Beckham Read Free Page B

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, José came up to explain that they’d have somebody doing simultaneous translation when I spoke.
    â€˜David: can you make little pauses to give him time to do the Spanish?’
    â€˜Well, I’d rather not José. 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Is di Stefano the greatest-ever Real Madrid player?’
    â€˜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 your respect. You can sense he’s proud of where he’s been and of what he achieved at Real. He seemed to be proud to be here now, as well: part of the present as much as part of the past. Alfredo di Stefano represents for Real Madrid what Bobby Charlton always has for United.
    A hand reached forward and drew back the curtain. I hadn’t even realized there were speakers near us but now music—an operatic aria—was all I or anyone else could hear, the singers’ voices echoing around the arena. Some entrance. We took a couple of steps up, then walked onto the stage. The floor of the arena in front of us was crowded with photographers, flash guns firing off as we emerged. I could just glimpse people in the seats along the two sides of the hall. At first, I was doingmy best to keep a smile on my face, frozen as it was. I took a deep breath and glanced down to my left where Victoria was sitting with the senior Real Madrid staff in a cordoned off area. She was looking back up at me, as if to say:
    â€˜Go on, then. This is it, you know. We’re all watching you.’
    I really was smiling now. Behind me was a cinema screen, huge enough to make me feel about a foot tall down here on the stage. Just for an instant, it felt like Saturday morning at the movies, except the film had me in it. Against a burnt yellow background: my head, the club badge, the words Real Madrid. Senor Perez stepped forward. They were going to translate me into Spanish. But there was no one translating him into English for me. They’d never have kept up anyway. It was only later that I got the President’s drift.
    â€˜David is a great player, a player who’s been educated in the tradition of sacrificing himself to the team. He comes to the best and most competitive league in the world. We are sure he is technically good enough and a strong enough character to succeed.’
    Now, Alfredo di Stefano stepped forward with a Madrid team shirt in his hands. We shook hands, photographers calling out:
    â€˜Over here, David. Aqui, aqui—por favor—Senors.’
    We held the shirt out in front of us.
    â€˜Turn it round, turn it round.’
    On the back: 23 with ‘Beckham’ over the numerals. Nobody knew, outside the club,