We went through to the boardroom. Everybody from the club wasgathered along one side of a long, slightly curving table. They shuffledfor a view while Mr and Mrs Beckham and Senor Perez sat down onthe other side, the three of us bunched up towards one end. I had thePresident 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. Victoriahad 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 downwould have been the time to give Senor Perez his present. But beforewe could do anything, he had reached across the table and picked upa ballpoint pen that had been left over from a previous meeting. Ink’sink, I suppose. He signed. I signed. Brooklyn scooted along behind ourchairs, my mum not sure whether she ought to try to catch him. Nochance of this all getting too serious, then.Now we were standing again, a deal – and the writing – done. SenorPerez unwrapped his gift. He smiled:‘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 wasnow, 28 and England captain, excited and expectant and nervous allover again.‘You’re welcome, Mr President. Thank you. Thanks to everyone. It’sgreat to be here. I’m really happy.’Happy wasn’t the half of it. You can never know how the big momentsare going to feel until you’re in them. And it was only now I reallyunderstood just how significant this particular moment was.Back at the Tryp Fenix, we were expected for dinner. It’s the hotelwhere Real’s players meet up before home games. They’d set up aprivate dining room downstairs. I’d joined Real Madrid: this evening wasto celebrate that with the people who’d made the transfer happen. Mymanagement team, SFX, and a handful of people at the heart of Real’sorganization: our mate, Jose′; Jorge Valdano; Pedro Lopez Jiminez, thePresident’s right-hand man, and his son, Fabio; Jose′ Luis Del Valle,the President’s legal advisor. And Victoria. Mrs Beckham lookedunbelievablybeautiful. Charmed the room, too. Made the blokes she wassitting with think she cared as much about soccer as they did. Whoknows? Maybe, for just that one evening, she did.It was a lovely couple of hours. I know how tense everybody in thatroom 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 ameal together. Even the formalities weren’t very formal. My agent, TonyStephens, got up to say a few words. A simple toast to greatpartnerships:me and Victoria and, now, me and Real Madrid. I thanked everybodyfor all the work they’d done:‘I’ve not dreamed about playing for many soccer clubs. There’s nota player anywhere, though, who hasn’t dreamed of playing for RealMadrid. 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 Ithank Victoria?I’d missed the moment: Jorge Valdano was standing facing us. Hestarted speaking, in Spanish of course. At first, Jose′ was translatingbut,as people got swept up in the speech, they started throwing in theirown suggestions for what particular words might mean in English. It gota little confusing, but Senor Valdano knew where he was going andploughed on regardless:‘Three years ago, Florentino Perez ran for the Presidency of RealMadrid. People thought of him as a cold, rational businessman andwondered if he was the right man for the job. He won the electioneventually because he did the most passionate, hot-headed, impossiblething that any supporter could imagine: he bought Luis Figo fromBarcelona. Senor Perez came to the Presidency with the ambition tomake the soccer club, recognized by FIFA as the most renowned ofthe 20th century, the greatest in the 21st. To do this we needed the rightplayers: the best players but also the players who represented soccer– and Real Madrid – in the best way. Raul was already here. A yearafter Figo, the President brought Zidane to the Bernabeu. A year afterhim, Ronaldo. Still, there was an element missing. We believe that you,David, are the player Real Madrid need to be complete. Because ofyour ability but also because you can bring with you a soccer spiritwhich is epitomized by the captain of England.’You could tell from Senor Valdano’s tone of voice and his bodylanguage, even without understanding the Spanish, that he was buildingup to a big finish. He took a deep breath. And Jose′’s cell phone wentoff: one of those phones that diverts all your calls except the one youreally have to answer.‘El Presidente.’There was a lot of laughing and joking between Jose′ and SenorPerez.‘David, the President wants to tell you he’s very sorry he can’t behere with us tonight but he’s never done this with any of our other bigsignings. So he doesn’t think it would be the right thing to do this timeeither.’A pause. Just to make sure we got the joke.‘He says: not that you aren’t his favorite, of course.’Everybody in the room was laughing now, and shouting into Jose′’sphone that the President should just come round for a coffee.‘He says: he’s at a birthday party for one of the club’s directors. Wecould all go round there. It’s not far.’Senor Valdano was still standing through most of this, waiting to finish.Just as he got round to sitting back down, the President got round tosaying goodbye. He hoped we’d enjoy the evening. Everyone at thetable turned back towards Senor Valdano, ready for his punchline. Ididn’t need to hear any more: I’d already taken in what he’d said sofar and felt honored enough. He stood up again. You could see himthinking about where to pick up his thread. And then deciding heneedn’tbother. He laughed. His moment had slipped away too. He risked alittle English:‘David and Victoria: welcome to Madrid.’I really felt we were.There was still time in the evening for me and Victoria to be rushedoff to look at two more houses. I found myself wondering: When do theysleep in Madrid? Tuesday had been all about taking care of business,the private side of me joining Real Madrid. Wednesday’s promisewas to present a new signing to the world. Brooklyn made his mindup early: other kids, a swimming pool and a back garden, thanks. Heand Mum headed off to the house of the parents of someone we’dmet the day before. I had two interviews to do: MUTV were in Madridto give me the chance to say goodbye and thank you to the Unitedsupporters; then Real Madrid’s television channel wanted to get myfirst impressions and, also, my reaction to Roberto Carlos’ statementof delight that, at long last, there’d be two good-looking players atthe Bernabeu. Those two interviews, one after the other, were abittersweetway to spend the morning. It was all very well me finding myanswers. Really, I wanted to be asking the questions. I couldn’t helpbut wonder what fans in Madrid and Manchester thought of how thingshad turned out.Real decided on a basketball arena as the venue for my introductionto the media and the fans long before I’d decided on squad number 23.The Pabellon Raimundo Saporta is an enormous, gloomy hangar of aplace with a 5,000-seat capacity, part of a training complex they callthe Ciudad Deportiva. Our cars screeched in off the main road andswept up a curving drive to the front entrance. There were dozens ofjournalists waiting outside, and over to my left I glimpsed the field whereI’d get the chance to kick a ball, a Real player now, in front of Realsupporters for the first time. We hurried inside. I know the Spanish aresupposed to have a pretty laid back attitude to their timekeeping butthis felt like a schedule everyone was dead set on sticking to. I followedthe corridor round until I was standing behind some heavy, dark drapesat one end of the gym. It was a bit like waiting for your entrance in theschool play: in my mind, I ran through what I wanted to say when I gotout on stage.Just a couple of minutes before we started, Jose′ came up to explainthat they’d have somebody doing simultaneous translation whenI spoke.‘David: can you make little pauses to give him time to do theSpanish?’‘Well, I’d rather not Jose′ . What if I stop and then can’t get myselfstarted again?’Making speeches isn’t what I do for a living but I needed to makeone here and I needed it to come out sounding right.‘Couldn’t your man just try and keep up with me?’There wasn’t time to argue. In the gloom, I shook hands with SenorPerez and was introduced to Alfredo di Stefano. I’d asked about himat dinner the previous evening.‘Is di Stefano the greatest-ever Real Madrid player?’‘No. He’s simply the greatest-ever player.’I’ve seen clips in ghostly black and white of di Stefano in action forthe Real team that won the European Cup season after season in thelate fifties. Senor Perez was the Real President: the man standing infront of me was even more important when it came to the spirit of theclub. In his seventies now, Senor di Stefano is still strong and commands