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  Now we were standing again, a deal—and the writing—done. Senor Perez unwrapped his gift. He smiled:

  ‘I’ll keep this safe until we sign your next contract. Thank you.’

  I smiled too. I’d heard almost the same choice of words once before: Alex Ferguson talking to a twelve-year-old United hopeful. Here I was now, 28 and England captain, excited and expectant and nervous all over again.

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr President. Thank you. Thanks to everyone. It’s great to be here. I’m really happy.’

  Happy wasn’t the half of it. You can never know how the big moments are going to feel until you’re in them. And it was only now I really understood just how significant this particular moment was.

  Back at the Tryp Fenix, we were expected for dinner. It’s the hotel where Real’s players meet up before home games. They’d set up a private dining room downstairs. I’d joined Real Madrid: this evening was to celebrate that with the people who’d made the transfer happen. My management team, SFX, and a handful of people at the heart of Real’s organization: our mate, José; Jorge Valdano; Pedro Lopez Jiminez, the President’s right-hand man, and his son, Fabio; José Luis Del Valle, the President’s legal advisor. And Victoria. Mrs Beckham looked unbelievably beautiful. Charmed the room, too. Made the blokes she was sitting with think she cared as much about soccer as they did. Who knows? Maybe, for just that one evening, she did.

  It was a lovely couple of hours. I know how tense everybody in that room had been over the past month. This was the time for them to pop the top off a cold beer. No awkwardness, no politics, no pretensions: people who’d come to like and trust each other sitting down to a meal together. Even the formalities weren’t very formal. My agent, Tony Stephens, got up to say a few words. A simple toast to great partnerships: me and Victoria and, now, me and Real Madrid. I thanked everybody for all the work they’d done:

  ‘I’ve not dreamed about playing for many soccer clubs. There’s not a player anywhere, though, who hasn’t dreamed of playing for Real Madrid. Thank you all for making it come true for me.’

  And then, as soon as I sat down, I remembered something. Why didn’t I thank the most important person of all? Why didn’t I thank Victoria?

  I’d missed the moment: Jorge Valdano was standing facing us. He started speaking, in Spanish of course. At first, José was translating but, as people got swept up in the speech, they started throwing in their own suggestions for what particular words might mean in English. It got a little confusing, but Senor Valdano knew where he was going and ploughed on regardless:

  ‘Three years ago, Florentino Perez ran for the Presidency of Real Madrid. People thought of him as a cold, rational businessman and wondered if he was the right man for the job. He won the election eventually because he did the most passionate, hot-headed, impossible thing that any supporter could imagine: he bought Luis Figo from Barcelona. Senor Perez came to the Presidency with the ambition to make the soccer club, recognized by FIFA as the most renowned of the 20th century, the greatest in the 21st. To do this we needed the right players: the best players but also the players who represented soccer—and Real Madrid—in the best way. Raul was already here. A year after Figo, the President brought Zidane to the Bernabeu. A year after him, Ronaldo. Still, there was an element missing. We believe that you, David, are the player Real Madrid need to be complete. Because of your ability but also because you can bring with you a soccer spirit which is epitomized by the captain of England.’

  You could tell from Senor Valdano’s tone of voice and his body language, even without understanding the Spanish, that he was building up to a big finish. He took a deep breath. And José’s cell phone went off: one of those phones that diverts all your calls except the one you really have to answer.

  ‘El Presidente.’

  There was a lot of laughing and joking between José and Senor Perez.

  ‘David, the President wants to tell you he’s very sorry he can’t be here with us tonight but he’s never done this with any of our other big signings. So he doesn’t think it would be the right thing to do this time either.’

  A pause. Just to make sure we got the joke.

  ‘He says: not that you aren’t his favorite, of course.’

  Everybody in the room was laughing now, and shouting into José’s phone that the President should just come round for a coffee.

  ‘He says: he’s at a birthday party for one of the club’s directors. We could all go round there. It’s not far.’

  Senor Valdano was still standing through most of this, waiting to finish. Just as he got round to sitting back down, the President got round to saying goodbye. He hoped we’d enjoy the evening. Everyone at the table turned back towards Senor Valdano, ready for his punchline. I didn’t need to hear any more: I’d already taken in what he’d said so far and felt honored enough. He stood up again. You could see him thinking about where to pick up his thread. And then deciding he needn’t bother. He laughed. His moment had slipped away too. He risked a little English:

  ‘David and Victoria: welcome to Madrid.’

  I really felt we were.

  There was still time in the evening for me and Victoria to be rushed off to look at two more houses. I found myself wondering: When do they sleep in Madrid? Tuesday had been all about taking care of business, the private side of me joining Real Madrid. Wednesday’s promise was to present a new signing to the world. Brooklyn made his mind up early: other kids, a swimming pool and a back garden, thanks. He and Mum headed off to the house of the parents of someone we’d met the day before. I had two interviews to do: MUTV were in Madrid to give me the chance to say goodbye and thank you to the United supporters; then Real Madrid’s television channel wanted to get my first impressions and, also, my reaction to Roberto Carlos’ statement of delight that, at long last, there’d be two good-looking players at the Bernabeu. Those two interviews, one after the other, were a bittersweet way to spend the morning. It was all very well me finding my answers. Really, I wanted to be asking the questions. I couldn’t help but wonder what fans in Madrid and Manchester thought of how things had turned out.

  Real decided on a basketball arena as the venue for my introduction to the media and the fans long before I’d decided on squad number 23. The Pabellon Raimundo Saporta is an enormous, gloomy hangar of a place with a 5,000-seat capacity, part of a training complex they call the Ciudad Deportiva. Our cars screeched in off the main road and swept up a curving drive to the front entrance. There were dozens of journalists waiting outside, and over to my left I glimpsed the field where I’d get the chance to kick a ball, a Real player now, in front of Real supporters for the first time. We hurried inside. I know the Spanish are supposed to have a pretty laid back attitude to their timekeeping but this felt like a schedule everyone was dead set on sticking to. I followed the corridor round until I was standing behind some heavy, dark drapes at one end of the gym. It was a bit like waiting for your entrance in the school play: in my mind, I ran through what I wanted to say when I got out on stage.

  Just a couple of minutes before we started, José came up to explain that they’d have somebody doing simultaneous translation when I spoke.

  ‘David: can you make little pauses to give him time to do the Spanish?’

  ‘Well, I’d rather not José. What if I stop and then can’t get myself started again?’

  Making speeches isn’t what I do for a living but I needed to make one here and I needed it to come out sounding right.

  ‘Couldn’t your man just try and keep up with me?’

  There wasn’t time to argue. In the gloom, I shook hands with Senor Perez and was introduced to Alfredo di Stefano. I’d asked about him at dinner the previous evening.

  ‘Is di Stefano the greatest-ever Real Madrid player?’

  ‘No. He’s simply the greatest-ever player.’

  I’ve seen clips in ghostly black and white of di Stefano in action for the Real team that won the European Cup season after season in the late
fifties. Senor Perez was the Real President: the man standing in front of me was even more important when it came to the spirit of the club. In his seventies now, Senor di Stefano is still strong and commands your respect. You can sense he’s proud of where he’s been and of what he achieved at Real. He seemed to be proud to be here now, as well: part of the present as much as part of the past. Alfredo di Stefano represents for Real Madrid what Bobby Charlton always has for United.

  A hand reached forward and drew back the curtain. I hadn’t even realized there were speakers near us but now music—an operatic aria—was all I or anyone else could hear, the singers’ voices echoing around the arena. Some entrance. We took a couple of steps up, then walked onto the stage. The floor of the arena in front of us was crowded with photographers, flash guns firing off as we emerged. I could just glimpse people in the seats along the two sides of the hall. At first, I was doing my best to keep a smile on my face, frozen as it was. I took a deep breath and glanced down to my left where Victoria was sitting with the senior Real Madrid staff in a cordoned off area. She was looking back up at me, as if to say:

  ‘Go on, then. This is it, you know. We’re all watching you.’

  I really was smiling now. Behind me was a cinema screen, huge enough to make me feel about a foot tall down here on the stage. Just for an instant, it felt like Saturday morning at the movies, except the film had me in it. Against a burnt yellow background: my head, the club badge, the words Real Madrid. Senor Perez stepped forward. They were going to translate me into Spanish. But there was no one translating him into English for me. They’d never have kept up anyway. It was only later that I got the President’s drift.

  ‘David is a great player, a player who’s been educated in the tradition of sacrificing himself to the team. He comes to the best and most competitive league in the world. We are sure he is technically good enough and a strong enough character to succeed.’

  Now, Alfredo di Stefano stepped forward with a Madrid team shirt in his hands. We shook hands, photographers calling out:

  ‘Over here, David. Aqui, aqui—por favor—Senors.’

  We held the shirt out in front of us.

  ‘Turn it round, turn it round.’

  On the back: 23 with ‘Beckham’ over the numerals. Nobody knew, outside the club, what my squad number was going to be. I’d thought long and hard about which number to choose from the ones that weren’t already being worn by the other players. Even Real hadn’t found out until late the previous night, when I’d phoned them from the hotel with my final decision.

  There was a sudden burst of shutters clicking on a couple of hundred cameras. I could hear voices out in the hall:

  ‘Veinte y tres.’

  Twenty-three. Then, a moment later:

  ‘Michael Jordan. Michael Jordan.’

  He wasn’t just a hero for me, then. It was my turn now. I stepped forward to the microphone. I’d gone over the few words I wanted to say again and again. I didn’t want to be holding a piece of paper. I didn’t want to be wondering what to say next. More first impressions were at stake here. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Gracias. Senor Perez, Senor di Stefano, ladies and gentlemen…’

  I left a split second for the translator to do his stuff. At first his microphone didn’t seem to be working properly. I waited. And while I waited my mind went blank. Suddenly I was aware of the forest of cameras out in front of me, people around the hall craning heads in my direction. I’m glad I’ve learned to trust myself. I opened my mouth and the rest of it came.

  ‘I have always loved soccer. Of course, I love my family…’

  I looked down towards Victoria again: too right I love them.

  ‘…and I have a wonderful life. But soccer is everything to me. To play for Real is a dream come true. Thank you to everyone for being here to share my arrival. Gracias.’

  I held the shirt—my new shirt—up in front of me:

  ‘Hala Madrid!’

  The other directors of the club came over for the team photos and then Senor Perez led us offstage and back through the corridors to a room at the far end of the building, where there was a table laid out with tapas and biscuits and soft drinks. There’s a room like this at every soccer club: a sloping ceiling and bench seats around the walls. They’d tidied this one up a bit, though. Then, I was taken through a door at the far end that led off into the dressing rooms: not quite as imposing as the ones at the Bernabeu the day before.

  I took my time pulling on the Real Madrid uniform for the very first time. Then a couple of security guards and Simon and Jamie, from SFX, came through the dressing room and we walked across to Numero 2, a training field with low stands on one side and at one end, both crammed with supporters. It took a moment for my eyes to adapt, stepping outside into bright sunshine again. I ran through the gap in the fence and a couple of soccer balls were thrown towards me. I know I play for a living. Controlling a ball, keeping it up in the air, the odd trick: it’s all second nature. But out on a patch of grass, in front of a couple of thousand supporters who are thinking: show us? It felt a bit lonely out there, to be honest, even though the reception I got from the madridistas was all I could have hoped for: families everywhere, cheering and waving. I waved back. The photographers got their shots of David Beckham in a Real uniform for the very first time.

  How long was I going to be out here? What else did we need to do? I kicked a ball up into the crowd behind the goal. I peered up into the stand in front of me, trying to see who’d caught it, trying to get a clue as to how these same fans would take to me when I ran out at the Bernabeu, alongside the galacticos, for a game. I knew I’d be back in Madrid to start work on July 24. The whirl of the last 24 hours suddenly rushed to a full stop. The significance of what had happened today and the previous day swept over me, filled my chest like a blast of pure oxygen. It felt fantastic.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, while the security guards followed my line of sight up into the crowd, I saw a figure away to my left, darting out from behind the metal frame of a floodlight pylon. A lad—eleven, twelve—tanned, black hair stood on end, bare chested and wearing a pair of jean shorts and some battered trainers. And he was racing towards me. I think I saw him before anybody else did. There were shouts of surprise from the crowd. The security people swiveled and looked towards me. Too late: the boy—named Alfonso, I found out later—was standing a couple of feet away from me. It was a shock but there wasn’t anything about him to make me step back. His eyes were wide open, pleading, like he wanted something from me without knowing what. My instinct was to just hold my arms out towards him. He didn’t need a second invitation: he jumped at me, laughing. I caught him and held on, almost as tightly as he did. I waved away the security guys: this was just a boy who’d taken his chance. I managed to prise him off for long enough to motion over to Simon who was in front of the other stand:

  ‘A shirt. I need another shirt.’

  We walked across and met them halfway. I tried to give the shirt to him but Allows just stood in front of me, tears in his eyes now. He raised his arms at either side. I dropped the shirt over his head. This was like some weird kind of ceremony going on here. I was half-aware that people around the ground were cheering and whistling. He pushed his arms through and the shirt settled on him, almost down to his knees. He looked up at me. His eyes were like a mirror: happiness, fear, awe, the wonder of the impossible just having happened. In a couple of hours’ time, I would be on a plane back to England with my family. Time to start packing our bags. Where would Allows be then? I looked down into this boy’s expectant, passionate face. I could see how hard he’d dreamed, how determined he’d been to be where he was now, standing there facing me. I felt like asking him; it felt like he was asking me:

  ‘Who are you, son? Where have you come from? How did you come to be here?’

  1

  Murdering the Flowerbeds

  ‘Mrs Beckham? Can David come and have a game in the park?’


  I’m sure Mum could dig it out of the pile: that first video of me in action. There I am, David Robert Joseph Beckham, aged three, wearing the new Manchester United uniform Dad had bought me for Christmas, playing soccer in the front room of our house in Chingford. Twenty-five years on, and Victoria could have filmed me having a kickabout this morning with Brooklyn before I left for training. For all that so much has happened during my life—and the shirt I’m wearing now is a different color—some things haven’t really changed at all.

  As a father watching my own sons growing up, I get an idea of what I must have been like as a boy; and reminders, as well, of what Dad was like with me. As soon as I could walk, he made sure I had a ball to kick. Maybe I didn’t even wait for a ball. I remember when Brooklyn had only just got the hang of standing up. We were messing around together one afternoon after training. For some reason there was a tin of baked beans on the floor of the kitchen and, before I realized it, he’d taken a couple of unsteady steps towards it and kicked the thing as hard as you like. Frightening really: you could fracture a metatarsal doing that. Even as I was hugging him, I couldn’t help laughing. That must have been me.

  It’s just there, wired into the genes. Look at Brooklyn: he always wants to be playing soccer, running, kicking, diving about. And he’s already listening, like he’s ready to learn. By the time he was three and a half, if I rolled the ball to him and told him to stop it, he’d trap it by putting his foot on it. Then he’d take a step back and line himself up before kicking it back to me. He’s also got a great sense of balance. We were in New York when Brooklyn was about two and a half, and I remember us coming out of a restaurant and walking down some steps. He was standing, facing up towards Victoria and I, his toes on one step and his heels rocking back over the next. This guy must have been watching from inside the restaurant, because suddenly he came running out and asked us how old our son was. When I told him, he explained he was a child psychologist and that for Brooklyn to be able to balance himself over the step like that was amazing for a boy of his age.