Beckham

by David Beckham

  ‘The players were fantastic tonight. I’m very pleased for them.’

  Heading back to Manchester, early Thursday morning, I couldn’t help but take all the positive energy of the night before down the highway with me. Could I put the problems between me and Alex Ferguson to one side? Gary Neville always used to say the boss got after every player at least once a season: that was his way. You couldn’t argue with the results. He’d always got more out of us, hadn’t he, year after year? Maybe things could be different for me between now and the end of the season. We’d made a mess of things in the Worthington Cup Final and lost 2–0 to Liverpool. We were out of the FA Cup too: I wasn’t ever going to forget that. But we were still right up there in the Premiership. It was going to come down to us or Arsenal again, I was sure. And in the Champions League, we’d drawn Real Madrid in the quarters. One way or another, nobody ever got bored playing for, or watching, United. I was as desperate as I’d ever been to be involved. The European Cup Final, to be played at Old Trafford, was less than two months away. More history was there to be made.

  We were out on the training ground when we found out United would play Madrid. As far as I can see, it’s the best game in Europe. Not just because it’s between two huge clubs but because of the way the two teams play soccer. We knew from past experience how good the games would be to play in. We knew what the atmosphere would be like as well. Who doesn’t get excited, stepping out to play at Old Trafford or the Bernabeu? All of us at United were convinced that, if we could beat Real, we could go on and win the competition. You could feel the buzz everywhere you went around Manchester ahead of those games against Madrid.

  I seem to remember that it was right around the time the draw was made—two weeks before the first leg—that stories started appearing in the papers about me being transferred to Real. I knew those rumors had nothing to do with me and didn’t imagine they could be anything to do with the club either. I thought the manager was right when he put them down to mischief-making:

  ‘What a coincidence that the story comes up just when we’re getting ready to play them.’

  He was right to be annoyed. We wanted to be ready for Madrid and we had a big game in the League the weekend before: Liverpool at home. My hamstring had felt a little sore after the Turkey game. Nothing serious: I didn’t think it would keep me out of the next United game. I was in the players’ lounge on the Saturday morning. We had an early kick-off against Liverpool. I got the call from one of the coaches, Mike Phelan, that the boss wanted to see me, so I went through to his office.

  ‘I don’t want to risk you, David. I want to save you for the game in the week. You’ve got this sore hamstring. I want to hold you back for Tuesday night.’

  I never made it easy for the manager to give me a break. I never want a rest. I never want to miss a game. I can’t help it: I just always want to play. Not that there was any point—now or ever—in me trying to get him to change his mind.

  ‘I know what you’re saying but I’m not going to play you. And that’s it.’

  I went out, muttering:

  ‘Okay. Fine. If that’s what you want.’

  I was on the bench but at least I understood why, however annoyed I was about it. I’m not quite as mad for Liverpool games as Gary Neville is. He’s always got himself into trouble, over the years, riling their supporters. But, if I could, I’d always want to play against them too. Especially after the abuse we’d taken, losing the Worthington Cup Final. Especially on an afternoon when Liverpool were a goal behind and down to ten men after five minutes. Sami Hyppia got sent off after conceding a penalty and Ruud scored. It was 2–0 by the time I got on for the last half hour. We ended up winning 4–0. I was involved in the last two goals and felt great: we’d done what we needed to in the Premiership and made up points on Arsenal who only drew. I’d come off the bench and got straight into the game and the hamstring the boss had been worried about hadn’t bothered me at all. Now, Monday, we’d be off to Madrid.

