with Nobby after I joined the club, and he was really hard, just like he
was as a player, but I think he cared more about the youngsters he
worked with than anything else in the world. Dad knew all about Nobby
as a player, of course, for United and as a World Cup winner with
England: he and Dad got on really well, even though every now and
again Nobby would have to catch himself about his language when he
was getting carried away during one of our games:
‘Excuse me, Mr Beckham. Excuse me, Mrs Beckham.’
Not that Dad was too worried about that:
‘No problem, Nobby. You carry on.’
Nobby was great with us and he was great with our parents as well.
He knew mums and dads needed to be involved, not treated as if they
were in the way. If you watched videos or heard stories about him as
a player, you’d never believe how gentle he was with the boys, or how
polite he was with the parents. No-one took liberties with Nobby, mind.
For all that he didn’t look a big man and used to wear these huge
glasses when he was coaching, he still had something about him you
respected straight away. Fifteen years later, he would still come straight
up and give me a big hug like nothing’s changed since.
I could have moved up the year after I signed schoolboy forms, in
August 1989, and finished my last two years of school in Manchester
but, in the end, we decided I’d stay in London until I started full-time
as a YTS trainee at United. That meant I could be at home, with my
friends and family, while I turned fourteen and fifteen. And I could keep
playing for Ridgeway Rovers, which by then had become a team called
Brimsdown: we were the same players more or less, just the name had
changed. United were happy for boys to get on with their lives and play
for their Sunday League teams until they moved to the city. Malcolm
Fidgeon would come and watch me play for Brimsdown and, as long
as I was enjoying my soccer and playing regularly, that was enough.
The time for United to take all the responsibility was still a couple of
years away.
I used to go up to Manchester two or three times a year to train
during the school vacations. In the summer, I’d be up there for the
whole six weeks. I loved it and didn’t want to do anything else with my
time off from school but play and train and be at United. Those summers
were fantastic. There would be thirty or so of us together at a time, all
looked after by Malcolm and the rest of the coaching staff, in halls of
residence. I’d think about the place where I’d stayed in Barcelona; that
lovely old house with the mountains rising up behind us. This was a bit
different: a concrete block in Salford, stuck on top of a hill and freezing
cold. You shared a room with another young player, the facilities were
basic but at least there was a snooker table and a table tennis table for
us to use in the evenings.
Not that where we were staying made much difference to me. We’d
go to United’s second training ground at Lyttleton Road every day and
train morning and afternoon. Then, in the evenings, we’d live it up: trips
to the movies, fish and chips, all the glamorous stuff. I met other boys
who had signed at the same time as me, like John O’Kane, who I spent
a lot of time with back then. John was from Nottingham. He was a
massive prospect at United all through our first years there together, a
really good player. As a person, he was very relaxed. Maybe it was
because he was so laid back that it didn’t really work out for him at
United. He ended up leaving to go to Everton, the season we went on
to do the Treble, and is playing for Blackpool now.
Lads would come from everywhere for those vacation sessions. Keith
Gillespie, who’s now at Leicester, came over from Ireland. He was a
lovely lad, and I used to get on really well with him. Colin Murdock,
who’s just moved from Preston to Hibs, came down from Scotland. We
were all miles from home, in the same boat, and that made it easier for
us all to get on, even if, in the back of our minds, we knew we were in
competition with each other as well. The soccer was what mattered
above everything and it was a new experience, training day in day out
and being introduced to more technical coaching. It couldn’t have been
more different from Sunday League. All the time I was with Ridgeway,
I’d tried to imagine what it would be like and this was it: soccer was
my job. I didn’t have to do anything else.
I had two years to get ready for moving up to Manchester permanently.
I’d had plenty of trips away with Ridgeway and representative
sides when I was younger, too. But neither of those things made it any
easier when it came time to leave home. Of course I was excited and
it was never a case of having second thoughts but, even so, it wasn’t
easy to go. I was very nervous about what lay ahead of me. Mum and
Dad said they’d be up every weekend to see me play, that they wouldn’t
miss a game, and I knew they’d keep to their word. Promises count for
a lot in the life of a family. Nowadays, I wouldn’t dare forget if I’ve told
Brooklyn I’ll get him something or do something for him: he’ll remember
even if I don’t.
Being away for a week or a month is completely different to moving
away from home for good: I was fifteen and a half. Where you end up
staying in digs as a young player is so important, especially when you
think about how much else you’re going to have to find out about when
you begin your working life, full-time, at a big club like Man United.
Every club has a list of landladies they use and I’ve often wondered
whether it’s just chance who you end up with, or whether they try to
fix boys up in places they know will be right for them. Looking back, I
think I was pretty lucky although it was a while before I found myself
somewhere that really felt like home.
My first digs were with a Scottish couple who lived in Bury New Road,
next to the fire station. They were lovely people and very good to me
and the other boys who were there. Being young lads away from home
for the first time, there was a bit of prankish behavior that went on:
late-night kitchen raids for snacks, that kind of thing. We had fun. When
I left, it was because of a strange incident that was completely out of
keeping with the rest of my time there. I’d gone down the road to the
gas station to get some chocolate and forgotten my key. I got back and
knocked on the door, which was answered by the husband, Pete. He
asked me where my key was and, when I said I thought I’d left it upstairs,
he gave me a little clip round the ear. I wasn’t too happy about it and
I remember, that evening, my dad was on the phone to him. I was on
the other side of the room and I could hear Dad shouting. That was
the end of that arrangement.
I moved down to a place on Lower Broughton Road, with a landlady
named Eve Cody. I got on really well with her son, Johnny, and was
very happy there for almost a year. I shared a room with John O’Kane,
who I already knew quite well from the vacation sessions at United
when we’d still been living at home. I have to admit that, around that
time, John and I used to struggle to get to training on time. It wasn’t
that we’d be out late at night; we were just both lads who loved our
sleep. And we were lodging further away than some of the others like
Keith Gillespie and Robbie Savage, who were almost next door to the
training ground. It’s not surprising, I suppose, that early on there was
a bond between us lads who were staying in digs, as opposed to the
Manchester boys who were all still living at home.
After a while, the club changed us round and it was then that I moved
in with Ann and Tommy Kay and, as friendly as the other places had
been, I wished I could have been there from the start. It was made for
me. I was still homesick but Annie and Tom were like a second mum
and dad, so loving and caring. The food was great as well. The house
was almost directly opposite the training ground, so I could roll out of
bed and walk to work in a couple of minutes. Just what you need when
you’re a teenager who can’t get up in the morning.
I shared a room with a lad named Craig Dean, who had to retire
before he really got a chance to do anything, because of an injury to
his spine. After a few months, Ann gave me Mark Hughes’ old room,
which looked out over the playing fields. I loved that room. It was the
kind of size that meant, somehow, it felt like your mum and dad’s room:
big fitted wardrobes with a dressing table and mirror to match and a
proper double bed pressed up to the wall in the far corner. I brought
along the stereo my dad had bought me before I moved to Manchester
and went out and purchased a nice television. I thought I had everything
I could possibly need. I was really happy. The Kays made me feel like
I was part of the family. Ann and Tom had one son of their own, Dave,
and they made me feel like another. I know Ann has kept a box of old
coins and things I left behind when I moved out and got a place of my
own, and I’ve always tried to make sure I visit now and again.
I was lucky, as well, when I first moved up to Manchester that I met
a girl named Deana who I went out with for the best part of three years.
I wasn’t chasing round like a lot of teenagers away from home for the
first time. The romance with Deana was something that helped me feel
settled: my first real relationship. We had a lot of fun together, whether
it was going out or just being alone in each other’s company. It was
also a time for finding out the things that were trickier.
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
