Beckham (29 page)

‘And the final score from Germany is…'

Suddenly there was silence all round the ground. I get a little shiver when I remember it.

‘…Germany 0 Finland 0.'

This roar—I'd never heard anything like it—erupted around Old Trafford and the sound of it followed us back into the dressing room. It was strange: people were going mad, bouncing off the walls, the coaching staff and the subs. Back in the quiet underneath the stand, though, most of the players were just blown out, down even: we knew that we hadn't played well and the heat and the effort of the afternoon hit people hard. I found myself thinking about all the free-kicks I'd missed rather than the one I'd scored. We went back out on the field for a lap of honor and that helped lift us: we could be proud and excited that we would be going to the World Cup Finals after all. I've just one regret about those mad scenes in the sunshine at Old Trafford. Michael Owen was out with a hamstring injury and was analyzing the game for television. We should have got him down to be part of those celebrations: his hat-trick in Munich had been so important, getting us all to where we wanted England to be.

There's a phone just outside the home dressing room at Old Trafford and, when we came back in, the first thing I did was ring Victoria. She was in Italy working, desperate that she'd missed the game. She'd made sure she found out what had happened and now she wanted me to tell her what it felt like. My heart was pounding, adrenaline was still charging round inside me, my mouth was bone dry. Every time I went to speak, my voice cracked and nothing came out. Victoria knows me well enough: the little gasps and croaks were enough for her to understand exactly what was going on at my end of the phone. She may not know all that much about soccer but Victoria knows what it means to people. And she knew what an afternoon like the Greece game meant to me.

Mum and Dad told me afterwards about how the supporters around them had celebrated: for once it wasn't just me who had trouble holding
back tears. I was so pleased that I had so many people who mattered to me there, watching at Old Trafford, that afternoon. As well as my parents, who sat outside because that's how they prefer to watch games, I'd taken a box for Tony and Jackie and Brooklyn, and also for the American R&B singer, Usher, who'd come as my guest. When Sven first took over as England manager, he wasn't happy about music being played in the dressing room before games. He'd put a stop to it, in fact. The players had worked on him, though, and I think he came to realize how positive a part of our preparation it could be. And Usher, that year, was always on the CD player before kick-off. He had a new album out in the summer of 2001, called ‘8701', and had come over to England to promote it. He'd got a message through that he'd like to meet me and I'd invited him along to Old Trafford. I was a big fan of Usher—I still am—and I met him in the players' lounge afterwards:

‘David, David: that's the most amazing thing I've ever seen.'

I got him a signed shirt, we had photos taken, the works. He was lucky. If you were going to watch a soccer match for the first time, you couldn't have got a much more dramatic one than that game against Greece. Meeting Kirsty, the game itself, my goal, being with my family and Usher afterwards: all that was great. One other moment from the day will always stick with me too. To get to the players' lounge, I had to walk along the side of the field, past where the old tunnel at Old Trafford used to be. The press working area is just there, to the left as you climb up the stairs, and there were still a couple of dozen soccer writers sitting, working on their reports. As I walked past, one of them stood up and started clapping. The next thing I knew, they were all on their feet and giving me a round of applause. That's something that never happens. Thinking back to after France 98, it's certainly not something I'd have ever imagined happening to me. I hope those guys know how good they made me feel that afternoon.

Usually, the English press takes some pleasing. Not as much as Alex
Ferguson, though. When we got back to Carrington, the manager's first words to me were:

‘I hope you're going to work bloody hard now that you're back at United.'

I knew better than to be surprised by the boss but that comment hurt a bit anyway. I came back into training on a high, all of our England players did. And, because of that, I couldn't wait for the next game for my club. I enjoy the big moments but I really don't believe I'm someone who gets carried away with them. I didn't arrive at training expecting anyone to pat me on the back and say how well I'd played. It wasn't something for me to get big-headed about. I was just turning up to work at United in a very good mood. The boss obviously didn't see it like that. At least, he didn't see me like that. He thought what I needed was to be dumped back down to earth.

It must have been a strange season for the manager. Maybe he wished he hadn't had to tell anyone he was retiring. Like I've said, I don't think it affected the United players. If the boss was reading in the papers day after day that it did, though, perhaps he started to believe it himself. I don't know what made him change his mind. I just remember him telling us he had. It was early February 2002. We were in the dressing room at Carrington after training one morning.

‘I'm staying on.'

It was as simple as that. I remember Gary Neville clapping and one or two of the other lads joking:

‘Oh no, you're not are you?'

We were all really happy: me more than anybody, although, in hindsight, it probably meant the beginning of the end for me at the club. Back then, I didn't have any idea what was going to happen between me and the boss over the next seventeen months. I can still remember that lunchtime and the mix of relief and excitement that came with hearing that the only manager I'd ever worked for had decided to stay as boss of Manchester United. Alex Ferguson had been
the making of me and the club. Why wouldn't I have been happy to know he was carrying on?

The manager's decision definitely gave us a lift and we had a good run in the second half of 2001/02. Not good enough to win the League, though: Arsenal were absolutely flying and won their last dozen games and the title. They won the FA Cup too: Middlesbrough and Steve McClaren, of all people, knocked us out in the fourth round. Our best chance was in Europe. We played Deportivo La Coruña in the first group phase and lost to them twice but, come the spring, we drew them in the quarter-finals and those previous results didn't mean a thing. We played them in Spain first and won 2–0. The team played so well, especially considering Roy Keane had to go off with a hamstring injury just before half-time. I scored one of my all-time favorite United goals that night. I got the ball, about thirty yards out, and whipped a shot in early. The goalie hadn't been expecting it: he was caught a little off his line and it dipped in over his head.

I actually got the first blow on my left foot at the Riazor stadium. There were about five minutes left and I had the ball over by the touchline. As I cleared it, Diego Tristan, their center-forward, came in with his foot high and caught my standing leg. Every player knows how dangerous that kind of challenge is and the pain I got straight after it made me think he might have broken my ankle. As it was, there was just a cut and some bad bruising. Even so, I was on crutches and couldn't put any weight on my foot on the journey home. I remember there were one or two pictures and headlines wondering if I'd be fit for the World Cup, never mind the second leg at Old Trafford. I had scans as a precaution, but everything was fine ahead of the game a week later. At least, that's what I thought.

I was really looking forward to the return game: it's always exciting against Deportivo. The first quarter of an hour, they really had a go at us. We ended up winning 3–2 and going through to the semis. By the time that had happened, though, I was in a hospital bed. Just as we
were starting to get a grip on the game, twenty minutes in, I went in for what looked like a 60/40 challenge in my favor fifteen yards outside their penalty area. I think the other bloke, Aldo Duscher, decided to even up the odds: another Argentinian midfield player leaving his mark on my life. All I was thinking about was winning the challenge: you never worry about getting an injury at the same time. I made it to the ball just before him but Duscher slid in, two-footed and studs up, and caught my left foot instead.

I remember lying there, dumped on the floor, and holding my foot which was killing me. I tried to get myself up but, as well as hurting, the foot had gone floppy. I couldn't stand on it. They carried me over to the touchline. I was still thinking I'd run it off.

‘Just spray something on it. Put some water on it. It'll be fine.'

They did that but then, when I went to stand, I almost fell over. I just couldn't put any weight on the foot at all. The pain wouldn't let my boot even touch the ground. The United doctor was bending over me. He took the boot off and felt around where I told him it was hurting. It was like something giving way inside: what should have been firm felt flimsy. I could actually feel the bone moving. I said it before the Doc did:

‘It's broken.'

‘Yes. I think it is.'

He nodded and I thought:
What about the World Cup?
And I slumped back.

‘I can't believe this is happening.'

