Beckham (28 page)

So it came down to Greece at Old Trafford. Beating Albania meant we went into our last qualifying game level on points at the top of the group with Germany but with a better goal difference. Perhaps it would have been easier—on everybody's nerves, at least—if we could have gone straight on to that game the following weekend. We'd have been tired but we were so disappointed by how we played against Albania that we'd have had something to react to and something to prove. If we'd played Greece that Saturday I think, like a club side, we'd have kicked on and beaten them. Instead we had to wait a month. A month during which everybody needed to concentrate on winning games back with their clubs. A month for doubts to set in ahead of the match that might decide England's international summer. Those weeks dragged
and, once the squad got together again, so did the days building up to the game itself.

We met up on the Sunday and stayed at the Marriott Hotel in the suburbs of Manchester. It seemed like we were rattling around there together for ages, just wanting to get on with Saturday afternoon and what we had to do. Inside the hotel, just like outside it, everybody was talking about the importance of the game and about what automatic qualification for the World Cup would mean. Did we have to win? Would a draw be enough? What about goal difference? You can get suffocated with all that. What was important was that beating Greece would mean it didn't matter what the Germans did. That was what we had to keep in focus. It didn't help that the media and England supporters seemed to think the hard work was over and that we were on to a sure bet. Saturday came and there was far more tension about than there should have been.

I was on edge as much as everybody else, although I had more to help me get through it than some of the other England players. First, the game was at Old Trafford. I'd come on as a substitute the last time we'd had an international there, against South Africa, back in 1997. Now, 6 October 2001, and I was a United player leading out the England team as captain. Who wouldn't be looking forward to a moment like that? Second, we were playing in an all-white strip. During the week, the England equipment man came to find out if I thought he should ask Sven if we could. United's all-white change strip, the England version or even Real Madrid's colors, come to that: I've always loved that uniform. And the England manager agreed that we'd wear it against Greece. I had that and my home ground to look forward to. What I didn't know too much about in advance was that I was going to meet an angel in the tunnel at Old Trafford that afternoon.

The first time I heard about Kirsty Howard was from my Dad in midweek. He phoned to tell me about her:

‘She's a lovely girl, David, but she's not well at all. She's going to
come out for kick-off with you on Saturday. Make sure you take good care of her.'

Dad had been involved in the arrangements along with the FA and that's why he knew all about Kirsty and the Francis House Children's Hospice she's raised so much money for. That phone conversation was as much as I was told. When we arrived at Old Trafford on the Saturday afternoon, before I went into the dressing room to get changed, I went down to the tunnel to meet her. Kirsty was waiting for me with her mum and dad and a couple of people from the charity. She was standing patiently, a little girl with a smile almost as big as she was. I saw that smile before I even noticed the oxygen cylinder Kirsty has to wheel around behind her. I sat down on the step next to her and we talked for a few minutes; about what she had to struggle with, her being born with her heart the wrong way round and some of her other organs out of place. She explained how she was trying to raise money for other children at the hospice where she got her treatment. I asked her how she was feeling and, before she could answer, someone behind us said:

‘Do you want to give him a kiss?'

For the first time, Kirsty seemed a little bit embarrassed but she gave me a peck on the cheek anyway and we had a bit of a cuddle. It was time for me to go. I stood up and said:

‘I'll see you in a minute, though, won't I? When we go out on the field?'

Kirsty looked back up at me. She nodded and smiled and I went back in to the dressing room. I was miles away. It took me a minute or two to realize that the atmosphere was weird, quiet. Not like this England team. Nobody seemed to have much to say to each other. Sven said:

‘Make sure we get the ball moving quickly.'

Which was exactly what we didn't do for the rest of that afternoon, of course. The bell rang and it was time to go out. In the tunnel, I came up alongside Kirsty and took her hand. She's got the tiniest little hands
you could imagine, just big enough for her to wrap one around one of my fingers. She held onto me. I asked her if she was nervous: ‘No.'

I had to smile.

