Beckham Read Free

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:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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, José; Jorge Valdano; Pedro Lopez Jiminez, the President’s right-hand man, and his son, Fabio; José 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 popthe 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:
    â€˜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, José 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:
    â€˜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