Beckham (7 page)

After training one afternoon, I went off to the snooker club with Gary Neville, Keith Gillespie and John O'Kane even though the original plan had been for Deana and I to meet up. I had my back to the door of the club and was leaning across the table to make my shot. Suddenly I glanced up and saw the color draining out of John's cheeks. He was looking back over my head; I turned round to see Deana in the doorway behind me. The two of us went out into the car park so I could make my apologies, and that would have been that except, for some reason, I made the mistake of looking up at the first floor window of the club. Gary, Keith and John were standing there. I couldn't hear them but I could see their shoulders jigging up and down, the three of them giggling at the spot of bother I'd got myself in. I couldn't help myself: I started giggling too. I couldn't blame Deana at all for turning the rest of that day into a very long, very sorrowful one in the life of one teenage boy.

I have so many good memories of my times with Deana and also with her family. They were so welcoming: it was as if I just had to turn up on the doorstep and the next thing I knew we'd be in the kitchen; the kettle would be on, and there'd be something to eat on the way. It was very warm. Without making a big thing of it, Deana's mum and dad made me feel like I was part of the family. Her dad, Ray, was a
Liverpool season ticket holder and I went to watch games at Anfield with him from time to time. Away from my own dad, I suppose I hooked onto Ray. He sometimes took me down to the pub. A couple of halves, of course, and I'd be rolling a bit. We'd wander back to the house together for some dinner. This was me really finding out about life as a man: out getting tipsy with my girlfriend's dad. It was a lovely time in my life and I'll always be grateful to Deana that she's never spoiled it. I know she's been offered money since by the papers to tell stories about me and always turned them down flat. I know that's because of the kind of person she is and I hope, as well, it's something to do with her getting a good feeling, like I do, when she remembers us being together.

Life in Manchester away from soccer was just part of what was totally new to me. There was this group of local lads for a start. Gary and Philip Neville, Nicky Butt and Paul Scholes were all from around Manchester, so they'd been training at United since they'd signed schoolboy forms, although they hadn't been at the vacation-time sessions I'd attended over the previous couple of years. I wasn't aware of it at the time but I think, to start with, they weren't sure about me at all: Gary says they had me down as a flashy little cockney. I can understand why. It wasn't because I was loud or anything but, when we were handed our uniforms, I'd always end up with the nicest tracksuit and the best-fitting boots. I happened to get on really well with the equipment manager, Norman Davies, and he just looked after me. I'd known Norman for a long time already from going to the games as a kid and, maybe, this was my reward for helping him tidy up dressing rooms for the first team at places like Upton Park all those years ago.

I was from London and the other boys were from the Manchester area but it was surprising how much we had in common. Apart from loving soccer and having the ambition to play for United, there were things in our backgrounds that brought us together as well. Gary and Phil's mum and dad, for example, were so much like my parents. They'd
be at every game too. I think the Nevilles and the Beckhams had the same sort of values and saw life in much the same way. I know the four of them took to each other straight away and I'm sure the similarity in our upbringings had a lot to do with why Gary and I became such close friends.

Gary, Nicky Butt and Paul Scholes had all played together for the same Sunday League team. Boundary Park must have been a northern version of Ridgeway Rovers. Not only was the team successful, it had the same spirit and sense of loyalty that we'd had at Ridgeway. Those boys had been learning to approach soccer in the right way, picking up good habits, at the same time as we were. It was natural that a sense of togetherness grew pretty quickly at United. Quite soon after we started, we went off to Coleraine in Northern Ireland for a tournament called the Milk Cup. Teams came from all over the world to compete, and that was the first time we represented the club as a group.

We had a brilliant time. We were all about sixteen, on a tour together and getting to know each other, as players and as people. The Milk Cup competition is still going. As well as the games, there's quite a lot of ceremony: I remember us being paraded through the streets of the local town, trying to look sharp in our Manchester United tracksuits. Nobby Stiles was in charge of the trip, along with a trainer named Jimmy Curran. Nobby knew me and trusted me, and he made me captain for the tournament. It was some team: as well as the players who are still at Old Trafford, there were plenty of others who went on to have good careers elsewhere. Ben Thornley was our best player on that trip and got the award for Player of the Tournament. He's done well since leaving United, despite some shocking injury trouble over the years. With Gary, Phil, Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt playing alongside the likes of Ben, Keith Gillespie, Robbie Savage and Colin Murdock, it's no wonder we won the cup. We stayed at a hotel owned by Harry Gregg, who was a United great himself. He survived the Munich Air Crash and he loved
having the United youngsters around the place. The Milk Cup was the first silverware any of us ever won as United players.

Every single day was an exciting one back then. Before I'd left home to start as a trainee in Manchester, Dad had drummed one thing into my head.

‘You may have signed for Man United, but you haven't done anything yet. When you've played for the first team, then we can talk about you having achieved something. Until then, don't start thinking you've made it.'

Did he need to tell me that? Well, it did no harm to know Dad would be around to keep my feet on the ground. But I hadn't been running around boasting, telling everybody that I had signed for United. I'd just been looking forward to going and couldn't wait to start work. Once I did, of course, I realized what Dad had meant. I'd been to United's old training ground, the Cliff, as a boy to watch the first team train. Now I had to be there for training each morning myself, along with the senior players. It dawned on me straight away that the most important thing wasn't being at United. It was working hard enough to make sure they'd let me stay there.

Come to think of it, there was never any chance of us not working hard; not with coach Eric Harrison in charge. If I think about the people who've really shaped my career, that has to mean my dad and Alex Ferguson—of course—but it'll also mean Eric. Even now, a dozen years on from first meeting him, I look to him for guidance and advice. He'll tell me what he thinks, not what he thinks I want to hear. And, like every other boy he worked with at United, I know he's always cared about me. Back then I was sure he had my best interests at heart. I still feel exactly the same.

Eric could be scary, though. We knew about his reputation and I was a bit anxious beforehand because of that. But I soon found out what a brilliant coach he was. Everything he did with us was spot on: the sessions he ran, how hard he made us work, how he understood how
we were feeling and how much he made us believe in ourselves. Eric might have had a talented group of lads to work with, but the credit goes to him for turning us into soccer players and, during the next three years, turning us into a team.

That fierce reputation, though, it's all true. When Eric was angry with you, he could berate you worse than anybody I've ever known. We were younger then, obviously, but I'd say the tirades you got from Eric were even more terrifying than the manager in full flow. I remember when we had matches at the Cliff, Eric had an office with a big window that looked out over the field we used. If you made a mistake or did something you knew you shouldn't have done, you'd hear this furious banging on the glass. You didn't dare lookup in that direction because you knew it would be Eric, not at all pleased. But you'd have to steal a quick glance. And if you couldn't actually see him shouting from behind the window, that's when you knew there was real trouble and it was time to disappear over to the other side of the field. It meant Eric was on his way down.

When Eric was pleased with you, he made you feel great. If I heard him say: ‘Great ball, David' once in the morning, that would set me up for the rest of the day. Likewise, if he criticized something, you thought a long time before doing it again. I remember one session when, every time I got the ball, I was trying to pick someone out with a sixty-yard pass. Even when I was young, I was able to see what was going on ahead of me and could strike the ball a very long way. That particular day, though, nothing was coming off and Eric wasn't impressed.

‘David. What are you playing at? Hitting those flippin' Hollywood passes all day?'

Hollywood passes? I'd never heard that before. I knew exactly what he meant, though. And I thought twice before I hit the next one. Truth is, I still love playing those long balls; they're a part of my game. But, even now, whenever one doesn't make it, I imagine Eric, shaking his head and grumbling: ‘flippin' Hollywood passes'.

It's not always been true with Alex Ferguson or other coaches I've worked with, but with Eric you always knew exactly where you stood. If he lost his temper with you, he made sure you understood why and, somehow, he had the knack of shaking you up without ever abusing you or putting you down. We always knew, however hairy it got, Eric only ever wanted what we wanted too: to get the best out of ourselves and to achieve everything we could as individuals and as a team. No wonder he commanded the respect of every single one of us young players. Some young players nowadays who sign for a large club suddenly think they've hit the big time. There was none of that with our generation. And if there had been, Eric would soon have sorted us out.

Everything at United was right: the facilities, the uniform, the training and the other players in our group. Who wouldn't want to have Eric Harrison as a youth team coach? I couldn't get enough of it all. While we were trainees, Gary and I would go back to the Cliff in the evenings twice a week, when Eric was working with the schoolboys on the big indoor ground, and join in the sessions just to get extra training under our belts. Phil Neville was in that age group—two years younger than me and Gary—and so was Dave Gardner. I don't know how you find your very best friends. Maybe they just find you. Dave and I just hit it off and we've been close ever since: I was best man at his wedding in the summer of 2003. He stayed on as an apprentice until he was eighteen, by which time I was playing regularly in the first team. Dave turned professional with Manchester City and he still plays non-League with Altrincham. Nowadays, for him, soccer's about staying fit and keeping his eye in: he's a full-time director of a sports management company.

During those first years at United, Eric used to make sure we went to every first-team game at Old Trafford. Not just to watch the game, but to watch individual players. I'd think back to Dad taking me to Cup Finals when I was a boy.

‘Never mind the game, David. Just watch Bryan Robson. Watch what he does.'

Now Eric was telling us the same thing: ‘Watch the man playing in your position. One day, you're going to take his place.'

To hear something like that gave us so much confidence; not that we realized at the time how soon the manager was going to make us all part of his first-team plans.

Going to those games at Old Trafford was a chance, as well, for Eric to insist on the importance of having standards. He always made sure that we turned up in a blazer, with a collar and tie. It reminded me of Stuart Underwood wanting the Ridgeway players to be well turned out when we arrived for big games. I still think those things make a difference. Some teams might be seen arriving at a ground or walking through an airport in their tracksuits. The fact that a Manchester United team will always be wearing club blazers is part of having a professional attitude. That smartness said something about our respect for ourselves and for the club.

Our training sessions weren't all about technique and tactics and learning new tricks. If Eric spotted a weakness in your game, you could be sure he'd do his best to confront it. I don't know if ‘Headers' was designed just to make me suffer, but some mornings it felt like it. As a forward player, you need to be strong enough to hold your own physically against bigger and tougher defenders. Heading and tackling weren't exactly my strong points, especially as I was smaller than most of the other lads. ‘Headers' was Eric's way of toughening up young players like me. There were two teams: midfielders and forwards lined up against defenders. The ball was chipped up and you could only score with your head. That would have been fine, except it was an invitation to the likes of Gary Neville and Chris Casper to come crashing into you from behind in order to stop you. Gary was the worst. You'd end up bruised all over, wondering what you'd done to annoy him. I dreaded those sessions then but, four years later, by the time I was
lining up in the Premiership against the likes of Stuart Pearce and Julian Dicks, I was grateful that the first serious whacks I'd taken had been from my own team-mates.

It wasn't just when we were doing that particular routine that Gary and Chris Casper did their best to give me grief. Busy they were, the pair of them. Cas was very big and strong for his age. His dad, Frank, had been a player with Burnley when they were a top side in the sixties, and Chris had obviously picked up habits from him. He had this very grown up, professional attitude. And, when we were playing together, he talked non-stop through every single game. Sometimes Cas played at the back; he ended up playing center-back as a professional. Other times he'd get a game in central midfield, which meant I'd be playing alongside him. He'd be shouting encouragement, telling me who to pass to. And not just me: he'd be telling anyone within earshot. He even used to talk to himself. After ninety minutes, I'd have a splitting headache and what made it worse was that Dad thought it was good to be like that.