David Beckham: My Son

Have you ever thought what it is like for the parents of famous athletes such as Paula Radcliffe, Tanni Grey-Thompson and David Beckham to watch their child compete in their chosen sports? This is one dad’s, Ted’s, perspective.

My nerves were jangling as I took my seat in the Nou Camp Stadium for the biggest game of my son’s life – Manchester United v Bayern Munich in the 1999 European Cup Final. This was it – the pinnacle of my son’s career and of my footballing dream. My boy, David Beckham, was playing for my team, Manchester United, in the biggest game ever played by a British club. He was a vital member of a team which had already stunned 5 English football by winning both the Premiership and the FA Cup. Now they stood on the brink of an unprecedented treble. The final was being held in one of the world’s great sporting arenas – Barcelona’s Nou Camp. The stands seem to rise almost vertically above the ground to create a cauldron of noise, colour and atmosphere. On that hot, sunny evening, those stands were packed with 90,000 screaming, 10 passionate fans. The gnawing tension had been building inside me for a week, just as it had for David. As the players started their pre-match warm-ups, I could hardly bear to sit in my seat. The nerves and the pressure had really got to me – seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours. My mouth had gone dry and the clamour all around me seemed strangely distant, as though I were looking 15 through the wrong end of a telescope. My wife, Sandra, was beside me and there were familiar faces all around but all I could concentrate on was my son. His performance was the most important thing to me – I knew if he played well, then United had a fantastic chance of claiming the ultimate prize in club football. David caught my eye and gave a little wave, as he always did before every game. Sandra and 20 I smiled back, trying to look both calm and determined. The game kicked off but the tension had got to the United players. Passes were misplaced, nothing flowed and neither team really got into its stride. Yet that only made my nerves worse – I knew one little mistake might decide the outcome. Even though I’d watched David play countless hundreds of games, I struggled to put my finger 25 on what was wrong with him or the team. Bayern were typically well-organized and gave nothing away at the back, while United, without suspended midfielders Roy Keane and Paul Scholes, looked disjointed and out of sorts. But nothing prepared us for the opening goal – scored by the Germans after just six minutes. United’s Ronny Johnsen conceded a free-kick just outside the penalty area and Mario Basler 30 slammed the ball home. From that moment on, the Germans battered us. They hit the bar and Peter Schmeichel in the United goal made several outstanding saves. The game and the chance of making history seemed to be slipping away. At half-time, the United fans looked tense and nervous, unable to understand how the flowing football which had 35 dominated the English season had disappeared. Somehow, the glamour of the occasion had been replaced by pure tension which no-one in a United shirt was enjoying. I exchanged a few brief words with Sandra and the people around me. I’ve no idea what I said or what they said to me. My mind was in a jumble and my nerves had got worse and worse but, at only 1–0 down, we still had a chance. 40 The second half started much like the first, with the Germans on top and threatening to run away with the game. But with 20 minutes to go they had a decision to make – should they try and hold what they had or keep going for another goal? They chose the first option and took off inspirational midfielder Lothar Matthäus and striker Alexander Zickler in an attempt to hold on for a 1–0 win. United threw everything forward, 45 replacing winger Jesper Blomqvist and centre-forward Andy Cole with strikers Teddy Sheringham and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. With five minutes to go, it looked like the Germans had got it right. The United players were driving themselves towards the Bayern goal but nothing seemed to be working. Then a high ball came out of the United defence towards David, who was standing in the centre circle. I watched 50 as he headed it forward and, with United pouring forward, Bayern were forced to concede a corner-kick. David sprinted over to take it. This was the moment we had been preparing for all his life, all those countless hours spent practising corner-kick after corner-kick on muddy, windswept pitches in east London. All that practice was about to pay off in the most spectacular fashion. 55 He took his familiar run-up, arching his body sideways, his left arm outstretched, as his right boot connected with the ball to send over a devastatingly accurate centre. The United keeper Schmeichel had come up into the German penalty area in a last desperate attempt to score. The Bayern defenders looked utterly confused as Dwight Yorke headed the ball backwards for Ryan Giggs to fire goalwards. As the ball rebounded, Teddy Sheringham reacted first to stab home a 60 sensational equalizer. ‘Yeeeeessssssssss!’ I roared as the whole United end leapt skywards and the entire stadium seemed to turn red and white. I was dancing around like a lunatic and punching the air in jubilation. With just four minutes left to play, it was 1–1. Now United had the momentum and the 65 Germans looked stunned. They had been just seconds away from getting their hands on the European Cup – suddenly they were staring at extra time. Or so they thought. Just three minutes later and with the German fans whistling madly for the ref to blow for full-time, United won another corner. It was on the same side as the goal had come from, right in front of the main block of United support. 70 The noise was deafening as David ran over to take it again. He stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing up the penalty area and imagining the ball swinging into the danger area. With one deep breath, he ran forwards, arching his body again, to get the maximum amount of power and curve on the ball. I watched open-mouthed as the ball curled into the penalty area and the players jostled for the final touch. 75 This time, Sheringham got his head to the ball first. We watched as it bounced over the German defenders towards the far post, where the little Norwegian Solskjaer was waiting. We rose to our feet and our arms started to reach skywards as Solskjaer reacted instantly to hook the ball into the net and score the winning goal. Up we went again, totally overcome with joy. The huge outpouring of pent-up emotion swept 80 across the stadium as Solskjaer was enveloped by his delirious team-mates. Unbelievably, incredibly, astonishingly, United were 2–1 ahead with just seconds to go. The European Cup – and a place in footballing immortality – was ours. That final minute was one of the happiest of my life. The Germans were shot to pieces – they could barely comprehend what had happened and were never going to come back. In the space 85 of just 240 seconds, United had gone from losers to treble winners and my son had been at the centre of it all. As the final whistle went, I cheered deliriously, hugging anyone who came near me. The tears welled in my eyes as I thought back to how my son’s incredible journey to the pinnacle of world football had begun. And then they flowed uncontrollably down my cheeks, as the pride in both 90 my team and my son overwhelmed me.

Taken from David Beckham: My Son by Ted Beckham, published by Macmillan Publishers Ltd, 2005. Reprinted with permission of Macmillan Publishers Ltd.