Red: My Autobiography (14 page)

I’d also consciously challenged myself to become a more progressive right-back, working hard on my attacking and crossing. I knew I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to stay at United. I had to become an all-round full-back, capable of making penetrating runs and not just defending. My determination to improve had kicked in again, and I was really feeling the benefits.

So I was gutted to miss out on the 2002 World Cup, not only because I was back enjoying my football, but we were on a roll under Sven, who’d taken over from Kevin and made instant improvements. I liked Sven from the start. I would have reservations by the end of his reign, but the first few years were as enjoyable as any in an England shirt, up there with the spirit and the purpose of the Venables era. I certainly never had a problem with having a foreign manager of England. We’d all like a home-grown leader, but I just wanted a good one, particularly after previous disappointments. I still believe that. English might be preferable, but the best man for the job is the priority.

And Sven was a good boss. He inherited a team with its chin on the floor and within months led us to the ecstasy of that 5–1 victory in Munich. It wasn’t rocket-science, just sensible decisions about team selection and simple but effective communication. He gave us the sense that everything was under control; that if we held our nerve everything would turn out fine. At a time when my own game and confidence had been suffering, his calmness and light touch were just what I needed.

He seemed blessed in those early days. Even when we made very hard work of drawing against Greece in our final World Cup qualifier, a chaotic performance was forgotten in the euphoria of Becks’ last-minute free-kick. I was standing close by when he sized it up. Teddy asked if he could have a go, but to take a set-piece off Becks was like stealing his wallet.

I turned round and looked up at the clock high on the edge of one of the stands at Old Trafford. Time was up. Becks must have known it too, and that’s what separates the really great players from the rest: when the chips are down, when everything is on them, they can produce.

I knew it was in from the moment it left his boot. It capped an astonishing performance. I’d never seen him run so far. He was a hard-working player anyway, but the England captaincy really brought out the best in Becks.

He loved wearing that armband, though in April 2002 I thought I might get to slip it on when Becks missed a friendly against Paraguay. Sven sat me down at the front of the coach on the way to the ground.

‘Gary, I’m going to make Michael Owen captain tonight.’

Typical Sven, he tried to be diplomatic. He practically told me that I was a more natural captain than Michael. He was almost apologising to me. So why didn’t he give me the job?

Nothing personal against Michael, but there were other players, like Rio, Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard and me, who were more obvious contenders. But Michael was the bigger name, and Sven could be a little weak like that. The decision wasn’t going to win or lose us matches but it was a strange choice. I accepted it, but I should probably have objected more strongly. That little sign of weakness in Sven would be repeated.

What I wouldn’t blame Sven for is defeat by Brazil at the 2002 World Cup finals, a game I watched from a TV studio. Danny Mills got the right-back spot. I’ve never been his greatest fan, but I couldn’t be too hard on him or any of the lads for the way they went out in that quarterfinal.

True, they didn’t keep the ball well, but they were up against a top-class team in baking heat in Japan. They were knackered, chasing after the ball. I couldn’t be too critical because I’d been there with England a few times myself, being outplayed by quality opposition.

Farewell, Becks

WHEN CARLOS QUEIROZ arrived as the boss’s right-hand man, I suppose it was logical that he would want to make an impression, shake things up a bit.

From the start of the 2002/03 season there were a few occasions when Carlos would pull me and Becks and ask us to do things differently, to play in different ways. He was on to us quite regularly, particularly after our defeat by Liverpool in the Carling Cup that season. He had a go at both of us for not getting close enough to Steven Gerrard. When he showed us the video the next day, we could see he was right. We were to blame.

Maybe Carlos thought it was time to change things around, to inject a little more pace down that right flank. He was trying to move the team on. That’s what he had been hired to do. The mood of change was unmistakeable.

Nonetheless, as a team we were on our way back after surrendering our title to Arsenal the previous season. We’d made a £30 million signing, Rio Ferdinand from Leeds United, in the summer. All that money on a defender, but what a classy one.

And the manager had solved the problem of Verón by resolving not to build the team around him. Seba would have to take his games where and when he could – on the left, on the right, filling in when needed. He’d not let us down, but it represented a demotion of sorts – not exactly what he’d been signed for, for all that money.

Moving Seba out of the centre allowed Scholesy to slip back into his preferred deeper position, with Ruud either joined by Ole or Diego Forlán or spearheading the team on his own in a 4–5–1 formation that would become increasingly familiar. The team was evolving – a sign of Carlos’s influence.

We were looking strong, but however hard the manager drove us, even in the most successful campaigns, there always seemed to be a game when it all went horribly wrong. A nightmare match that reminded you that success never comes easily. It was as if we needed to lose a game badly to teach us that we couldn’t afford to lose any more. That season it came at Maine Road in November.

It was scheduled to be the last Manchester derby at the old stadium, and I was captain for the day in Roy’s absence. What an honour. Except we turned it into a City carnival. Or rather, I did.

At 1–1 the ball was played over my head. I’d say that ninety-nine times out of a hundred I’d have cleared it to safety, but I dawdled and then decided to lay it back to Barthez, knowing he was comfortable on the ball. Disaster. I scuffed the pass, and Shaun Goater pounced. As errors go, it was a bad one in any game; in a Manchester derby it was unforgivable. So much for a captain’s performance: the manager subbed me after an hour.

We lost 3–1, and the boss was steaming as we came into the dressing room. You could see him looking around, ready to explode but not yet certain of his target. Then Ruud walked in with a City shirt slung over his shoulder. He’d been asked to swap on the way off and hadn’t thought anything of it. But the manager did.

‘You don’t give those shirts away. Ever. They’re Manchester United’s shirts, not yours. You treasure those shirts. If I see anyone giving a shirt away they won’t be playing for me again.’

Losing is bad, losing shambolically is unacceptable, and losing that way to Liverpool, City or Arsenal was a hanging offence in the manager’s eyes. And it wasn’t any easier to stomach for the supporters, who’d booed us off, raging that they’d now suffer humiliation at the hands of City fans.

‘I should let them in here, the lot of them,’ the manager went on. ‘They can tell you what they think of that performance. Absolute shambles.’

I didn’t need telling. I drove home for one of the loneliest nights of my life. I opened the front door, walked straight to the fridge and just sat there with two bottles of beer on the go. I needed to drink to forget.

Part of your brain is trying to remind you that there will be another game in a few days’ time. You tell yourself that in the crazy rollercoaster of professional sport you’re going to have massive highs and lows and it’ll all look better in the morning. But this was one of those nights when I couldn’t find any comfort wherever I looked.

I kept going over the game in my head, and the manager wasn’t in the mood to let me forget it quickly. A few days later we were up against Bayer Leverkusen, but I was dropped to the bench. Very harsh, I thought. I’d made a mistake, a bad one, but I’d been playing well. Steeling myself, I decided to go and see the boss and make that very point. I should have known better. He told me he couldn’t accept that performance without making changes. And it would be another three games before I was back in the team.

I returned for our trip to Anfield – the game when Diego Forlán, despite his struggles at United, would guarantee himself lasting affection from our fans. He scored twice in a vital win. Then, a week after beating Liverpool, we faced the champions, Arsenal, at Old Trafford. We were without half a team so Phil was drafted into central midfield, alongside Scholesy. He faced a massive job against Patrick Vieira, but it was our best display of the season so far. We hustled them out of the game, and Phil was superb. Scholesy and Seba scored, and we finished the afternoon knowing we were back in the business of winning championships.

Ruud was brilliant that season. He scored twenty-five goals in the league, none better than his second in a hat-trick against Fulham in March. He beat about five players in a run from the centre circle. That win took us top of the league, and, with our experience, we could smell the title. ‘Something’s happening,’ Becks said to me as we walked off the pitch. He meant the championship, but it was also clear that his time at the club could be coming to an end.

In February we’d been knocked out of the FA Cup by Arsenal, but it wasn’t the result which caused a massive stir. In the dressing room, the manager blamed Becks for one of the goals – and Becks disagreed. He answered back, which was always liable to escalate things. And the manager erupted, spectacularly.

He wheeled round, saw a boot lying on the floor, and in his fury kicked it like he was blasting for goal. He was facing Becks but there is no way he meant to kick the boot into his face. I’ve seen the boss in training; if he tried it a thousand times, he couldn’t do it again. But the boot flew up and hit Becks just above the eye, cutting him. He put his hand up to his forehead and felt blood. So suddenly he was standing up too, shouting and raging.

For a second the gaffer was dumbstruck, which isn’t like him. I think he knew that hitting a player with a boot, even by accident, was a bit extreme. He apologised straight away: ‘David, I didn’t mean to kick the boot in your face.’

Becks wasn’t having any of it. A few of us had to stand up to keep them apart.

We left the ground and went out that evening. Becks was clearly wondering if that was the end for him at United.

With another player, the story might not have leaked out. But, of course, it was Becks, and the incident was quickly all over the front pages. On and on it went. The press followed him everywhere.

Becks carried on training and being professional. But as the matches got bigger and bigger towards the end of the season he was left out of key games. The papers started to speculate about his future. He was being linked with Europe’s biggest clubs, from Barcelona to Milan to Madrid.

Change seemed inevitable. The boss and Becks were at odds, and Carlos seemed to think we’d run our course after eight years together. He felt that neither of us was quick enough, even if Becks had bundles of stamina. Perhaps we’d become too predictable. Perhaps it didn’t suit how he wanted to play if we were going to use Ruud as a lone striker. Whatever the reason, it was obvious that Carlos had his doubts, and he was the manager’s closest adviser.

I think all the players saw strengths and weaknesses in Carlos. There’s no doubt he was instrumental in helping us evolve as a team, becoming more sophisticated and patient in Europe. He had us playing different formations, weaning us off our traditional 4–4–2. Tactically he was excellent, but his day-to-day training could be very dry. Some days things would feel very bogged down in specifics, stopping the play to rerun one pass. Rene Meulensteen, the first-team coach in recent years, was much more into flowing training sessions, Steve McClaren too. Carlos was different from any coach I had at United and he’d be quite open that he didn’t want us playing small-sided games all the time. It was as if he didn’t want us having too much fun in the week so we’d be hungrier on Saturday.