  Real have so many world-class players. Their stars, the galacticos, are as well known here as they are in Spain. We’re able to watch La Liga on television every week these days and we knew most of them from previous games anyway. I’d also run into one or two of the Real lads in the past. I’d gone out to Spain with some of the other United players in early 2003 to shoot a spaghetti Western-style Pepsi advertisement for television. All of us were dressed up like Clint Eastwood—stubble, leathers, the lot—on a set that had been built to look like Nowheresville in the Wild West. With a bit of help from a horse, I had a shootout and won against the Madrid keeper, Iker Casillas. Then Roberto Carlos, at the end, stepped out on the boardwalk with his hair cut into a Mohican—who could they have been thinking of—and gave me a look as if to say:

  ‘If you want to talk about free-kicks, you’d better talk to me.’

  When you’re up against the likes of Raul and Zidane, Luis Figo and Ronaldo, there’s always the danger of going out and playing against the reputation instead of against the player. Even at the very top level, you sometimes have to pinch yourself: you’re not here to get these blokes’ autographs, after all. We prepared well for the game in Madrid and trained at the Bernabeu late afternoon the day before the game. Even when it’s empty, it’s an amazing stadium. In the course of a training session you get what you never have time for in a game: the chance to look around and take the place in. I’d played there before but, that Monday, it got to me. The scale of the place, the sense of tradition: it’s got an aura, like Old Trafford does. The history of half a century of great games, great players, success and silverware just seemed to hang in the early evening air. Almost as soon as we came off the field, I was on the cell phone to home:

  ‘I’ve never had a feeling like that. The place is giving me the shivers. I can’t wait for tomorrow night.’

  After dinner that evening, we watched a video that our assistant coach Carlos Queiroz had put together. I think the idea was to make us think less about what a good team Real were and more about why we had a great chance of beating them: it showed highlights of the best things each United player had done in games during the season so far.

  It was the right kind of inspiration and made us fancy our chances for Tuesday night even more.

  I’ve talked to Mum about the game at the Bernabeu since. She was up in one corner, on the first tier, with all the United fans. She says she had the strangest feeling when we ran out before kick-off, which she never mentioned to anyone else: a cold tingle ran up her spine. She was convinced then that I would end up playing at this stadium for Real Madrid. For all the newspaper talk, I’d no intention of ever making the move at that time and Mum knew that. What’s more, she would never have wanted me to leave England: it had been bad enough me moving to Manchester, hadn’t it? She couldn’t help her intuition, though: she just made sure she kept it to herself. While Mum was having her moment, I was down there and grinning from ear to ear during the warm-up. You come out of the tunnel into the glare of floodlights and the din of a 75,000 crowd who demand the absolute best. If you’re a player and that setting doesn’t turn you on, you might as well forget it: the alternative is to get intimidated by it, in which case you’ll have lost the game before you kick off.

  Mum was right to sense that something significant was about to happen for her boy that night. I could pick out any number of incidents that took me down the path to what happened this past summer. My big moment at the Bernabeu wasn’t anything spectacular but I think it played its part in taking me back there as a Real player. About five minutes into the game, we got a free-kick just inside the Madrid half. I took it and, just as I struck the ball forward, I felt my hamstring tighten. It didn’t tear. If that had happened, I wouldn’t have had any choice about what to do; I’d have come off and been laid up for the next three weeks. I’d have missed the second leg at Old Trafford, no question. In hindsight, I guess I should have given the bench a wave and made my excuses. But that’s not me. It’s not most pl
ayers. We’d just kicked off in what felt like one of the biggest games of our lives. I was desperate to play; desperate to impress in this stadium and against these players.

  It was uncomfortable but I convinced myself I’d run it off. And so I carried on.

  Over the next forty minutes, Real played soccer like I’d never seen it played in my life. It wasn’t that we were bad: we created scoring chances all the way through the first half and if we’d scored one early on, it might have made for a different game. I doubt it, though. When they had the ball, they were making runs off us all over the place. It might have looked like we were standing back, watching them play. I think the truth was that they were getting so many players involved every time they came forward that we found ourselves defending one man against two or three all over the field. It meant there were holes for us to play in when we had the ball but the Real players were too busy running past us to worry about what was going on behind them. That’s why they’re so good to watch when they have the kind of night they were having against us.

