Beckham (16 page)

I think Diego Simeone is a good player. Good, but really annoying to play against: always round you, tapping your ankles, niggling away at you. It gets to opposition players and he knows it. Maybe, too, he was aware that Glenn Hoddle had said before the tournament that he was worried about my temperament in pressure situations. I'd not really had any trouble with him during the game until then but, just after half-time, he clattered into me from behind. Then, while I was down on the ground, he made as if to ruffle my hair. And gave it a tug. I flicked
my leg up backwards towards him. It was instinctive, but the wrong thing to do. You just can't allow yourself to retaliate. I was provoked but, almost at the same moment I reacted, I knew I shouldn't have done. Of course, Simeone went down as if he'd been shot.

I've made a big mistake here. I'm going to be off.
Gary Neville came up behind me, put his arm around my shoulder and then slapped me on the back.

‘What have you done? Why did you do that?'

He wasn't having a go at me. Gary just wanted to know why I'd kicked out at Simeone. At that moment—and to this day—I don't know the answer to that. The referee, Kim Nielsen, didn't say a word to me. He just pulled the red card out of his pocket. I'll never forget the sight of it as long as I live. Look at the video now: Simeone acting like he's in intensive care; Veron telling the ref what he thought should happen; the ref with the card; Batistuta nodding, like he thought justice had been done; and me, just walking away, eyes already focused down the tunnel. It wasn't as if I was angry. The look on my face tells you: I was in a different world. Simeone had laid his trap and I'd jumped straight into it. Whatever else happens to me, those sixty seconds will always be with me.

Even before I got to the touchline, Terry Byrne had run over from the bench. He put an arm round my shoulder and walked down to the dressing room with me. As soon as we got there, I phoned Victoria in the States. Obviously I hadn't seen the replays on television and wanted to know what had happened. She was watching the game in a bar in New York. There was something not real about it she said. No-one could make sense of the fact that I'd been sent off. Why had it happened? There wasn't much more to say.

Terry stayed with me. I went in and had a shower. A long shower, like it was going to somehow wash all this away. Suddenly, Steve Slattery came running in and was shouting:

‘We've scored! Sol's scored!'

I jumped out of the shower, but a moment later, he was back and telling us the goal had been disallowed. I put on my tracksuit and a French guy, a FIFA official, came and told me I had to go through to the drug-testing room. At least they had a television in there so I could watch the game. At the end of ninety minutes, they told me I could leave and I went and watched extra-time from the tunnel leading out to the field. I couldn't take in what was unfolding in front of me: it was as if the sending-off wiped away any other memories I might have of the game. But the moment David Batty missed his penalty, and the Argentinians went rushing towards their goalkeeper to celebrate, it sank in.
I'll be going home tomorrow
.

That night was the worst of my life but I did have one miraculous thing to hang onto: I'd soon be with Victoria, who was pregnant with our first child. The day the England party had arrived in Saint-Etienne ahead of the Argentina game, we'd got off the plane and there'd been a message on my cell phone.

‘David. It's Victoria. Please call me as quick as you can.'

I'd got on the team bus and rang her back.

‘I've got some news for you,' she said.

‘What is it?'

‘We're pregnant.'

I couldn't believe it. I wanted to stand up in my seat and scream it out to everybody. It was mad. I couldn't believe what I'd just been told. I went into the tiny toilet on the coach and just jumped up and down, hugging myself. I was so happy. It's the sort of news you want to share with people but, of course, I couldn't tell a soul.

There are particular things about that evening in Saint-Etienne that stand out clearly, as if they've been lit up by the flashbulbs that go off around a stadium at night: the sending-off itself, talking on the phone to Victoria, remembering I was going to be a father and, then, seeing my dad in the parking lot after the game. But the rest of it? Probably for my own sanity, it's a blur: the game's going on, but it's like I'm
watching it through the wrong end of a telescope; the anger, the frustration and the shame; and the disbelief that this could all be happening to me.

