been trained on it. Shorts and socks are folded neatly beneath on the
bench. I’m all alone. I can hear muffled conversations going on at the
far end of the room, around the door I’d come in. I take my time getting
changed, folding my clothes up next to the uniform that’s been left for
me. A half-open door leads out to the training field. Beside it, there’s
a full-length mirror bolted to the wall. I look the bloke in the mirror up
and down. The all-white Real strip seems to make me look big. Makes
me feel big. This is a uniform and a half. I catch the sound of excited
voices. Suddenly I’m aware that I’m looking into my future. There’s a
rush of satisfaction, nerves stood on end. I’m here.
In fact, we’d been here, in Madrid, nearly 24 hours; long enough for
the Beckham family to begin a new life. My Manchester United contract
had expired on the last day of June and I’d signed my name at the
Bernabeu on the first day of July. Today, July 2, the Real adventure has
begun.
We’re all going to be part of what will happen here: I’ve been transferred
to a new club and new country but it’s the family who are moving
to Spain. I wanted us together to see what we were letting ourselves
in for. And, to be honest, I needed the support. The excitement and
tension had been building up for nearly a month ahead of these two
days in Spain. I knew from the moment we touched down at half past
one on Tuesday afternoon that every minute was going to matter. Having
my family with me meant that Madrid – the city and Real – would get
the right first impression of me: a soccer player who’s a husband and
father. Romeo, still only nine months old, stayed in England with Vic-
toria’s parents, but I had Victoria with me, Brooklyn too. And my mum,
who’d agreed to the job of finding some fun for a four-year-old when
he got fed up with what Mummy and Daddy were doing.
Nervous? I needn’t have been. Whatever doubts and worries I’d
brought with me were blown away within a minute or two of climbing
into the car that Real Madrid sent to collect us. Six motorcycle policemen
surrounded us. Fine: a few blue lights and sirens always make Brooklyn’s
day. And then we nosed out onto the highway. It was like a scene out
of The French Connection: we barreled down the outside lane, then
across into the inside lane, then back outside again. Other traffic was
left to fend for itself. The paparazzi kept up as best, and as dangerously,
as they could, in their cars and on their motorbikes. The schedule had
my first stop as the hospital where I was due to have my medical. If we
did crash, at least I was headed towards the right place. It wasn’t until
much later in the day that I realized it wasn’t just the police and the
press: everybody in Madrid drives like they’re chasing pole position for
the Spanish Grand Prix.
When I’d first spoken to Real, I’d thought it was only fair to let them
know I was a bit uncertain about the idea of moving to another country
with my wife and my children. Would I feel settled enough to be single
minded about my soccer? I knew I’d have to be if I was going to
make a success of a career with the club. I could hardly believe how
understanding they were. None of my concerns came as a surprise
to them, probably because in Spain family life is really important to
everyone.
‘Your family must be as happy here with us as you are, David.’
They took it for granted that they’d try to help us feel at home. Victoria
and Brooklyn and Mum were whisked away to look at some properties
that Real’s people thought we might be interested in. I wished I could
have gone with them but I knew there’d be time for me to join in
with the house hunting later. While they headed off to the suburbs, I
had an appointment at La Zarzuela Hospital with Real’s club doctor,
Senor Corral.
We galloped through the medical – cardiovascular, biomechanics,
blood, urine, electro cardiogram, x-rays and scans – with the various
specialists. Then Senor Corral got his hands on me for a physical
examination.
He was particularly interested in a left metatarsal and a right
scaphoid bone. We were done and dusted in just over two hours. A
cameraman from Real Madrid’s television station followed us up and
down the corridors of the hospital before getting the door shut in his
face each time I went into a clinic for a particular test. Everyone seemed
to be grinning from ear to ear: the specialists, the staff, the other
patients,
the cameraman with the black eye. Could we have a photo taken?
Could we have an autograph? It all seemed very relaxed. The doctors
had been given my complete medical records from fifteen years at Old
Trafford and I’m sure they’d done their homework. Dr Corral himself
gave the impression of knowing exactly what he was looking for. And
was happy enough when he found it. Someone told me afterwards what
he’d told the waiting press:
‘David esta como nuevo. Fisicamente esta perfecto.’
He reckoned I was in half-decent shape, then. And that my pen hand
was up to signing on Real’s dotted line. I went to the hotel, the Tryp
Fenix, to meet up with Victoria, Brooklyn and Mum. I think the fans
who’d started to gather outside the Fenix were as excited about Victoria
as they were about the new soccer player in town. She seemed tense,
though: she’d been driven round the new city, looking for somewhere
to call home. What we were about to take on had started to sink in.
Me and Brooklyn had time for a little kickabout on the terrace of our
suite. I wonder how much of all this he’ll remember once he’s older.
