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  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…

  I remember forcing in two big gulps of air to try and steady myself and take control. For the last two penalties I’d taken for United, I’d hit the ball straight down the middle of the goal and the keepers, diving to one side, had been nowhere near them. Same again now, David. I was far too nervous to try to be clever. Not nervous for myself any longer. This was all about the team I was captain of. I’ve never felt such pressure before. I ran forward. And I kicked the ball goalwards as hard as I could.

  In.

  The roar.

  IN!

  Not the best penalty kick you’ve ever seen. But, for me, for all of us that night, just absolutely perfect. I’d run up, hit it and—knowing, instinctively, it was a goal—kept on running towards the corner flag. The nerves, the pressure and four years of memories just fell away. In those few seconds after the ball settled in the back of Argentina’s net, I could see flashbulbs fire off around the ground. As each little explosion died against the blur and color of the stands, it took everything that had happened, everything that had been said or written since my red card in Saint-Etienne, away into the night sky with it. The look on my parents’ faces at Heathrow when I got back to England, that picture of an effigy of me hanging outside a pub, the snarls from the crowd at Upton Park, and all the rest of it: gone. The film that had been running in my head for so long just stopped dead. Burnt away. Out of my mind for the first time in four years.

  Arms outstretched, I sprinted across the grass towards our supporters with a team of England players in red shirts doing their best to get to me before I could disappear into the crowd. I couldn’t have wished the burden away. I had to live through it. What had happened in 1998 had done a lot to make me the person I’d become, captaining my country at another World Cup in 2002. But with one kick, it was all off my shoulders for good. Right at t
hat moment I was sure that if I leapt up I’d be able to fly. Suddenly, the other lads were in the air and down on my back. Sol first, then Trevor Sinclair. Rio was there, holding me so tight I could barely catch my breath. This wasn’t just my moment. It was a moment for all of us. And then, just as suddenly, came the reminder that we weren’t done here. Argentina were going to kick off. A minute later we were going to hear the whistle, but only for half-time, not for the end of the game.

  In the dressing room, there was no shouting, no screaming. It was quiet, charged; as if the room wasn’t big enough to cram in the energy of the players inside it. Wouldn’t it be great if my goal was the winner? We went out and, in the second half, picked up where we’d left off in the first. No standing back this time, like we had against Sweden. No giving away possession; not early on anyway. We went looking for another goal. The England defense was a brick wall. Further forward, we were picking off Argentina’s passes and then playing around them. Teddy Sheringham came on for Emile Heskey and almost scored. If the Argentine keeper Cavallero hadn’t punched away Teddy’s volley from the edge of the box, after we’d passed it from one end of the field to the other, it would have been one of the greatest-ever England goals.

  Nicky Butt was the best player on the field. It was fantastic to see him prove himself on this stage. He wasn’t even guaranteed a start in midfield at United, never mind for England, but he got his chance here because Steven Gerrard missed the tournament through injury. Nicky’s a quiet lad, with a really dry sense of humor. He’d never be a character to say: look at me, look at what I can do. But here he was, against what many were saying was the best team in the world, running the game. Other people saw for the first time in Japan what we’d known at United all along.

  In the last twenty minutes, Argentina got hold of the ball and started to play. It wasn’t that they looked that good: they were just keeping possession by force of will more than anything. We couldn’t seem to stop them piling forward. Please don’t score. I was starting to feel really tired; this was only my second game since I’d broken my foot. I remember Sven calling across to me with about ten minutes to go:

  ‘David, are you all right?’

  I didn’t shout back. The expression on my face said it all. Don’t even think about taking me off. I’ve got to be on when we win this.

  Argentina were firing in shots and crosses. And they had some good chances. For supporters watching on television at home, that final quarter of an hour must have been unbearable. Dave Seaman made a couple of great saves. Sol and Rio kept diving in the way of Argentinian attempts on goal. It was fantastic but I wanted it over. I was out there trying to defend with the rest of the lads but half-wishing I could be hiding behind the sofa with my eyes shut, like the England supporters back home.

  When the final whistle blew, Rio and Trevor came running towards me. Such a great, great feeling. For us and for the fans. I phoned Victoria out in the tunnel about half an hour after the game. I was well past putting things into words by then and couldn’t hear a word she was saying either. She was at her mum and dad’s. They had a houseful of family and friends, all of them shouting and singing away in the background. Later on, I called Dave Gardner and he told me things had gone mad back in England. He was in the middle of Deansgate, the main shopping street in Manchester. He said no traffic had been able to get through since the end of the game. There were parties going on in the middle of the road. He’d never seen anything like it. Like I did after every game in 2002, I phoned Gary Neville too. He was so upbeat, even though he’d missed his chance with his injury. That night was the one time I heard him say:

  ‘I wish I was there.’

  Gary’s a team player. The perfect team player. He knew exactly what it meant to win a big game like Argentina. He’d have loved to be part of it. I needed him to tell me what was going on back at home. He wanted every bit of detail about the party that was going on in Japan.

  If there was one impossible thing I could make happen, it would be to get back to England, minutes after a great win at a World Cup or European Championships, to see the celebrations and join in with the madness at home. I’d love to get my share of all that excitement when we score: bodies flying around through the air and people hugging and kissing each other, in London, in Manchester, in Birmingham, in Newcastle, everywhere. I love it.

  Out in Sapporo, I didn’t want to have to come off the field. If there was one England player, one England supporter still in the stadium, I wanted to be out there celebrating with them. Eventually I went over to the tunnel to do a television interview and then headed back to the dressing room. I was the last one in. Sven-Goran Eriksson shook my hand. He knew what it meant for the team. The Usher album was blaring out again. Rio was leading the dancing in the middle of the floor, kicking discarded uniform and shin pads out of the way. I wish we could have played Brazil the following day. That same night, even. We felt so strong; everyone was still so hyped up. I’m sure we’d have won. The atmosphere in the dressing room after we’d beaten Argentina made it feel like this England team was invincible.

  Back at the hotel, Mum and Dad were waiting for me. They came out to every game in Japan. Mum was in tears—just what I needed to start me off—and I think Dad was having to hold them back as well:

  ‘I’m so proud of you, son.’

  Tony Stephens made his way there after the game. He’s a soccer fan as well as an agent working in the game, and he’d had a great night along with all the other England supporters inside the Dome. He came up and gave me a hug:

  ‘That was unbelievable, David. Who is it writing your life?’

  The room they’d set aside for us was very Japanese: a big, pale grey room with nothing on the walls; large rectangular tables set with white cloths; food and drink laid out for people to help themselves. It wasn’t exactly the way you’d set things up for a big party. Tiredness was starting to set in by then anyway, once we’d all shared a bottle or two. Some of the lads headed off to bed early, especially the ones who didn’t have family waiting to see them. The rest of us wound down slowly together, toasting England 1 Argentina 0 with a couple of glasses of wine.

  It would have been ideal to take the high of beating Argentina on into a knockout game against another major team. Instead, we had to wait nearly a week to play Nigeria in our last group game. A game that, now, we didn’t have to win in order to advance. Those five days were long enough for us to lose some of the inspiration from the previous Friday night. Having beaten the tournament favorites, all of a sudden we were expected to take care of anybody else in our way without breaking a sweat. As it turned out, sweat was the one thing we did do in Osaka come Wednesday afternoon.

  We went into the Nigeria match wanting to win it. Finishing top of the group meant we probably wouldn’t have to face Brazil until the final. And we wouldn’t play them in the kind of conditions we had to prepare for in Osaka. The extreme heat had been talked about in the build-up to the tournament: games that kicked off in the middle of the afternoon would be difficult, especially against non-European sides who were used to playing in temperatures of 95 degrees plus. None of us realized how tough it would be, though, until we went out on the day to warm up. We jogged up and down the field once and players were looking around at each other. How are we supposed to play in this?

  The heat stood up in front of you like a wall. Not a breath of wind. Sweat rolling off you just standing still. When it’s that hot, you feel claustrophobic. The air’s heavy: it wraps itself around you, stealing your breath. We knew Nigeria could play, but I didn’t have any doubts about us beating them. I was just worried we might not be able to beat the conditions.

  It was a game we never felt we’d lose. The longer it went on, the more it felt like we’d never win it either. Ninety minutes of hard labor. We got a 0–0 and we advanced to play Denmark in the next round. There wasn’t any more to be said about it: the players sat in the dressing room, gulping water, throats almost too dry to drink the stuff. Th
e match itself is like a blur in my memory now. What’s sharp is how we felt for hours afterwards: absolutely wrung out, drained, physically and mentally. We all dipped over the next couple of days. We didn’t doubt ourselves but we were aware that, back home, some people were wondering if the Argentina game had been a fluke. We’d finished second in Group F behind Sweden. Were England good enough now to go forward?

  Talking to Victoria and Brooklyn helped keep me going. I missed my family. I had a videophone set up in my hotel room and I could talk to Victoria face to face: when your wife’s seven months pregnant you want to know about every last kick and twinge. We’d plenty to say without even mentioning the games in Japan. Time on the phone to home was a break from soccer and a break from the tension. I even got to see and talk to Brooklyn on the videophone: he would sit there chatting to me or showing off his new bike as he rode it round and round the bedroom.

  I had a bad feeling about the Denmark game beforehand. It might have been due to exhaustion after the heat in Osaka, but I thought there was more to it than that. We knew we’d probably face Brazil if we got through; and people were already looking ahead to that even though we had this game to win first. Denmark were well organized and a physically strong team; almost all their players played in England or, at least, had done so during their careers. I thought it might turn out like our first group game against Sweden, where the opposition’s familiarity with the England players had done them a favor but not helped us at all. I believed in this England team. Believed, in fact, that we had a chance in 2002 of doing something that hadn’t been done since 1966. But I wasn’t sure we’d be in the right frame of mind to turn that into a result on Saturday afternoon.