We went through to the boardroom. Everybody from the club was
gathered along one side of a long, slightly curving table. They shuffled
for a view while Mr and Mrs Beckham and Senor Perez sat down on
the other side, the three of us bunched up towards one end. I had the
President on my left, Victoria on my right. The paperwork was waiting,
laid out in front of us: two neat sets on the pale oak table top. Victoria
had given me a beautiful new pen to sign with before we’d left England;
she’d also chosen one for the President. Maybe before we sat down
would have been the time to give Senor Perez his present. But before
we could do anything, he had reached across the table and picked up
a ballpoint pen that had been left over from a previous meeting. Ink’s
ink, I suppose. He signed. I signed. Brooklyn scooted along behind our
chairs, my mum not sure whether she ought to try to catch him. No
chance of this all getting too serious, then.
Now we were standing again, a deal – and the writing – done. Senor
Perez unwrapped his gift. He smiled:
‘I’ll keep this safe until we sign your next contract. Thank you.’
I smiled too. I’d heard almost the same choice of words once before:
Alex Ferguson talking to a twelve-year-old United hopeful. Here I was
now, 28 and England captain, excited and expectant and nervous all
over again.
‘You’re welcome, Mr President. Thank you. Thanks to everyone. It’s
great to be here. I’m really happy.’
Happy wasn’t the half of it. You can never know how the big moments
are going to feel until you’re in them. And it was only now I really
understood just how significant this particular moment was.
Back at the Tryp Fenix, we were expected for dinner. It’s the hotel
where Real’s players meet up before home games. They’d set up a
private dining room downstairs. I’d joined Real Madrid: this evening was
to celebrate that with the people who’d made the transfer happen. My
management team, SFX, and a handful of people at the heart of Real’s
organization: our mate, Jose′; Jorge Valdano; Pedro Lopez Jiminez, the
President’s right-hand man, and his son, Fabio; Jose′ Luis Del Valle,
the President’s legal advisor. And Victoria. Mrs Beckham looked
unbelievably
beautiful. Charmed the room, too. Made the blokes she was
sitting with think she cared as much about soccer as they did. Who
knows? Maybe, for just that one evening, she did.
It was a lovely couple of hours. I know how tense everybody in that
room had been over the past month. This was the time for them to pop
the top off a cold beer. No awkwardness, no politics, no pretensions:
people who’d come to like and trust each other sitting down to a
meal together. Even the formalities weren’t very formal. My agent, Tony
Stephens, got up to say a few words. A simple toast to great
partnerships:
me and Victoria and, now, me and Real Madrid. I thanked everybody
for all the work they’d done:
‘I’ve not dreamed about playing for many soccer clubs. There’s not
a player anywhere, though, who hasn’t dreamed of playing for Real
Madrid. Thank you all for making it come true for me.’
And then, as soon as I sat down, I remembered something.
Why didn’t I thank the most important person of all? Why didn’t I
thank Victoria?
I’d missed the moment: Jorge Valdano was standing facing us. He
started speaking, in Spanish of course. At first, Jose′ was translating
but,
as people got swept up in the speech, they started throwing in their
own suggestions for what particular words might mean in English. It got
a little confusing, but Senor Valdano knew where he was going and
ploughed on regardless:
‘Three years ago, Florentino Perez ran for the Presidency of Real
Madrid. People thought of him as a cold, rational businessman and
wondered if he was the right man for the job. He won the election
eventually because he did the most passionate, hot-headed, impossible
thing that any supporter could imagine: he bought Luis Figo from
Barcelona. Senor Perez came to the Presidency with the ambition to
make the soccer club, recognized by FIFA as the most renowned of
the 20th century, the greatest in the 21st. To do this we needed the right
players: the best players but also the players who represented soccer
– and Real Madrid – in the best way. Raul was already here. A year
after Figo, the President brought Zidane to the Bernabeu. A year after
him, Ronaldo. Still, there was an element missing. We believe that you,
David, are the player Real Madrid need to be complete. Because of
your ability but also because you can bring with you a soccer spirit
which is epitomized by the captain of England.’
You could tell from Senor Valdano’s tone of voice and his body
language, even without understanding the Spanish, that he was building
up to a big finish. He took a deep breath. And Jose′’s cell phone went
off: one of those phones that diverts all your calls except the one you
really have to answer.
‘El Presidente.’
There was a lot of laughing and joking between Jose′ and Senor
Perez.
‘David, the President wants to tell you he’s very sorry he can’t be
here with us tonight but he’s never done this with any of our other big
signings. So he doesn’t think it would be the right thing to do this time
either.’
A pause. Just to make sure we got the joke.
‘He says: not that you aren’t his favorite, of course.’
Everybody in the room was laughing now, and shouting into Jose′’s
phone that the President should just come round for a coffee.
‘He says: he’s at a birthday party for one of the club’s directors. We
could all go round there. It’s not far.’
Senor Valdano was still standing through most of this, waiting to finish.
Just as he got round to sitting back down, the President got round to
saying goodbye. He hoped we’d enjoy the evening. Everyone at the
table turned back towards Senor Valdano, ready for his punchline. I
didn’t need to hear any more: I’d already taken in what he’d said so
far and felt honored enough. He stood up again. You could see him
thinking about where to pick up his thread. And then deciding he
needn’t
bother. He laughed. His moment had slipped away too. He risked a
little English:
‘David and Victoria: welcome to Madrid.’
I really felt we were.
There was still time in the evening for me and Victoria to be rushed
off to look at two more houses. I found myself wondering: When do they
sleep in Madrid? Tuesday had been all about taking care of business,
the private side of me joining Real Madrid. Wednesday’s promise
was to present a new signing to the world. Brooklyn made his mind
up early: other kids, a swimming pool and a back garden, thanks. He
and Mum headed off to the house of the parents of someone we’d
met the day before. I had two interviews to do: MUTV were in Madrid
to give me the chance to say goodbye and thank you to the United
supporters; then Real Madrid’s television channel wanted to get my
first impressions and, also, my reaction to Roberto Carlos’ statement
of delight that, at long last, there’d be two good-looking players at
the Bernabeu. Those two interviews, one after the other, were a
bittersweet
way to spend the morning. It was all very well me finding my
answers. Really, I wanted to be asking the questions. I couldn’t help
but wonder what fans in Madrid and Manchester thought of how things
had turned out.
Real decided on a basketball arena as the venue for my introduction
to the media and the fans long before I’d decided on squad number 23.
The Pabellon Raimundo Saporta is an enormous, gloomy hangar of a
place with a 5,000-seat capacity, part of a training complex they call
the Ciudad Deportiva. Our cars screeched in off the main road and
swept up a curving drive to the front entrance. There were dozens of
journalists waiting outside, and over to my left I glimpsed the field where
I’d get the chance to kick a ball, a Real player now, in front of Real
supporters for the first time. We hurried inside. I know the Spanish are
supposed to have a pretty laid back attitude to their timekeeping but
this felt like a schedule everyone was dead set on sticking to. I followed
the corridor round until I was standing behind some heavy, dark drapes
at one end of the gym. It was a bit like waiting for your entrance in the
school play: in my mind, I ran through what I wanted to say when I got
out on stage.
Just a couple of minutes before we started, Jose′ came up to explain
that they’d have somebody doing simultaneous translation when
I spoke.
‘David: can you make little pauses to give him time to do the
Spanish?’
‘Well, I’d rather not Jose′ . What if I stop and then can’t get myself
started again?’
Making speeches isn’t what I do for a living but I needed to make
one here and I needed it to come out sounding right.
‘Couldn’t your man just try and keep up with me?’
There wasn’t time to argue. In the gloom, I shook hands with Senor
Perez and was introduced to Alfredo di Stefano. I’d asked about him
at dinner the previous evening.
‘Is di Stefano the greatest-ever Real Madrid player?’
‘No. He’s simply the greatest-ever player.’
I’ve seen clips in ghostly black and white of di Stefano in action for
the Real team that won the European Cup season after season in the
late fifties. Senor Perez was the Real President: the man standing in
front of me was even more important when it came to the spirit of the
club. In his seventies now, Senor di Stefano is still strong and commands