  As if the team play wasn’t good enough, Luis Figo scored an impossible goal early on to give Real the lead. He was about 25 yards out, on the left wing, maybe fifteen yards short of the byeline. I remember looking over and thinking:

  ‘That’s a good position for a cross.’

  But a cross wasn’t what Figo had in mind. He took a little pass from Zidane, checked back and then hit it right-footed, all power and swerve, over Fabien Barthez and in under the bar at the far post. You’re happy if you’ve got one or two players who’ll do something like that for you: Real have got half a dozen. I know the manager rates Raul as the best center-forward in the world: Ruud van Nistelrooy would probably get sixty goals in a season playing alongside him. At the Bernabeu, Raul scored either side of half-time. We looked shot to pieces.

  But United don’t lie down for anybody. That’s the boss; that’s Keano and that’s anybody who wants to play for the club. I talked to people afterwards who were watching on television. They said that, at 3–0, it looked like it was going to be 7 or 8 the way Madrid were playing. But we kept getting our tackles in when we could; kept trying to pass the ball when we had it and, eventually, we got our goal. Ruud deserved it: when we’d been under pressure, he’d been playing their back four on his own. At 3–1, with an away goal, we had half a chance. Right at the end, I missed one that would have made it 3–2. That really would have given us something to chase at Old Trafford. When the game ended, I was looking down at the field, catching my breath and putting a hand to the back of my leg, which was starting to tighten up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roberto Carlos coming towards me. He was smiling. I straightened up and looked at him. Now, he was laughing. I didn’t have a clue what about. There was something a little crazy about the moment. I didn’t know what to say or do. I smiled back as we shook hands. I could hear the camera shutters clicking and I remember thinking: That won’t make a very good picture back in Manchester.

  The manager didn’t say much afterwards. We’d all had enough nights in Europe together to have a pretty good idea what had gone wrong. There was no need for him to lay into us. What mattered was that we get ourselves up for the second leg.

  Paul Scholes and Gary Neville were pretty low. They’d both got yellow cards and were going to be suspended for the game in Manchester. I felt bad for Scholesy. He’d missed out on the European Cup Final at the Nou Camp in 1999 because he’d been suspended for that as well. He’s intense about his soccer, passionate about playing for United. Real at Old Trafford was another huge game. I’ve been playing soccer with Scholesy half my life, for United and for England. Think about the two of us, as people, and you’d probably say we’ve not got much in common. Paul’s quiet. He’s so private that the other lads are always giving him grief about it. The rumor is that he turns off his cell phone straight after training and doesn’t turn it on again until he’s five minutes from Carrington the next morning. And as for his home number, he’s given it out to so few people down the years he’s probably forgotten what it is himself.

  Scholesy’s always just kept his head down and got on with soccer. I don’t know a Premiership player, apart from him, who hasn’t got an agent. Actually there’s quite a few things that set Scholesy apart. He’s an amazing one-touch player, who scores all the goals from midfield any manager could ask for. Plus he’s got a temper as scary as Keano’s or the boss’s once he gets going. Like I say, we played through some history together at United and I hope we’ll play through some more with England over the next three or four years. I’ve always got on well with Paul but you’re never going to have a dressing room full of people who want to go out to dinner with each other every night.

  After the final whistle at the Bernabeu, we went down to say thanks to the United fans. The club competes in the Champions League season after season. I wonder sometimes how people find the time or the money. They do, though. There are Manchester United fans in Europe in their thousands wherever and whenever the team play. I was hobbling a bit by then and when I got back to the dressing room, I was on the treatment table for a long while. The hamstring was really sore. It kept me out of the team for the Premiership match against Newcastle the following Saturday. I was frustrated about it but there was nothing I could do. It meant I missed the game that put the stamp on our season. I think winning 6–2 at St James’ Park was the result that pushed us on to winning the League. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer came in and did really well in place of me.

