been trained on it. Shorts and socks are folded neatly beneath on thebench. I’m all alone. I can hear muffled conversations going on at thefar end of the room, around the door I’d come in. I take my time gettingchanged, folding my clothes up next to the uniform that’s been left forme. A half-open door leads out to the training field. Beside it, there’sa full-length mirror bolted to the wall. I look the bloke in the mirror upand down. The all-white Real strip seems to make me look big. Makesme feel big. This is a uniform and a half. I catch the sound of excitedvoices. Suddenly I’m aware that I’m looking into my future. There’s arush of satisfaction, nerves stood on end. I’m here.In fact, we’d been here, in Madrid, nearly 24 hours; long enough forthe Beckham family to begin a new life. My Manchester United contracthad expired on the last day of June and I’d signed my name at theBernabeu on the first day of July. Today, July 2, the Real adventure hasbegun.We’re all going to be part of what will happen here: I’ve been transferredto a new club and new country but it’s the family who are movingto Spain. I wanted us together to see what we were letting ourselvesin for. And, to be honest, I needed the support. The excitement andtension had been building up for nearly a month ahead of these twodays in Spain. I knew from the moment we touched down at half pastone on Tuesday afternoon that every minute was going to matter. Havingmy family with me meant that Madrid – the city and Real – would getthe right first impression of me: a soccer player who’s a husband andfather. Romeo, still only nine months old, stayed in England with Vic-toria’s parents, but I had Victoria with me, Brooklyn too. And my mum,who’d agreed to the job of finding some fun for a four-year-old whenhe got fed up with what Mummy and Daddy were doing.Nervous? I needn’t have been. Whatever doubts and worries I’dbrought with me were blown away within a minute or two of climbinginto the car that Real Madrid sent to collect us. Six motorcycle policemensurrounded us. Fine: a few blue lights and sirens always make Brooklyn’sday. And then we nosed out onto the highway. It was like a scene outof The French Connection: we barreled down the outside lane, thenacross into the inside lane, then back outside again. Other traffic wasleft to fend for itself. The paparazzi kept up as best, and as dangerously,as they could, in their cars and on their motorbikes. The schedule hadmy first stop as the hospital where I was due to have my medical. If wedid crash, at least I was headed towards the right place. It wasn’t untilmuch later in the day that I realized it wasn’t just the police and thepress: everybody in Madrid drives like they’re chasing pole position forthe Spanish Grand Prix.When I’d first spoken to Real, I’d thought it was only fair to let themknow I was a bit uncertain about the idea of moving to another countrywith my wife and my children. Would I feel settled enough to be singleminded about my soccer? I knew I’d have to be if I was going tomake a success of a career with the club. I could hardly believe howunderstanding they were. None of my concerns came as a surpriseto them, probably because in Spain family life is really important toeveryone.‘Your family must be as happy here with us as you are, David.’They took it for granted that they’d try to help us feel at home. Victoriaand Brooklyn and Mum were whisked away to look at some propertiesthat Real’s people thought we might be interested in. I wished I couldhave gone with them but I knew there’d be time for me to join inwith the house hunting later. While they headed off to the suburbs, Ihad an appointment at La Zarzuela Hospital with Real’s club doctor,Senor Corral.We galloped through the medical – cardiovascular, biomechanics,blood, urine, electro cardiogram, x-rays and scans – with the variousspecialists. Then Senor Corral got his hands on me for a physicalexamination.He was particularly interested in a left metatarsal and a rightscaphoid bone. We were done and dusted in just over two hours. Acameraman from Real Madrid’s television station followed us up anddown the corridors of the hospital before getting the door shut in hisface each time I went into a clinic for a particular test. Everyone seemedto be grinning from ear to ear: the specialists, the staff, the otherpatients,the cameraman with the black eye. Could we have a photo taken?Could we have an autograph? It all seemed very relaxed. The doctorshad been given my complete medical records from fifteen years at OldTrafford and I’m sure they’d done their homework. Dr Corral himselfgave the impression of knowing exactly what he was looking for. Andwas happy enough when he found it. Someone told me afterwards whathe’d told the waiting press:‘David esta como nuevo. Fisicamente esta perfecto.’He reckoned I was in half-decent shape, then. And that my pen handwas up to signing on Real’s dotted line. I went to the hotel, the TrypFenix, to meet up with Victoria, Brooklyn and Mum. I think the fanswho’d started to gather outside the Fenix were as excited about Victoriaas they were about the new soccer player in town. She seemed tense,though: she’d been driven round the new city, looking for somewhereto call home. What we were about to take on had started to sink in.Me and Brooklyn had time for a little kickabout on the terrace of oursuite. I