The cars came back at five o’clock to take us to the Bernabeu. The
stadium was just a short drive up the main road through the early
evening traffic: Real have built their home ground on Madrid’s equivalent
of Fifth Avenue. I’d been there before, of course, as a Manchester
United player but, as we swung in through the gates, I didn’t recognize
much. The place was a building site: cranes arching in from the road,
diggers and dump trucks bumping along between the piles of supplies.
Jose′ Angel Sanchez, Real’s Marketing Director, told me the club were
having to remodel the stand on the side of the ground where the players
come out:
‘When Santiago Bernabeu built this stadium in the forties, he put the
presidential suites in the stand opposite the one with the players’
facilities.
It was supposed to say: our boardroom won’t ever be in competition
with our dressing room. Now, though, UEFA Champions League
regulations
say we have to have both together.’
We went upstairs to the club offices. Nothing to do with the climb,
but I felt a little breathless. And held Victoria’s hand a little tighter. I
think we must have come up the back way because we suddenly turned
a corner and there we were: a corridor, heads poking out of doorways,
half a dozen blokes in suits shifting from foot to foot. It looked like any
suite of offices in any modern block anywhere in Europe. All very simple.
Nothing grand, nothing flash. I liked that: Real saved the big impression
for out on the field. I was excited to be there. I could tell, as people
came up to shake hands and be introduced, that they didn’t mind me
knowing they were excited about it too.
Jose′ introduced me to the Director of Football, Jorge Valdano;
probably
the man most responsible, along with the President, for bringing
me to Madrid. He had a presence about him and a great smile. I don’t
know how old Senor Valdano must be but he’s still got the build and
the energy of the international player he once was. I’d fancy my chances
in a running race: I wouldn’t be so keen on a tackle. He was one of the
few people at the club who didn’t speak any English, which was fine
by me. The two of us were on an equal footing, weren’t we? Senor
Valdano showed me into the office he’d been standing outside. Carlos
Queiroz stood up from behind the Head Coach’s desk. It was a surprise
to see him. I knew all about Madrid having released Vicente del Bosque.
I also knew Carlos had left Manchester United to replace him, and how
good Carlos was at his job. But I hadn’t realized he’d be at the Bernabeu
already. It was an odd moment, a reassuring moment. Who’s following
who around here? We had a hug. We’d see each other – two new
boys – for pre-season at the end of July.
Right now, they were ready to show me around my office. We all
trooped back downstairs, with Jose′ leading the way and doing his
best
official Real tour guide impression: ‘And this is where the tours never
go,’ he said, swinging open the door to the home dressing room. On
every locker door there was an image, bench to ceiling, of the Real
player it belonged to. For a moment, it made me feel like an opponent
again, seeing them all, almost life-sized around the walls: Raul, Figo,
Ronaldo, Zidane, Roberto Carlos and their team-mates. What was it
going to be like, playing alongside them instead of against them? We
moved through and out into the tunnel. I could remember standing here
back in April, itching to get started. It felt the same now.
‘Jose′? Is there a ball anywhere? I can’t wait.’
One appeared. I gave it to Brooklyn to carry and I walked out into a
narrow strip of sunlight by the touchline, Victoria beside me. It was
getting late: shade stretched away from us across the low curve of the
field. It was just our own private party in the place. We had the
Bernabeu
to ourselves: the stands around us banked like mountain sides, the
building work behind us finished for the day. I glanced at Mum. Three
months ago, she’d been sitting over there in the far corner, watching
me play for United, all her instincts telling her I’d be back to play for
Madrid. I headed off towards the penalty area.
‘Come on, Brooklyn. Let’s score a goal.’
We kicked the ball between us for a minute or two. He seemed tired,
a bit distracted. This wasn’t Old Trafford. I looked back at Victoria. She
was watching Brooklyn. Then she let her glance stray away and around
the ground. I thought I knew what she was thinking. This was a time
to be brave and I’d found the right girl for that. I caught her eye: a little
smile. And then Jose′ was saying:
‘Shall we go back inside?’
There was a stir back up in the offices. It was time for what we’d
come here to do. Senor Perez had arrived. We’d spoken on the phone
but this was the first time I’d met the President of Real Madrid. In Spain,
the top man at a soccer club is elected by the club’s supporters. Senor
Perez has a huge building company, one of the biggest in Europe. He’s
President of one of world soccer’s great powers. But he didn’t seem
to need any of that hanging round his neck like a badge. The really big
men have a certain humility about them. You can tell how important
Real’s President is, and how highly he’s thought of, from the respect
he’s shown by the people around him. He’d never tell you about those
things himself. He welcomed me to the Bernabeu and made a point of
welcoming Victoria, Brooklyn and Mum to Madrid.