When it was over, the England players went to the end where our supporters were massed. I didn't feel like I could be any part of that, so I turned and went back to the dressing room. At the time, Glenn Hoddle was doing the television interview in which he said that, if it had been eleven against eleven, England would have won. The papers and everybody else, of course, turned that into him saying it was my fault England had lost to Argentina.

The players came back into the dressing room and it was deathly quiet. Alan Shearer sat down next to me. ‘Sorry Al,' was all I could think of to say. Alan just stared at the floor in front of him. What could anybody say? Only each individual player knows what was in his mind after that game. I won't ever forget that Tony Adams was the one man who came and found me. The first time I'd been in an England squad with him, Tony had scared me to death. Away to Georgia in a qualifier, just a couple of minutes before we went out for the game, he'd stood up in the dressing room. ‘Right, lads! This is ours. We deserve this. We've come out here to win it!' It wasn't just that Tony was loud, it was the passion and the determination in his voice. I couldn't believe the ferocity of it. It was one of those moments when you're shocked into a new level of commitment. Not that you didn't care before: but being in that dressing room, witnessing how much it mattered to Tony, was inspiring to someone who was just starting out as an international player. England losing in Saint-Etienne hurt him as much as it hurt anybody, especially as he thought he might not play for his country again. It was awful in the dressing room that night. There could be no disappointment like it. But Tony came over and put a hand on my shoulder.

‘Whatever's happened here, I think you're a great young lad and an excellent young player. I'm proud to have played for England with you. You can be stronger for this. You can be a better player after it.'

We left the ground and my mum and dad were waiting by the coach. I fell into Dad's arms and started sobbing. I couldn't stop. I'm a bit embarrassed thinking about it now but, at the time, I just couldn't help myself. Eventually, I calmed down and Dad pushed me onto the coach. I sat down and leaned my head against the cool of the window. Gary Neville got on and sat next to me. He could see I'd been crying. He could see I might be about to start again.

‘Don't let anyone see you like this. You shouldn't be like this. You haven't done anything wrong. What's happened has happened.'

I looked at him.

‘Victoria's pregnant.'

Gary's eyes opened that bit wider.

‘Well, there you are. Just get out there and be with her. That's the best news anybody could ever have. Just think about that. It was a soccer match. This is a new life.'

When Seba Veron joined United, I remember we talked about the reaction of the Argentinian players, or at least some of them, when they saw me with my dad that night. As their coach pulled away out of the parking lot, we could see them looking back, bare-chested, laughing and swinging their shirts above their heads.

We went straight to the airport and then flew back to La Baule for our last night at France 98. Some of the players went right to their rooms; others went for a drink. I found myself in the games room with Terry and Slatts and Steve McManaman. Usually, we'd have hot chocolates and get off to bed a little after midnight. That last night, though, Terry told me I had to have something to drink. I had a couple of beers. I don't usually drink but, that evening, the alcohol helped numb the pain a little. We hung around, the four of us, not saying all that much—there wasn't much to say by now—and I don't think I turned in until about four in the morning, even though we had to be up at nine for our Concorde flight back to England.

I made arrangements to travel to the States that same night. England
were out of the World Cup. I wanted as much time with Victoria as possible before training for a new season started. My parents flew straight back to England from Saint-Etienne and were there to meet me at Heathrow the following day. By the time Concorde touched down, someone at the airport had been kind enough to offer us use of her office for the couple of hours before I got my connecting flight to the States. I found Mum and Dad, gave them my belongings and got changed for the onward flight. I knew I wouldn't see them for the best part of a fortnight and I had news that I wanted to give them face to face rather than over a phone. I told them Victoria was pregnant.

They seemed very surprised. And worried, too. Maybe it was because they'd already got an idea of the reaction I was going to get back home after my sending off. Joanne was with them and she hugged and kissed me, but Mum was quite quiet and I remember Dad just said:

‘Are you sure it's not too soon?'

