Beckham (32 page)

‘Come on, Danny. Let's keep going.'

A couple of minutes later, Sven took me off. It was my first game since Deportivo at Old Trafford and, to be honest, I was feeling it. The foot was sore but it was more about match fitness. Early in the second half, I'd been thinking: what's happened to my legs? I'm sure Sven could see me puffing a bit and knew we had other games ahead of us and that was why he brought on Kieron Dyer. Even so, I wasn't happy about being substituted. It was the first time I'd ever felt angry about one of Mr Eriksson's decisions. Watching from the bench, I got more and more frustrated as the game drifted away to a draw.

The 1–1 scoreline wasn't a disaster for the first match of a major tournament, but we were really disappointed with our performance. I think that was why we didn't go over and thank the England fans inside the stadium after the final whistle. We were criticized for that in the papers the next day and accused of snubbing our fans, but that wasn't true. We'd had fantastic support and I think the players disappeared into the dressing room because we felt we hadn't lived up to it. What we did all realize afterwards was that, whatever the reason, not applauding
our own fans was a mistake. As captain, maybe it was down to me to lead, even though I'd been on the bench. All the players talked about it together the following day and we promised ourselves and the supporters that, in future, we'd make sure we recognized them being there and behind us.

Back in the dressing room, it felt like we'd lost. I couldn't remember having seen this England team so flat. It was the first time I'd seen Sven really try to shake players out of a mood.

‘We've got two big games ahead of us. Don't even think about letting yourselves get depressed about today. It's not a problem. We've drawn 1–1. We didn't lose, did we? Come on. What's wrong with you, lads?'

I'd not been in the best of moods myself, partly because I was still annoyed about the manager having taken me off. I hadn't expected that at all. I listened to Sven in the dressing room, though, and realized that, as captain, I should be doing what I could to be positive. It was still a pretty miserable evening.

The next day we had no choice but to forget about Sweden. We had four days to get ourselves ready for what was always going to be the biggest game in the group. Now, it was a game we really needed to win. One of the best things about Sven-Goran Eriksson as a manager is his ability to judge what players need at any particular time. He says the right things to have each individual in the right frame of mind for a game. Just as important is that he always seems to know exactly what we need physically as well. Between games, in a situation like a World Cup, he works hard when the team will benefit from that but he'll ease up in training sessions if our bodies aren't up to it. He wasn't going to ‘punish' us with a schedule because we hadn't played well against Sweden. He and Steve McClaren just built us up slowly towards Friday night's game against Argentina in Sapporo.

That week, we even got a little break from the kind of strict diet that's part of being in a training camp these days. I have to own up: it was the best idea I had all summer. We'd been away from England—and
away from fast food—for three weeks already. And I was starting to miss the occasional burger and fries. I assumed there'd be a few of the other lads feeling the same way. I talked to Sven, who thought it wouldn't do any harm, and then had a word with the England chefs. On the Wednesday night we all trooped down to dinner. The doors of the dining room were shut and there were two giant golden arches stuck up on them. We all went inside and there was a McDonald's takeaway mountain waiting for us: more burgers, cheeseburgers and chips than you've ever seen piled up in one room in your life. It was a complete surprise to all the players. We just devoured everything: it was like watching kids going mad in a candy store. And it worked. We did it again before we played Denmark. Maybe fast food was what was missing from our preparations for facing Brazil.

With England, we always do a lot of work on the other team. It's the job of Dave Sexton, a United manager back in the seventies, to talk us through our next opponents. He'll discuss each player in a twenty-odd man squad. Then he'll show us a video that picks out that player: this is what he does when they're attacking; this is what he does when they're defending. Dave will then explain exactly what he thinks we should be doing to counter what that player can do. It's almost like planning a military operation. That kind of work with players is being done more and more in soccer. Everybody seems to have the latest technology now. Instinctively, I'm a bit old school. I'd just like to go out and play. But I understand the importance of knowing your opponents' strengths and weaknesses inside out. A tiny advantage is often all you need to win a match at the top level.

It goes without saying: we couldn't wait for Argentina. The prospect of the next match was what shook us out of the depression after the draw with Sweden. I really admired how the lads prepared themselves for a game against the World Cup favorites. Self-belief is such an important element in soccer. Argentina were one of the best teams in the tournament. Every England player went into the match convinced we
were going to beat them. There was that strength of mind in every individual, and through the team as a whole. In hindsight, that draw against Sweden had made it simpler for us: we went out on the Friday night knowing we had to get a result.

England vs Argentina is one of world soccer's great rivalries. It had been a huge game back at France 98. Because of what happened in Saint-Etienne, the build-up to Sapporo in 2002 was even more intense. All the hype beforehand was about England—and the England captain, in particular—getting the chance to settle a score: the papers had been talking about ‘revenge' and ‘destiny' and ‘Beckham' ever since the draw had been made. Half the players on both teams had been involved in the game four years before. On the Argentina side, that included Seba Veron who'd become a team-mate at United in the meantime. Whenever I see the pictures of my sending off in France 98, I can see Seba urging the ref to show me the red card. We never had a serious conversation about that incident: it had nothing to do with us playing together for United, after all. But we did joke about the rivalry between our countries: team outings always seemed to include me and the other England players singing ‘Ar-gen-tina' and him singing ‘In-ger-land' back. I saw Seba before the game in Sapporo and it was still relaxed and friendly between us. He started trying to rile me up:

‘You must be very tired, David. I bet your foot's been really hurting you.'

‘No, I got a rest at the end of the season, didn't I? I've never felt so fit in my life.'