  I was back training with everybody else first thing on Monday morning. We were away to Arsenal on the Wednesday night: as far as the Premiership goes, the biggest match of the season. We’d got ourselves into a position where, as long as we didn’t lose to Arsenal, it would be very difficult for them to catch us over the last four or five games. The way we were feeling, we thought we’d win every game until the end of the season anyway. I was pretty confident I’d play. I knew I was fit enough. No manager likes to change a winning team and 6–2 away was definitely a winning team. Even so, the boss had usually brought me back into the United side after games missed because of injury. I felt I was part of his best eleven. I didn’t find out otherwise until the day of the game. We were having our pre-match meal. The manager came and sat next to me:

  ‘I’m starting with Ole. I can’t change the team.’

  I couldn’t help but be disappointed, but I didn’t feel like an argument over it. I wasn’t happy but the manager was doing what he thought was best. My job was to sit on the substitute’s bench and be ready.

  Because of the speculation about my future, people pointed to the boss leaving me out as proof things weren’t right between us. As far as I was concerned, though, I was a United player, and me not playing against Arsenal wasn’t going to change that. It was a strange night: not much of a game when you compared it to the stuff that had been played in Madrid, by both sides, the previous week. But it had all the tension and drama anybody could have asked for. Ruud scored. Thierry Henry scored twice and then Giggsy equalized. At the end, the gaffer went running onto the field, punching the air. He’s always loved beating them and I think he knew the 2–2 was just what we needed. I remember being in the tunnel afterwards. Gossip gets round players as well and the rumors hadn’t really stopped since the last time we’d played Arsenal, back in February up at Old Trafford. I remember Thierry Henry walking past me and raising an eyebrow:

  ‘What’s the matter? Why weren’t you playing?’

  Then he laughed:

  ‘You can come and play for us if you like.’

  I laughed too.

  The boss was really pleased with what had happened. I actually remember him saying, particularly, how well he thought Ole Gunnar Solskjaer had played. Even so, come the Saturday and home to Blackburn, Ole was on the bench and I started a game for the first time since we’d been beaten in Madrid. Blackburn were on a really good run and played well but we won 3–1. I was happy to be back in the team and happy with how I played. Bu
t something still didn’t feel right. The obvious picture was that I was fit again and the manager had wanted to give me a game before the second leg against Real the following Wednesday. Everybody assumed I’d be playing in United’s biggest match of the season. Except me. Over the weekend I became more and more convinced the manager was going to leave me out for the second leg. I talked to some mates about it. They all said the same thing:

  ‘No chance. You’ll play. It doesn’t matter what’s gone on, you’ll play.’

  In the couple of days leading up to the Madrid game, I did my best to concentrate on our preparations like everyone else, but the thought that I was going to be dropped just nagged away at me like a sore tooth. Gary and I always used to joke that we’d learned how to tell—from how the boss was behaving towards us—if he was getting a shock ready for us.

  ‘He was nice to me yesterday. So he’s going to leave me out of the team tomorrow.’

  That instinct, after so many years working with him, told me that the boss’s manner leading up to the Wednesday night was all wrong as far as my chances were concerned. No harsh words no little digs: it was as if I wasn’t even there. Out at training on the morning of the game, the manager pulled me to one side. He just said what he had to say, and what I knew he was going to say:

  ‘David, you’re not going to start tonight. You’ll be on the bench.’

  I flinched. Although I’d been expecting it, to hear the boss say that was like being hit between the shoulder blades. It suddenly felt as if the whole of the season had been about him building up to doing this to me. I was on the outside looking in. Real Madrid: an important game, son. Too important for you to play in. I could taste the anger and the disappointment in the back of my throat. Sometimes, your feelings are so confused and so complicated you’re frozen to the spot. I looked at the manager, tried to look into his eyes: nothing there for me. I shook my head, turned round, and began walking back to the dressing room.