We had to say our goodbyes. I headed off to the departure lounge and checked in my luggage without any fuss at all. I'd been warned that there would be press around looking for me but it seemed like everything was quiet. Once I was through security, I thought I'd be fine, that nobody would be able to get to that side of immigration and passport control. I was wrong. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a group of photographers and a couple of camera crews heading towards me, together with this little guy who I recognized from previous times; he'd always be running alongside you, whispering things to you and trying to provoke a reaction.

‘Do you think you've let the team down, David? Have you let the country down? Do you realize what you've done, David? Should you be leaving the country right now?'

I had about two hundred yards to walk to the lounge. I slung my bag over one shoulder, just stared in front of me and marched on, not saying a word. It must have looked mad, with all these people trailing after me. Maybe it looked bad in the newspapers or on television, like I was
running away. But I knew I just had to keep going. I couldn't afford to react in the wrong way now. I didn't need people telling me how bad I should be feeling. I already felt all that and worse. I wanted to be able to shut my eyes and be with Victoria. What could I do but try and blank the cameras out?

I made it to that finishing line and, a few minutes later, I was on the Concorde again. The flurry of snappers at Heathrow had given me an idea of what I could have expected had I stayed at home. As the plane took off, I assumed I was leaving all that behind: not my own disappointment about what had happened in Saint-Etienne, but having it stuck in my face by the media.

It was a little bit scary arriving at New York's JFK. I'd been to America before but this was the first time on my own. I walked up to the security checkpoint. There were these guards, with guns and dark sunglasses, looking really serious, wanting to know what was in this bag and that one. I'd arranged for a driver to meet me. As I walked out through the doors into the arrivals hall, there was a crowd of photographers, camera crews, and press waiting for me.
This is New York. This shouldn't be happening
.

I jumped into the car and went to close the door but there were people holding it open so I couldn't. It was ridiculous. I was having a tug of war with whoever was on the other side of the door. Then, when I got that one shut, the door on the other side of the car was pulled open, and a female photographer started snapping away at me in the back seat. I couldn't believe what was going on. I thought that, once I'd reached America, I'd be all right. Instead, I was in the middle of a scene from a movie: I'd never experienced anything like this back at home.

When we finally got the doors shut and locked, we headed straight to Madison Square Garden and a Spice Girls concert. I hadn't really organized things properly, so I didn't even know how to get in to the place. We arrived outside and I was wandering around, looking for a
stage door, until I spotted one of the tour managers. He took me inside and we set off down this corridor towards the Girls' dressing rooms.

Then the strangest thing happened: we were walking along and Victoria came the other way and walked straight past. She didn't recognize me: I had this big jacket on and a hat pulled low down on my head after the craziness at the airport. She hadn't been expecting me to get there so early and it was one of those moments when it takes a couple of beats to realize what has just happened. I turned round and she came running back. I just held onto her and didn't want to let go. We went through to the dressing room and I said hello to the other girls. Then Victoria and I crept into this tiny shower room and she showed me the scan of our new baby. It was just amazing. It was like a little pea on the picture: the scan was taken much earlier than the ones you're allowed to see in England. I was tingling with excitement. Any father will tell you, you can't imagine that feeling until it happens.

We went back to see the Girls and suddenly they were hugging and kissing me. I could hardly take it all in.

‘Oh, I meant to say. Someone's coming in to meet us all in a minute,' said Victoria.

And in walked Madonna. She sat down and started chatting to Victoria and the other girls, while I just kept quiet and tried to make sure my mouth wasn't hanging open. Then she turned to me:

‘Oh, you're the soccer player, aren't you?'

How did Madonna know who I was? I can't say I wasn't a bit pleased about that. As far as replying was concerned, I was dumbstruck. Madonna's just spoken to me, like she knows me. It was one of those situations where you're sure that, whatever you say, it's going to come out sounding stupid.