The transfer rumours around Becks gathered more momentum in April when he was on the bench as we thrashed Liverpool, and then again when we travelled to Arsenal. He was also a substitute when Real’s ‘Galácticos’ came to Old Trafford, defending a 3–1 lead from the quarterfinal first leg. Roberto Carlos, Luís Figo, Zinedine Zidane and particularly Raúl had done for us in the Bernabéu. It was Ronaldo’s turn in the second leg.

I was suspended but, sat in the stands, I couldn’t fail to join the standing ovation as the great Brazilian came off after his hat-trick. It was a unique moment as we realised we were in the presence of one of the great players of the last twenty years. What was it, sixty-two goals in ninety-seven games for Brazil? What a talent, even with all his injuries, and what a character. I remember a game against Brazil with England in 1997 when Ronaldo and Romario were standing on the halfway line having a joke, cracking up, while the game was going on. I don’t know if they were taking the piss, but I guess I’d have been that confident if I was as gifted as them.

Ronaldo was the star of the night, but, typically, Becks wouldn’t be kept out of the headlines by anyone. He came on and scored twice, and he would help us secure the two more victories we needed to clinch the championship. I was chuffed for him that he finished on a high. That 2002/03 title was one of the sweetest because we reclaimed it against some people’s expectations. It’s always a great feeling winning it back because all year you’ll have felt like you had something extra to prove. That’s a great motivation.

We’d got our trophy back, but it was the end for Becks. As we walked around the pitch after beating Charlton in the last home game of the season, waving to the fans, Becks told me that a move was in the offing. ‘They’ve had talks,’ he said. Our little chat would get picked up by lip readers on
Match of the Day
.

It was the first time he’d actually confirmed to me that he was probably off. All the talk about his future had alerted Real Madrid and Barcelona. The latter wanted him in the Nou Camp, but his heart was set on the Bernabéu.

It wasn’t the way he wanted to leave but Becks had always had this urge to go and play abroad. He hadn’t chosen its timing, but the move could be sold as something good for him as well as for the club. United would get £25 million for a player who’d served them brilliantly and cost them nothing, and Becks would get to play for arguably the only club in the world as big as United, where he would be a huge star alongside some of the greats like Zidane, Figo and Roberto Carlos.

It went down as an acrimonious split but I know Becks has huge respect for the manager, and vice versa – something confirmed in the many warm words they’ve said about each other since. It was a wrench for Becks to leave United, but he’s not exactly done badly since, playing for both Real Madrid and AC Milan.

I knew I’d miss my mate. We’d roomed together, sat next to each other on the team bus for the best part of a decade. To the rest of the world he might be David Beckham, superstar, but to me he was still the best mate I’d known since the age of fourteen. We’d been through so much together. We’d played together every week on that right side for club and country to the point where we became almost telepathic. We’d learnt to play with each other since we were kids and could react instinctively. I’d see a pass played into Scholesy in midfield and before the ball had even left his boot I’d be setting off on the overlap, knowing for certain that it would soon be arriving at Becks’ feet. The opposing winger would already have been left behind, caught unawares, and now the full-back wouldn’t know whether to come with me or close down Becks. It sounds so simple, yet it caught out opponents game after game, for years and years.

We knew each other’s games, and we learnt how to handle each other’s temperaments. I can barely remember a cross word. We didn’t need to get on each other’s case because we trusted each other to be giving everything. Becks had a phenomenal work rate during his time at United; he had a capacity to run and run. In the physical tests there were few players who could match his stamina. There’s the infamous bleep test in training, a running exercise designed to make you sprint until you drop. Becks and Yorkie were the only two players in my time who managed to run it all the way through, to beat the machine. The rest of us would be on the floor.

His technical excellence hardly needs restating. Name anyone from the two decades the Premier League has been in existence more likely to land a cross on someone’s head. And he had what I call great ‘game intelligence’. To be honest, I think all of us – me, Becks, Butty, Scholesy, Phil – had that. There’s not enough intelligent English footballers who understand the game, who don’t need to be told where to move or what pass to make. Becks was one of the very best for decision-making. Neither I nor he was blessed with the greatest pace so we worked out a way around it.

On top of all that, he had a fantastic big-match temperament. He wanted the ball all the time. That’s the courage the best players have – to take possession, to take the heat off a teammate however tightly marked. It wasn’t just those celebrated passes and set-pieces but his ability to hold the ball that marks him out as having a very special technique.

Becks had ambitions from a young age, and when he left United he was well on his way to achieving them. He was more than just a footballer, and he had become a globally recognised figure. That’s opened a whole lot of fantastic opportunities for him, from his academies to helping London win the 2012 Olympics.

His career has gone the way he wanted it to go, and looking back on a glittering twenty years you have to say that he hasn’t let it affect his football. Just consider what he’s achieved, with all his trophies and his 115 caps for England. Unlike a lot of players who get wrapped up in a showbiz lifestyle, there was real substance to David. He is a model for any aspiring footballer – driven to succeed with a beautiful talent.