They got me onto a stretcher and took me around the side of the field to the dressing room: there was no other way but past the photographers. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had to come off injured during a game. Throughout my career, I'd been so lucky. Why had that luck run out now? I looked up towards where Victoria always sat when she came to Old Trafford. She was on her feet straight away and I saw her pick up Brooklyn and make her way downstairs. When I got into the treatment room, I asked one of the lads to fetch her. I knew she'd
be worried. I expected her to be even more upset than I was but Victoria was really strong for me during those moments when it was all starting to sink in.

‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘It'll get fixed. Everything's going to be fine.'

Brooklyn was there too. He wasn't sure what was going on.

‘Why aren't you playing any more, Daddy? What's happened to your leg?'

Laughing at my boy didn't do me any harm just then either. I knew we were going straight to the hospital.

‘Hey, Brooklyn. We're going in an ambulance.'

His eyes widened:

‘Are we?'

Doctor Noble, the United surgeon, was in the treatment room with us. I wanted to know there and then:

‘What's the longest I'll be out?'

‘We'll know as soon as I've seen the x-ray.'

They got me down to the ambulance and agreed that it would be all right for Victoria and Brooklyn to come with us. Once we'd all got inside, they strapped me to a bed so that my foot wouldn't move around on the way. I got the driver to stick the blue light on for Brooklyn. At least it was turning into an exciting evening for him. The ambulance man must have stepped on it for us: we had to get across Manchester to the Royal Infirmary in Whalley Range and seemed to do the trip in about five minutes flat.

I had my x-ray almost as soon as we got to the hospital. Victoria went through to look at the results with Doctor Noble and she came out to tell me what they'd seen.

‘The bad news is it's broken. The good news is that, if everything goes well, you should be fine for the World Cup.'

The first bit was no surprise. The second bit was what I'd been waiting and hoping to hear since the moment I'd been clattered by Duscher.

Victoria left it to Doctor Noble to explain the injury. I'd fractured the second metatarsal, a tiny bone between the toe and the rest of the foot, which usually has enough flesh around it to keep it out of harm's way. It's very rare to damage it, apparently. But try telling Gary Neville or Danny Murphy that: they both missed the World Cup because of the same injury. The doctor confirmed that he thought I'd have just enough time to recover. I hung onto that over the next few weeks, even when I had my doubts about being ready: never mind the bone healing, I knew I needed to be match-fit for England as well.

The following morning, I couldn't believe what we woke up to. What was my foot doing on the front page of the papers? Sven was one of the first people to ring me, although it may have been less about: ‘Are you all right?' and more about: ‘Are you going to be fit?' It was good to hear from him. He told me that, whether I was fit to play or not, he'd want me to come out and be involved at the World Cup. Sven's support then, and later, made a real difference to me. At the hospital, they'd put my foot in a cast. Dwight Yorke picked me up in his car and took me in to training at Carrington. The United medical team took the plaster off and replaced it with a thing called an air cast, a sort of inflatable boot. When it was pumped full of air, it protected my foot in the same way the plaster cast would. But I could release a valve and take this thing off in order to work on my ankle and my leg. Even after a day or two in plaster, my calf and ankle had shrunk. The air cast was a way of trying to make sure I wouldn't suffer any more muscle wasting than was unavoidable. After I'd done my physiotherapy, I could re-inflate the blow-up boot again and hobble away on crutches. It was a couple of days later that I sat down with the doctors and talked through what I needed to do to give myself my best chance of being ready:

‘Whatever you tell me to do, I'll do.'

I didn't want to be in Japan as a cheerleader. I knew that the United trainers would give me all the help I needed. The work was down to me: resting my foot and keeping weight off it for a month or so but
there was plenty I could still do to help cut down on the time I'd need to get myself ready for soccer again once the broken bone had healed. I'd be in at Carrington for as long as the trainers thought was worthwhile. When I'm injured—and now was no different—I'll always be ready to push myself as hard as I can to give myself a better chance. On my days off, Terry Byrne would come over to the house and keep an eye on me while I did extra rehab. I could do running in the deep end of my pool, making sure my foot didn't touch the bottom. I could work on my overall fitness in the gym. The World Cup was all the motivation I needed, however fed up I was with the routine of working on all those machines.