‘Well, there's 65,000 people out there in the stadium waiting for us, hoping we're going to get to the World Cup. If you're not nervous, you must be the only person here who isn't.'

‘No, I'm not. I'm not nervous.'

She looked up at me and gave me that smile and that was enough to tell me she was fine. We walked out into the roar and the sunshine. The cameras were on Kirsty all the way to the center spot. I hardly needed to ask if she was okay. She was just so graceful and so poised.

I wish us players could have been as relaxed as she was: the coolest person inside Old Trafford. She was great.

Since that afternoon, Kirsty and I, and Victoria too, have become really good friends. We help her with fundraising whenever we can but I wouldn't want anyone to think that's all our relationship is about. Kirsty's an amazing person, so full of life and energy. When you're with her, you don't think about what's wrong with her or the fact that she's hanging on for her life against all the odds. You see past that cylinder, past what you might call her disability. You see her personality, her determination to make a difference for other people, her happiness in the face of it all. She's the bravest person I know. I remember the summer of the 2002 Commonwealth Games in Manchester when I ran with the baton into the stadium and met up with Kirsty before the two of us met The Queen. All the way round the running track, I was convinced the flame on the baton would blow out, or my tracksuit bottoms would slip down, or I'd trip on a trainer lace. As soon as I was face to face with Kirsty, though, all the nerves disappeared. Suddenly, it was this private moment, as if it was just the two of us in the stadium together: you look into her eyes and what comes back to you is calmness and inspiration. Kirsty's smile takes you out of your own world and into
hers, where she takes it all in her stride.
England captain? Her Majesty the Queen? Thousands of people watching in the stands? Pleased to meet you, I'm Kirsty Howard and this is all just fine by me.

That's how it was as we made our way to the halfway line at Old Trafford. I'd been fretting all week. Suddenly, I wasn't thinking about the game at all. I wasn't thinking about how big the occasion was or how desperately we wanted to win. I just wanted to be sure Kirsty was all right, walking beside me. The girl touches every single person she meets. She glows. In my memory, meeting Kirsty at the start of the afternoon is up there with scoring my goal at the end of it.

Eventually, Kirsty had to find her way off the field and I had to remind myself we had a soccer game on here that needed winning. You're never sure until you kick off but we were right to have been worried about Greece. They were really up for the match, despite having already missed out on qualification. I remember one or two of them having a go at us after challenges, although not speaking Greek, I haven't got a clue what they were actually saying. They played well and we just couldn't get started. The players were uneasy and the crowd picked up on that. The game felt flat, like we needed a goal just to get us going. The trouble was, after half an hour or so, I found myself thinking that I couldn't see us scoring one. Ten minutes later, disaster: Greece scored. It was a sloppy goal, too, and between then and half-time we didn't find anything like the rhythm we needed to get back into the game. From thinking we needed the win to be sure of our place at the World Cup, we were in a position where we had to start thinking that at least a draw would give us a chance. At half-time, Sven wasn't panicking.

‘We need to lift the tempo. We're waiting for things to happen. We need to push on and be the team that's making things happen.'

The start of the second half was better, but not by much. Nobody said anything but I just got it in my head that I needed to go looking for the ball. I was angry. Angry with myself. Angry with the Greek players who were having digs at us. Angry about the situation we'd got ourselves
in. It was hot and we looked tired. It's not right to rely on anybody else in that kind of situation. You have to try and do something about it yourself. It wasn't a case of thinking it was my responsibility or something I had to do as a skipper. It simply felt as if it was time to take risks. If I wasn't getting the ball in my position, I decided to try and get involved somewhere else. I remember Gary Neville shouting at me:

‘You'll get caught. We've got to keep our shape or they'll break off us and score again.'

