Beckham (31 page)

We had a fantastic evening. Victoria and I had to call it quits about midnight. Some of the players, and other people who had brought their families along, had already left but there were plenty still enjoying themselves when we went back to the house to get ready for bed and Dubai.

I know the United medical staff weren't all that happy about me going off to Dubai with the rest of the England squad to start our preparations for the World Cup. I think the manager assumed the week would just be a lark and that I'd stand a better chance of being fit if I stayed in
Manchester and worked with the trainers at Carrington. I knew that, even when I went off to play for my country, I was still a United player. If the club had really put their foot down I'd have done what they said without thinking twice. Sven wanted me to be with the rest of the players for the two weeks leading up to our first game and Gary Lewin, the England trainer, and Doc Crane, the England doctor, were two of the best in the business. At one stage, the FA offered to take a United medical team along with us. To be honest, it was an argument I wanted other people to have. I didn't think it was right for me to be involved in any dispute. I was ready to go along with whatever decision was made behind the scenes. And that decision, eventually, was that I went.

Early on Monday morning, May 13 2002: lying in bed next to Victoria at home in Sawbridgeworth. Everything in the house was quiet. Somewhere in the distance outside, I could hear the last few people making their way home from the party and climbing into waiting cars. I reached down and touched my left foot: a little sore since Victoria and I had started the dancing in the marquee after dinner. In a few hours we'd be off to the airport. I had eighteen days ahead of me, eighteen days to make sure I'd be right to line up against Sweden on the other side of the world on May 31. I got a little chill feeling deep down at the base of my spine. Excitement? Or dread? Four years ago, I'd been getting ready to head off to the last World Cup. How much had happened since then? 1998 already seemed so long ago: Argentina, a red card and the rest. But, at the same time, it seemed as if the next challenge had stolen up on us in the blink of an eye. Just having the chance to be involved in a World Cup is a dream and a privilege. And every player knows that during the month of that tournament your career, and your life, can change forever. Mine had in France, in the harsh glare of a floodlit evening in Saint-Etienne. I shut my eyes and sank back into the dark. What was waiting for me, and waiting for England, this time out in Japan?

I wonder now:
Did that week in Dubai help finish me off as a United player in the eyes of the boss?

I was out in the sunshine with England instead of being back at Carrington, clocking up the miles on the treadmill alone. I know the manager wasn't best pleased about that. I had the feeling he wasn't too happy, generally, about the extra responsibility—and the extra attention—that came with me captaining England. And he probably wasn't keen, either, on the fact that Victoria and Brooklyn were in Dubai with me. It didn't matter that I thought that marriage and fatherhood had settled me and had a positive effect on me as a player. The manager had always thought my family was a distraction from the serious business of soccer. He'd said as much to me often enough since I'd met Victoria. He thought my life at home got in the way: for me and for him.

I'd long since decided that it wasn't an argument worth having. Was an argument ever worth having with the boss? I wasn't going to convince him that being fulfilled as a person could only ever be good for me as a player. And, obviously, nothing he said was going to change how much I loved and cherished my family. It was great having Victoria and Brooklyn with me out in Dubai.

Sven thought it would be good if the players had their families around them. We were hoping to be away in Japan for the duration of the World Cup, after all. I remember talking to him about it before we left England, while he was planning our schedule. He believes in players
having time with their partners and with their children. Most other countries see it that way. I remember at France 98, the Danish team were staying at a hotel just down the road from us and had their families with them in the same complex. At first, Sven wasn't sure how the English players felt about having family with them, so he asked me, as captain, to sound them out. In Dubai we had activities organized for the kids in the mornings around the pool and barbecues for everyone in the evenings. The families enjoyed each other's company and it helped draw the lads closer together at the same time.

Having Victoria and Brooklyn there left me with a clear head to concentrate on the one thing that mattered, the World Cup, and me being fit for it. I worked with one of the England trainers, Alan Smith, every morning on my own. I was just starting to run, just starting to test the metatarsal injury. I had to try and build up to something near match fitness. I wasn't able to join in with the regular squad training which was going on every day at the same time. The balance was just right in Dubai: hard work and then the beach and some sunshine, with our families there to enjoy it with us.

I still had doubts whether I would be ready to play in our first match against Sweden. Some days I'd wake up feeling ready there and then, others when it just felt I was starting to run out of time. I was desperate to play in a World Cup as England captain. To give myself and the team the best chance, I thought that meant playing from the very first game. Even before I left England, I'd done everything I could to hurry along the mending process. Now, in Dubai, I was able to put weight on the injured foot. As well as starting to run, there was other work to do before I'd be ready just for a training session, never mind for a game. People might have seen pictures of me on a trampoline. I definitely wasn't ready for jumping up and down. Those exercises were about teaching my leg how to balance again. As well as the muscles losing strength, the tendons and ligaments forget how to do their jobs. I'd have to stand on one leg and balance when a ball
was thrown to me, then change legs. The next stage after that was to volley the ball back instead of just catching it. At the end of every day, the trainers would sit down with the England doctors and talk through what we'd done. The medical team would do that with every injured player. Then, the doctors would meet up with Sven in the evening to make sure the manager knew exactly how I was doing from day to day.

I was glad to be around the other players who weren't bothered about anything but starting the tournament. Picking up on everybody else's excitement made me feel more positive about what I had to do. I don't know if it was being captain that made me feel older; or being conscious of the experience I had now, four years on from France 98. I liked watching the younger England players: they were excited about the build-up, the new suits, the uniform, the attention and everything. But as far as the soccer was concerned, the World Cup for them just meant more big games to look forward to. They weren't scared of anything and that kept them very relaxed. It was the likes of me and Michael Owen, Gareth Southgate, Martin Keown and Dave Seaman who'd been there before and understood just how big a World Cup was and how much was at stake for us all.

The week in Dubai gave the players some time to rest after a season at home that had only just finished. It didn't seem long before I was saying goodbye to Victoria and Brooklyn and traveling east with the squad. There was going to be so much traveling during the World Cup itself that we decided it would be too much for our families. We were going to be based in Japan for the tournament but we stopped off in South Korea for the first of two warm-up exhibitions. We checked into our hotel and you could see the change of mood on the players' faces. We were here now. This was where the World Cup was going to take place. That first match was a good jolt for us, as we only drew 1–1 with the Koreans in Seogwipo. We experimented with a few things and nobody was at it full throttle, but it was obvious South Korea could play;
and they were incredibly fit. Which was more than could be said for me. I wasn't even close, eleven days before our first official game.

Sven had taken on this Dutchman, Richard Smith, as one of four masseurs who traveled with the squad to Japan. Somebody stuck up a card on Richard's door that read ‘HOUSE OF PAIN'. They weren't far wrong. Richard would work deep, deep into where your injury was. I can't describe what it felt like. It just made your guts turn over it hurt so much. But it worked. Thanks to Richard I got there in the end and, later, Michael Owen made the Brazil game because of him working on his groin injury the day before.

Our other exhibition was in Japan against Cameroon the following Sunday. Although I couldn't play, the medical team thought I needed the boost of being involved with the rest of the lads so I led the team out for the warm-up. It was a decent game to watch despite the players holding back in their tackles, for obvious reasons, and the final score was 2–2. That afternoon, I found myself thinking back to my lowest point in the whole rehabilitation process. Quite soon after the injury happened, England had an exhibition against Paraguay. The squad met up at a hotel and Sven invited me along. He wanted me to be part of our build-up because he believed all along I was going to play in Japan. I got there for dinner and it was good to see all the other lads but, at that stage, I was still on crutches most of the time. The next morning, when the squad went off to train, I found myself sitting on my own at the hotel, watching daytime television. For those couple of hours, I was really down. If I couldn't even get to watch training, never mind be part of it, what chance did I have? Now, here I was, within touching distance. But I still wasn't sure. Was I days away from all the hard work with the trainers paying off? Or days away from a disappointment that I just couldn't imagine myself having to face?

The opening game against Sweden in Saitama was still a week away. Sven didn't push me. He wanted to give me as long as possible. But he couldn't afford for that to interfere with preparing the rest of the
team. With a longer-term injury, the doctors will always set you weekly targets. That's partly so they can make sure you push yourself on to the next stage, whether that's running on hard ground or twisting and turning or hitting a ball with full force. But it's also to make sure a player doesn't get depressed by focusing too far ahead. Psychologically, the secret is to concentrate on what you're doing from day to day. Now, though, I'd reached the point of no return. Would I be able to take part in a competitive game by the end of the week? Sven knew—and I knew—that the time had come when a decision had to be made. If I couldn't join in full training in the days before the game then, obviously, playing was out of the question. I know the medical team were confident about my foot but not so sure about my overall fitness: I'd been out a long time. The decision was the manager's to make. Wednesday arrived, the very last day he could afford for me not to be working with everybody else. I'd known all along that Sven would want to take a chance on me as long as the odds were in mine, and England's, favor. He knew that I hadn't come this far to duck out at the end of it. Even if I didn't feel one hundred percent, I was sure I could make it. After breakfast, Sven asked me the question:

‘Well, are you fit?'

He knew the answer and I didn't pick up any trace of doubt or tension in his voice. He wanted to hear it from me and to know I was confident. I gulped a little air and tried to keep it as short and nerveless as Sven had done.

‘I'm fit.'

‘Good. Let's go.'

The first session with the rest of the boys was difficult. I'd been working really hard, running and kicking a ball. This was the first time I'd had to risk physical contact. I should have seen it coming: as soon as we were into a game, the first crunching challenge came in from Martin Keown—who else? He didn't actually make contact with the injury: it was a clump across the back of the legs. I couldn't help the
instinctive reaction. I tumbled over, expecting the worst: angry at Martin, angry at Aldo Duscher, angry at everything. It took a second to realize that, for the first time in a couple of months, somewhere else was actually hurting worse than my foot. Pain's never given me so much pleasure. Like I say, I should have been waiting for him. Martin will always be the one to test you: he'll whack you, challenge you to be up to it, find out if you've got the nerve. He knew and I knew that, come Sunday, there'd be someone ready to do the same thing he had just done. The difference would be that if a Swedish player did it, it would be in the hope that I wouldn't get up again. Here, I scraped myself off the floor and carried on. If I could survive Martin, I could probably survive anybody. The foot was really sore even before we'd finished the session, but I was just pleased to have got through it. Working with the other lads lifted me for the rest of the week.

It was a great squad to be part of, especially once we arrived in Japan and the players started looking forward to getting on with the tournament. The atmosphere amongst the group we had out in Japan was special. What was going on outside the camp, though? I don't think any of us had ever seen anything like it. It started the moment we got off the plane in Tokyo: walking out through the terminal was unbelievable. There were thousands of Japanese waiting to meet us: mums, dads, children and teenagers, who'd made England their team for the tournament. They were wearing our shirts. It was almost like a pop concert, with fans waving, shouting, pushing forward, and the police struggling to hold them back. As we climbed onto the team bus, I caught one old lady out of the corner of my eye: well into her seventies, I'd say, with snow-white hair and a bright red stripe dyed through it. Parents were holding their children up above the bobbing heads. These kids were too young to have a clue who I was, but lots of them had copied my haircut: the blonde streak and the mohican. And had the number 7 on their shirts. It was chaotic, but in a polite way that's maybe characteristic of the Japanese. They were excited to see us, so positive about the
team and about the English. I think their attitude had a lot to do with why there weren't any crowd problems during the World Cup, even though people had been worrying about trouble happening for months leading up to the tournament. Instead, it turned out the people there had the same passion for soccer that we do. Our supporters were welcomed and, credit to them, England fans made the effort in return. That spirit is what World Cups should be about.

For a player, of course, the World Cup is all about playing. Leading England out at the stadium in Saitama, for our first game of the 2002 tournament against Sweden, will always be one of the proudest moments of my whole career. The setting, the occasion and the privilege of being at the head of the line as captain of your country at a World Cup: my heart was beating out of my chest. It's a schoolboy's dream but it's the kind of dream you don't dare have. And here it was, happening. The atmosphere was terrific. One corner with a few thousand Sweden fans; the rest of the stadium red and white, our own supporters and the Japanese who'd decided to make England their team. Fractured metatarsal? So what? I could never have allowed myself to miss this.

Pity the game wasn't as intense as the build-up. We played well, especially early on, but somehow the game didn't feel like it could decide where it was going. There weren't many scoring chances. Where were the big tackles and the confrontations? You couldn't honestly say you saw it coming but, 25 minutes in, we got the first goal. I took a corner on the left and Sol Campbell arrived and got a perfect header in. Sol went running off towards the other corner flag to celebrate. I was just going mad on my own, as if it was me who'd scored. I turned round and put my arms up in the direction of the Swedish supporters, who'd been giving me plenty of grief. They were still laughing. Maybe they knew that their time would come.

Scoring's one thing. Setting a goal up for someone else is a fantastic feeling as well and, that night, I was so pleased it was Sol who got it. We go back fifteen years together, to training with Tottenham as
schoolboys, and he doesn't score many. Against Argentina at France 98, in extra-time when we were down to ten men, he'd had one disallowed which, if it had stood, would probably have won us the game. Now, he'd kicked us off in 2002. The trouble was, we didn't push on from that. We were ahead but we were cautious, tense, sitting back on the lead. And then in the second half, we couldn't keep the ball. Our passing was all over the place. And Sweden kept on coming at us. Unlike our goal in the first half, you could see theirs was due. We just lost concentration, as a team, at the wrong moment and gifted them their equalizer. When a rushed clearance from Danny Mills was blasted into the net by Niclas Alexandersson, it would have been easy for people to blame Danny for the goal. I didn't think it was his fault. There were two or three other mistakes in the build-up as well. I made a point of getting near him.