I'd been fighting the nerves a little; natural enough when memories of four years ago kept flooding back into my mind. I couldn't help it. Every question I was asked, every conversation I had, with the press and with England supporters, seemed to be about the red card and, now, about having the chance to put things right. I was still worried about the metatarsal, too. It felt fine but I didn't like the look of the field
and how it might play in the humidity of a stadium with a roof. I'd fretted about what boots to wear. Long studs would have stuck in the turf, which might have hurt my foot over the course of ninety minutes even though I'd have better traction. In the end, I settled on a moulded sole.

I spoke to Victoria on the phone before we went to the stadium. She'd stayed at home: Romeo, our second son, was on the way. But even on the other side of the world, if anyone knew how to make me feel relaxed about the situation, it was Victoria. I told her how I was feeling; she wished me luck of course:

‘Just enjoy it. Do your best. Back here in England, everybody's going mad. We can't wait.'

I was trying to think positive thoughts. We even talked about what it might be like if I could score the winner; rather that thought in my mind than the opposite:
If something were to go wrong tonight, Victoria, I don't know if I'd be able to go through all the stuff that happened last time again
.

Then, just as we were getting ready to say goodbye, she gave a little chuckle:

‘Now don't do anything stupid, will you?'

I laughed and the tension lifted.

‘I don't know. I'll see how it goes. Maybe I should just go out and kick one of them for old times' sake.'

I'll never forget the passion, the sense of purpose, in our dressing room before we went out to face Argentina. I looked at Michael Owen: he had this aura about him, pure undiluted concentration on the job in hand. I looked at Rio Ferdinand, at Sol Campbell: their faces had those same calm, fixed expressions; the same intensity burning away behind their eyes.
This is it. How can we not win this tonight? Come on, England.

I'd never heard us like this before. The noise was echoing in the tunnel while we lined up with Argentina; English voices—the players' voices—shouting, growling, urging one another on, as if we were going into battle. And, from the start, a battle is what it was. Gabriel Batistuta's
tackle on Ashley Cole about a minute into the game was horrible. Later in the game and he'd have been sent off. It was a chance for a big player to put his mark on the game. We'd talked beforehand amongst ourselves about not showing Argentina anything in the way of respect. We could be sure they wouldn't be showing us any. That lunge from Batistuta said it all, from their point of view. But it broke a spell: it shocked everyone in the stadium, players and fans. Never mind Sweden. Never mind four years ago. Never mind Beckham's foot. This was the challenge: were we strong enough to face it? The atmosphere inside the Dome was electric. Every England supporter could sense it, I'm sure: every one of our players seemed to rise to the occasion at that instant.
Face it? We'll do better than that.

It took me longer to settle into the game than my team-mates. By the time my foot had warmed up enough to stop giving me twinges of pain, we were already playing really well, a different team to the one that had struggled less than a week ago. We were first to the 50–50 balls, Nicky Butt was all over the field, getting his foot in, nudging us forward. Even at 0–0, it already felt like our night. Owen Hargreaves got injured early on and Trevor Sinclair came on in his place. On another evening, that might have disrupted our rhythm. Another player than Trevor might have needed time to find the pace of a World Cup game. Instead, he just grabbed his moment. He started running at Argentina, terrorizing experienced defenders like Placente and Sorin. He was ready for this. It was his night to make sure all those miles in a 747, when he'd been in and out of the squad and finally in again, had been worth the flying.

Argentina had one or two scoring chances. We had better ones. Michael turned in the area and shot across their goalkeeper, Cavallero. I was already in the air, sure it was in, but the ball came backoff the far post. Then I found myself with the ball at my feet about six or seven yards outside the Argentina penalty area. Shoot or pass? I wanted to keep the ball moving: Michael was already making a run in behind one
of their defenders. Suddenly, I'm knocked over. Someone had come in from behind and clipped the back of my heels. I had no idea which Argentine player had done it. I was sure it was a free-kick, though. Good range and position for me as well. I shouted out towards Pierluigi Collina, the referee. He'd spotted the foul but he'd also already seen something I hadn't and was playing advantage. I looked across. Twenty yards away from me, the ball had broken forward and suddenly Michael Owen had it and was twisting past Pochettino, just inside the box. The Argentine defender stuck a leg out as Michael edged beyond him.

‘Penalty!'

I'm sure I shouted it out. I know every England supporter did. As I saw Michael tumble, I knew Collina would see it and would be brave enough to give it. He'd been strong enough to continue play when I'd screamed at him for my foul. There was a split second of
déjà vu
: I'd known I was going to score, hadn't I? I'd talked to Victoria about a winning goal and finally squaring away Simeone, the red card and Saint-Etienne. Had I dreamed this scene the night before? Or had I seen what was about to happen just before it did? As quickly as those thoughts were in my mind, they were gone. I had to get to the ball. I had to be the one to score. A hungry feeling, in the pit of my stomach: dread. And it wasn't a voice in my head exactly, but the realization, right then:
Everything else I've done in my life, everything that's ever happened to me: it's all been heading towards this.

I knew Michael would be ready to take the penalty himself.

‘Do you want me to have it?'

‘No. I'm having it.'

And I was there, the ball in my hand, putting it down on the spot.
What have I said? What have I done?

I was glad Collina was in charge. He wasn't going to let anybody mess about here in Sapporo. South American players are very good at putting pressure on you, at trying to intimidate and unsettle opponents. I had good reason to know that better than most, so it didn't surprise
me. The ref, the keeper and Diego Simeone, of all people, were standing in front of me, between me and the goal. I took two or three steps back. Simeone walked straight past the ball towards me. He stopped and offered his hand as if he expected me to shake it.
Should I? No chance.

I looked beyond him—through him—towards the goal, trying to blank him out. Then, as I turned, Butty and Scholesy came from behind me and pulled Simeone away.
My mates. I like that
.

I looked down at the ball before running up. It all went quiet. Everything was swirling around me, every nerve standing on edge.
What's going on here? I can't breathe…