In almost any other game, Gary would have been right. But that afternoon against Greece, for once, I decided to take no notice of Gaz. I tried running at players and drew a couple of fouls around the penalty area. It was the kind of afternoon, though, when every free-kick was going high or wide however hard I tried. Nothing seemed to be going right for us, at least until about twenty minutes into the second half. The Greeks had been attacking and almost scored, which might have finished us off. Nigel Martyn, in goal, threw the ball out to me, on the left wing. I'm sure Gary was thinking: what's he doing over there? I sort of barged past one player, took another one on and, ten yards outside the corner of their box, the ref gave a foul which probably wasn't. It was too wide of goal for a shot. Teddy Sheringham was just about to come on as a substitute in place of Robbie Fowler. While I was waiting for the changeover, I noticed a piece of red card on the field by the ball. I grabbed it and flung it away from me. I was so frustrated I was blaming our troubles on the litter by then. As Teddy jogged past me, he said:

‘Watch me. Just watch me.'

I knew what he meant: we'd played that many games together for United. I lifted the free-kick towards the space I knew Teddy would run into. All he needed was a touch: he knew exactly where the ball was going, beyond their goalkeeper and into the far corner. We were level and back on track for the finals. But for only a minute. We'd hardly finished celebrating before Greece broke away and scored again.
That's it. This isn't going to be our day, is it?

I was frozen to the spot. I could see other players' shoulders sagging at the same time, the same thoughts running through their minds. We kept going, of course. You have to. But I couldn't see us scoring again. Another couple of free-kicks; another couple wide of the post. Maybe that was why I was running round like I was. The frustration of getting chances with that many free-kicks, seven or eight of them during the game, and not getting a single one on target. It was the last minute and Nigel didn't have time for anything other than a big boot downfield. Teddy went up for it. He did well. I don't know if he really got a shove in the back or not but it was enough to get a foul, five yards outside the Greek penalty area.

I put the ball down. Teddy came over as if to grab it and take the free-kick himself.

‘I'll have this.'

I'd missed a few that afternoon but I wasn't going to give this last one up.

‘No, Ted. It's too far out for you.'

I don't know why I said that because it wasn't. But Teddy looked up, looked at their wall, and let me get on with it. I knew this was our last chance. I tried to slow my nerves down by blowing out a couple of long breaths. Teddy did what he always does. He's great at it: behind the wall, he finds where the keeper is and stands in front of him, without obstructing him. Just at the last moment he'll move away and it throws the keeper's positioning off every time. Without Teddy doing that, maybe the Greek keeper would have got across in time to make the save. I was just concentrating on making sure the shot was on target. I ran up and the moment I made contact with the ball, I knew this one was in.

Anyone who was at Old Trafford that afternoon, anyone who was watching on television, won't need reminding that I got a bit carried away after the goal. Teddy went and got the ball out of the back of the net. I was gone, celebrating with Rio and Emile and Martin Keown, not
even remembering that we might need another goal and the win. It was a fantastic feeling and it wasn't just me who lost it completely for a minute or two. Martin's a great professional and a very funny man. I'd never seen him like it: it makes me laugh now, thinking back to the look on his face and his eyes popping out of his head. He was hanging off me, laughing and screaming:

‘That's amazing! That's amazing! That's why you're the man!'

All of a sudden, though, it dawned on us that this might not be over. We might need to score again. Germany were playing Finland at home that same afternoon. They were tied at half-time: if it stayed the same in Manchester and Munich, we'd be through. Right at that moment, I was far too excited to be working out the permutations. I ran back to halfway and saw Steve McClaren standing on the touchline. I shouted across to him:

‘What's the score?'

‘Nil nil.'

‘Is it over?'

‘Nearly.'

The Greeks kicked off and lobbed the ball forward. I remember praying we wouldn't get caught cold again. Once the ball had gone out of play, I called out to Gary Neville:

‘What happens now? If they draw, do we win?'

Gary managed to make sense of what I was trying to ask him and nodded his head. We got a throw-in and Steven Gerrard rushed over to take it. He still thought we needed another goal. He threw the ball to me just as the final whistle went. I picked it up and kicked it up in the air as high as I could. All the other England players came rushing over towards me. Ashley Cole had been substituted but he came charging across from the England bench, followed by the rest of the squad. I felt so proud, my free-kick taking us through to the World Cup finals. We knew we'd done it even before the announcer came on the PA: