Beckham (40 page)

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 left 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.

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:

‘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 players. 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.