all night, we were the team that would score. Turkey hadn’t ever seen many like Wayne Rooney: none of us have. Even though he didn’t score, the lad lifted us—and scared them to death—every time he got the ball. Michael Owen was making great runs off him and I was sure he’d get the goal. As it turned out, though, Michael picked up an injury after an hour and Darius Vassell came on and hit in a rebound from Rio Ferdinand’s header. David James made one fantastic save and then Kieron Dyer won a penalty. Well into injury time and the game already won: it wasn’t exactly Argentina at the World Cup. I felt fantastic whacking it in all the same.

  So much of the season had been about doubt and frustration and anger. I took off towards the corner flag at the Stadium of Light and those emotions might just as well have been worries from another lifetime. I couldn’t have wanted better: here we were, never mind the doubters, turning in a performance up there with the games in Munich and Sapporo. Sven was buzzing afterwards, handing all the credit to us. When we don’t play well, he always seems to be there, ready to take the abuse. When we win, he’ll just nod and say to people: