Beckham Read online

  Eric could do no wrong in my eyes. And I think the manager was a bit in awe of him as well. One evening we were at a premiere of one of the Batman films. It was a club invitation so we were all supposed to turn up in black tie. Eric arrived wearing a white suit and his bright red Nike sneakers. I laugh about it now, after the ear bashings I used to get from the boss about the clothes I chose to wear. Eric was special, though. The manager knew that and so did all the players. We never begrudged him being treated differently to the rest of us.

  Eric was a class apart. If anyone tried it on, he made sure you knew that. Not that people risked it very often. There was one evening, after a game, when we’d arranged a ‘team meeting’: it was just a night out with the lads but calling it that meant you knew everybody had to be there. We’d planned to meet at a place in Manchester called the Four Seasons at six forty-five and then go on from there. By seven, only Eric was missing. He eventually strolled up and Giggsy pointed to his watch:

  ‘Seven o’clock, Eric.’

  Ryan was doing his best to sound like the boss if you were late for training. Eric looked over:

  ‘Six forty-five.’

  Giggsy looked at his watch but, before he could say another word, Eric hitched up his sleeve and showed us the face of the most beautiful Rolex watch any of us had ever seen:

  ‘Six forty-five,’ he smiled.

  End of argument. How could that watch, or the bloke wearing it, possibly be wrong about the time?

  Watching Eric was a soccer education, especially in the way he used to practice. Every day, after training, he would be out there on a field at the Cliff, working on his own. He’d be taking free-kicks, doing his turns and little tricks, just as you might expect. But most of the time he’d be practicing the simplest things. He’d kick the ball up in the air as high as he could and then bring it under control as it dropped. He’d kick the ball against a wall, right foot then left foot. Eric was one of the best players in Europe and he was doing the same stuff I’d done with Dad in Chase Lane Park when I was seven years old.

  Once you’re playing soccer as a professional, you have to spend most of your time preparing for two games a week. It doesn’t leave much opportunity for the basics: controlling and striking the ball. My dad had always tried to make sure I understood that control was the most important skill of all. It didn’t matter what else you learned, a good first touch was the key. Which was why Eric, an established international, always made sure he found time to work on that. If you’re comfortable receiving the ball, it gives you the room in your game to see what you need to do next. The manager has told this story about Eric on the eve of the 1994 FA Cup Final. He saw him outside in the hotel grounds, just practicing on his own, and realized then that Eric was a player who set his own standards higher than anybody else could set them for him. He was an example to all of us, the boss included.

  It wasn’t that he set himself up as a leader. Before he came to England and while he was at Leeds, I don’t think that part of Eric’s character particularly stood out. Once he got to United, everything changed. It was as if he’d found the place he belonged and the stage he thought he deserved. In a United shirt, what he did was amazing right from the start. It was Eric’s arrival three months into the season that was the key to United winning the League in 1992/93, putting an end to all those years of waiting for the club. Then the following season, he helped United to our first Double.

  I didn’t play in the first team during those two seasons, but when we did eventually play together, I could tell Eric must have been the spark that made it all happen. He led. The rest of us followed. It’s a rare quality: a born captain, who hardly needed to say anything, to us or anybody else. You didn’t hear Eric leading the team. Just seeing him on the field, standing there with his collar turned up, ready to take on the world, was enough.

  When people talk about Eric, they’ll always refer to the sendings off, and worse, during his career. The way I see it, though, all great players have an edge to their character and to their game. That edge is what makes them more than the ordinary. And if you go through a whole career with that quality, you’re bound to have trouble with the authorities sooner or later. It may sound strange but despite the bookings, sendings off, bans or whatever, it would never have occurred to me to criticize Eric. We played soccer together and that was what my relationship with him was all about. I’d think about him, about what he brought to the dressing room and the team: his ability, his passion and his commitment. Nothing else bothered me. He played the game and lived his life the way he was driven to and he made things special for the rest of us by doing that. How could I have even started to think badly of Eric Cantona or anything he did? David Beckham owed him a lot and Manchester United owed him even more.

  I was at Selhurst Park that night in 1995 when Eric jumped into the crowd. I wasn’t on the bench but was in the stands, with a couple of the other lads, watching the game. I don’t remember much about the game itself against Crystal Palace, but I remember the incident. Eric got sent off after a tackle on Richard Shaw and, as he was walking along the touchline, you could see this bloke force his way down to the front of the crowd. He was goading Eric, shouting things at him. And next thing, Eric was in the crowd, kicking and punching: the whole thing flashed by in a couple of seconds and then Eric was being hurried towards the dressing room. I think it was just an instinctive reaction, a natural thing to do. Anybody getting that sort of abuse in the street would have reacted in the same way. Just because Eric was a professional soccer player, in the spotlight, didn’t stop him behaving like anybody else might have done. I’m not saying what Eric did was right but you have to remember that, in any other circumstances, if someone was screaming that stuff at another person, you’d be surprised if there wasn’t trouble.

  There was no big fuss about what had happened in the dressing room after the game. It was quiet and the boss was really calm about it all. He just said that none of us should speak to the press. Obviously, nobody realized then what the consequences would be: Eric was banned from soccer for the best part of eight months. We ended up not winning anything that season; others can probably decide what effect losing Eric had on the team. As a player, you just had to get on with your job. Eric went home to France for a few weeks but then came back to Old Trafford and we would work and train with him every day, although he couldn’t be involved in the games. He was still very much part of everything at the club but we wanted him playing. After the community service and the FA suspension, he was back in the side a month and a half into the 1995/96 season. From that October onwards, you couldn’t quite say that Eric Cantona went on and did the Double on his own. But I’m absolutely certain the rest of us felt that we wouldn’t have done it without him.

  Talking about that season, it’s almost a cliché to say that, during it, we grew up as players. When I think back, though, what I really remember is how much growing up as a person I was doing at the same time. For a start, after sixteen years with Mum, Dad, Lynne and Joanne and then three years in digs that were family homes in their own way, I got my own place. Ryan Giggs had already moved into a house in Worsley, North Manchester, and he told me there was another three-storey townhouse nearby that was coming up for sale. It was perfect. Worsley was a nice, quiet village, the house was brand new and barely ten minutes from the training ground: now I’d never have an excuse for arriving late for work.

  I’d grown up in a suburban semi on the outskirts of London, in a house just about big enough for the five of us. Now here I was, collecting the keys to a proper bachelor pad and making it my own: a den with a pool table, a leather suite in the front room, a Bang & Olufsen television and music system, and a great big fireplace. The top floor was just one huge room, my bedroom. I had wardrobes made for it and, when the carpenters put them in, I got them to build a cabinet at the bottom of my bed. You pressed a button and the television would come up out of it. When we first started going out together, Victoria used to rip me apart ab
out that. And I had my mate, Giggsy, living next door, as well: what more could any boy ask for?

  Even then, Ryan was a legend at United. He was only a year older than me and we’d played in the same Youth Cup winning side, but it seemed as if he was already a star when I got to Manchester. Giggsy was a first-team regular by the time he was eighteen. He was a hero to the younger lads and he was also great to work alongside. Once I moved in next door, I got to know him really well. And that meant getting to know all his mates at the same time: the so-called Worsley Crew. We’d all meet up at the local pub, the Barton Arms, for lunch. I felt like I was keeping Manchester’s coolest company.

  Giggsy and I have stayed close ever since. He’s still someone who can win a game on his own, still a player every opposing defender will tell you they hate playing against. Think back to the ‘New George Best’ tag he grew up with. Giggsy’s had his ups and downs at United like any other player but, over the past twelve years, he’s had the ability and strength of character to live up to all the expectations people had of him. I hope Wales make it to Portugal for the European Championships in 2004: it would be great to see Giggsy on that international stage. Whatever happens, by the time he packs it in—and there’s not much chance of that for a long while—he’ll go down as one of United’s all-time greats.

  I suppose lots of young lads in my situation would have been living on take-out food and looking for a phone number for a good cleaner. I’ve always been what you might call domesticated, though. Even when I was a boy, living at home, I can remember getting up early on a Sunday morning and cooking a full breakfast for my mum and dad. Not because I had to but because I wanted to: cooking was something I’d always enjoyed. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no Gary Rhodes or Jamie Oliver. Mum will tell you that when I was at home I’d cook the same thing every time for an evening meal. Chicken stir-fry. When Mum and Dad came up to the new house and I cooked for them in my own home for the first time, I don’t think they were all that surprised at what I’d made: chicken stir-fry. Not that what we were eating was all that important. I was really proud, being able to take my parents to my own place on a Saturday night after the game. I think they were pretty proud too.

  What’s more, I could drive Mum and Dad home in my own car. As a boy, when I wasn’t thinking about soccer, it was because I was thinking about cars. I got a Scalectrix one Christmas and drove the thing into the ground through into my teens. As well as imagining myself playing for Manchester United, I’d spent plenty of rainy afternoons thinking about the car I might turn up at Old Trafford driving one day: how about a Porsche? When I passed my test, though, that kind of fantasy car was a long way out of my range. Instead, I bought Giggsy’s old club car, a red Ford Escort Mexico. Three doors, one previous owner and a full service history—that first car set me back about £6,000.

  A little later, when I was going out with Deana, I needed something a bit less laddish so I bought a brand new VW Golf. I used to get slaughtered by the other United players because of the number plate M13 EKS—which, with the letters bunched up, I had looking like M BECKS. Most of the lads have probably forgotten that. The one they never left me alone about was my first sponsored club car. At the time, United had a deal with Honda to supply the young players with a new Prelude once they’d played twenty first-team games. Gary and Phil and the rest all got theirs before I did, having been involved with the senior squad more often over the previous couple of seasons. By the time I was ready to pickup mine, I’d worked out exactly what I wanted to do.

  I chose one in a very dark grey. Then I paid extra to have them fit a leather interior, a new CD player and big alloy wheels. That was money I didn’t really have to throw around at the time and—because the cars would go back to Honda, eventually—it was money that I was never going to see again either. Of course, my new Prelude looked completely different than everyone else’s. And I loved it because it was just how I wanted it. We’d often take turns to give each other lifts into training. That particular model was pretty cramped in the rear seats, which is probably why Gary—an old man, you see, even then—changed his for a four-door Accord. One day at the Cliff, after we’d finished training for the day, I was getting ready to drive out of the parking lot and I already had someone sitting in the front passenger seat. David May came running over and asked if he could jump in the back. Well, I’d just got this beautiful new car and I said no. David swears to this day that what I actually said was: ‘No chance. I don’t want you to scuff the leather.’

  It took about half an hour for everyone at the club to hear about it; and then several years for me to stop hearing about it. I don’t remember saying it but—if I’m really honest with myself—I can imagine I did. I am particular about looking after the things I like and, in a soccer club dressing room, whether it’s at Chase Lane Park or Old Trafford, that can get you into trouble. Soccer players will always find each other’s weak spots and, once they do, they’ll never leave it alone.

  I’ve always had a streak in me, which might seem flashy if you don’t know me, of being particular about the things I want and of valuing individuality, even if I get grief because of it. When I was about six years old I remember a family wedding where I’d been invited to be a pageboy. We all went along to get fitted for our outfits and I got my heart set on a particular look: maroon knickerbockers, white stockings up to the knee, a frilly white shirt, a maroon waistcoat and a pair of ballet shoes. My dad told me I looked stupid in it. Mum said she needed to warn me that people were going to laugh at me. I didn’t care. I loved that outfit and I just wanted to wear it. Never mind at the wedding: I wanted it on all the time. I think I’d have worn it to school if they’d let me.

  Along with being very particular about what I like, I’m very careful about looking after what I’ve got. My mum will tell you how, when I was at school, I used to come in and change but would only go out to play soccer after I’d folded up my dirty clothes. I’m still tidier than almost anyone else I know. When I first arrived at United, the other boys of my age weren’t convinced about me, and maybe put some of my character, as they saw it, down to fancying myself a bit too much. The truth is, though—whether you’re talking about a pageboy outfit, a club car with leather seats or a tattoo or a sarong—it’s got nothing to do with one-upmanship or with making a point. My friends and my team-mates know that now, just as my family always have: I’ve got my own tastes and if I can indulge them I will, whatever other people might say. I’ve always been the same: knowing what I like is just part of who I am.

  Everything that was happening away from soccer just added to the excitement at Old Trafford during my first season as a regular. I’d wake up every morning hardly able to believe what was going on around me. I’d drive into training, thinking to myself: I’m a first-team player. I’m doing my work on the main field at the Cliff. I’ve got my own spot in the car park, with my initials there in white paint. When I went to the training ground for the first time as a boy, those white lines marked out with the initials of the United players I idolized seemed to represent everything I dreamed of achieving for myself. Now, I belonged and it might have been easy to get swept away with it all. People at the club, though, and the manager in particular, didn’t let that happen. They didn’t suddenly start behaving differently towards me and the other young lads just because it said ‘DB’ on the tarmac and me, Gary and the rest were on the teamsheet every week.

  I was excited every morning about going in to train with Eric Cantona, too. We’d made a good start without him during that 1995/96 season, but the captain being back at the club and back in the team counted for a lot. I don’t know about the other players but, if Eric was in the dressing room, I’d find myself watching him: checking what he was doing, trying to workout exactly how he prepared for a game. If he was there, I hardly seemed to notice anything else that was going on. I’ve always been a fan: a Manchester United fan. And I still am. When I had my first chance to go into the dressing rooms at Old Trafford as a boy, I a
sked where Bryan Robson sat and then walked across to sit there myself. I was the same about Eric and couldn’t quite get over the fact that I was sitting alongside him in the build-up to games, never mind that we’d be playing together later that afternoon.

  We played some great soccer that season. I remember one night at Old Trafford when we played Bolton and won 3–0. It could have been ten. Paul Scholes scored twice, Giggsy got the other and we absolutely battered them. When the team was flying, Eric Cantona was usually at the heart of it. The difficult games, though, were the ones in which he really left his mark. After Christmas, we had a run of 1–0 wins. United supporters didn’t even need to check: it was always Eric who scored. I remember one game against QPR down at Loftus Road. We were terrible and they were winning 1–0. I’d actually been substituted and the injury time at the end just dragged on and on. The home fans were going mad and then Eric arrived in the penalty area right on cue to equalize. Goals like that—results like that—turn a whole season.

  We spent month after month chasing Newcastle United, who were twelve points ahead of us going into 1996. We went up to St James’ Park in the spring and Eric—who else—scored the only goal. From then on, we knew that we could do it. The penultimate game that season, at home to Nottingham Forest, was the night I realized we actually would. We beat Forest 5–0. I still remember the two goals I scored. Eric hit a volley which skewed off target and I headed in as the ball came across me. Then, I received a ball just inside the area which I turned on and hit under the keeper. In the end, we had to win our final game at Middlesbrough to be absolutely sure of the title, but everyone—players and supporters—at Old Trafford that night just knew we were going to be champions.