wonder how much of all this he’ll remember once he’s older.The cars came back at five o’clock to take us to the Bernabeu. Thestadium was just a short drive up the main road through the earlyevening traffic: Real have built their home ground on Madrid’s equivalentof Fifth Avenue. I’d been there before, of course, as a ManchesterUnited player but, as we swung in through the gates, I didn’t recognizemuch. The place was a building site: cranes arching in from the road,diggers and dump trucks bumping along between the piles of supplies.Jose′ Angel Sanchez, Real’s Marketing Director, told me the club werehaving to remodel the stand on the side of the ground where the playerscome out:‘When Santiago Bernabeu built this stadium in the forties, he put thepresidential suites in the stand opposite the one with the players’facilities.It was supposed to say: our boardroom won’t ever be in competitionwith our dressing room. Now, though, UEFA Champions Leagueregulationssay we have to have both together.’We went upstairs to the club offices. Nothing to do with the climb,but I felt a little breathless. And held Victoria’s hand a little tighter. Ithink we must have come up the back way because we suddenly turneda corner and there we were: a corridor, heads poking out of doorways,half a dozen blokes in suits shifting from foot to foot. It looked like anysuite of offices in any modern block anywhere in Europe. All very simple.Nothing grand, nothing flash. I liked that: Real saved the big impressionfor out on the field. I was excited to be there. I could tell, as peoplecame up to shake hands and be introduced, that they didn’t mind meknowing they were excited about it too.Jose′ introduced me to the Director of Football, Jorge Valdano;probablythe man most responsible, along with the President, for bringingme to Madrid. He had a presence about him and a great smile. I don’tknow how old Senor Valdano must be but he’s still got the build andthe energy of the international player he once was. I’d fancy my chancesin a running race: I wouldn’t be so keen on a tackle. He was one of thefew people at the club who didn’t speak any English, which was fineby me. The two of us were on an equal footing, weren’t we? SenorValdano showed me into the office he’d been standing outside. CarlosQueiroz stood up from behind the Head Coach’s desk. It was a surpriseto see him. I knew all about Madrid having released Vicente del Bosque.I also knew Carlos had left Manchester United to replace him, and howgood Carlos was at his job. But I hadn’t realized he’d be at the Bernabeualready. It was an odd moment, a reassuring moment. Who’s followingwho around here? We had a hug. We’d see each other – two newboys – for pre-season at the end of July.Right now, they were ready to show me around my office. We alltrooped back downstairs, with Jose′ leading the way and doing hisbestofficial Real tour guide impression: ‘And this is where the tours nevergo,’ he said, swinging open the door to the home dressing room. Onevery locker door there was an image, bench to ceiling, of the Realplayer it belonged to. For a moment, it made me feel like an opponentagain, seeing them all, almost life-sized around the walls: Raul, Figo,Ronaldo, Zidane, Roberto Carlos and their team-mates. What was itgoing to be like, playing alongside them instead of against them? Wemoved through and out into the tunnel. I could remember standing hereback in April, itching to get started. It felt the same now.‘Jose′? Is there a ball anywhere? I can’t wait.’One appeared. I gave it to Brooklyn to carry and I walked out into anarrow strip of sunlight by the touchline, Victoria beside me. It wasgetting late: shade stretched away from us across the low curve of thefield. It was just our own private party in the place. We had theBernabeuto ourselves: the stands around us banked like mountain sides, thebuilding work behind us finished for the day. I glanced at Mum. Threemonths ago, she’d been sitting over there in the far corner, watchingme play for United, all her instincts telling her I’d be back to play forMadrid. I headed off towards the penalty area.‘Come on, Brooklyn. Let’s score a goal.’We kicked the ball between us for a minute or two. He seemed tired,a bit distracted. This wasn’t Old Trafford. I looked back at Victoria. Shewas watching Brooklyn. Then she let her glance stray away and aroundthe ground. I thought I knew what she was thinking. This was a timeto be brave and I’d found the right girl for that. I caught her eye: a littlesmile. And then Jose′ was saying:‘Shall we go back inside?’There was a stir back up in the offices. It was time for what we’dcome here to do. Senor Perez had arrived. We’d spoken on the phonebut this was the first time I’d met the President of Real Madrid. In Spain,the top man at a soccer club is elected by the club’s supporters. SenorPerez has a huge building company, one of the biggest in Europe. He’sPresident of one of world soccer’s great powers. But he didn’t seemto need any of that hanging round his neck like a badge. The really bigmen have a certain humility about them. You can tell how importantReal’s President is, and how highly he’s thought of, from the respecthe’s shown by the people around him. He’d never tell you about thosethings himself. He welcomed me to the Bernabeu and made a point ofwelcoming Victoria, Brooklyn and Mum to Madrid.