your respect. You can sense he’s proud of where he’s been and ofwhat 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 diStefano represents for Real Madrid what Bobby Charlton always hasfor United.A hand reached forward and drew back the curtain. I hadn’t evenrealized there were speakers near us but now music – an operatic aria– was all I or anyone else could hear, the singers’ voices echoingaroundthe arena. Some entrance. We took a couple of steps up, then walkedonto the stage. The floor of the arena in front of us was crowded withphotographers, flash guns firing off as we emerged. I could just glimpsepeople 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 deepbreath and glanced down to my left where Victoria was sitting with thesenior Real Madrid staff in a cordoned off area. She was looking backup at me, as if to say:‘Go on, then. This is it, you know. We’re all watching you.’I really was smiling now. Behind me was a cinema screen, hugeenough to make me feel about a foot tall down here on the stage. Justfor an instant, it felt like Saturday morning at the movies, except thefilm had me in it. Against a burnt yellow background: my head, the clubbadge, the words Real Madrid. Senor Perez stepped forward. Theywere going to translate me into Spanish. But there was no onetranslatinghim into English for me. They’d never have kept up anyway. It was onlylater that I got the President’s drift.‘David is a great player, a player who’s been educated in the traditionof sacrificing himself to the team. He comes to the best and mostcompetitive league in the world. We are sure he is technically goodenough and a strong enough character to succeed.’Now, Alfredo di Stefano stepped forward with a Madrid team shirtin his hands. We shook hands, photographers calling out:‘Over here, David. Aqui, aqui – por favor – Senors.’We held the shirt out in front of us.‘Turn it round, turn it round.’On the back: 23 with ‘Beckham’ over the numerals. Nobody knew,outside the club, what my squad number was going to be. I’d thoughtlong and hard about which number to choose from the ones thatweren’talready being worn by the other players. Even Real hadn’t found outuntil late the previous night, when I’d phoned them from the hotel withmy final decision.There was a sudden burst of shutters clicking on a couple of hundredcameras. I could hear voices out in the hall:‘Veinte y tres.’Twenty-three. Then, a moment later:‘Michael Jordan. Michael Jordan.’He wasn’t just a hero for me, then. It was my turn now. I steppedforward to the microphone. I’d gone over the few words I wanted tosay again and again. I didn’t want to be holding a piece of paper. Ididn’t want to be wondering what to say next. More first impressionswere at stake here. I cleared my throat.‘Gracias. Senor Perez, Senor di Stefano, ladies and gentlemen...’I left a split second for the translator to do his stuff. At first hismicrophone didn’t seem to be working properly. I waited. And while Iwaited my mind went blank. Suddenly I was aware of the forest ofcameras out in front of me, people around the hall craning heads in mydirection. I’m glad I’ve learned to trust myself. I opened my mouth andthe rest of it came.‘I have always loved soccer. Of course, I love my family...’I looked down towards Victoria again: too right I love them.‘. . . and I have a wonderful life. But soccer is everything to me. Toplay for Real is a dream come true. Thank you to everyone for beinghere to share my arrival. Gracias.’I held the shirt – my new shirt – up in front of me:‘Hala Madrid!’The other directors of the club came over for the team photos andthen Senor Perez led us offstage and back through the corridors to aroom at the far end of the building, where there was a table laid outwith tapas and biscuits and soft drinks. There’s a room like this at everysoccer club: a sloping ceiling and bench seats around the walls. They’dtidied this one up a bit, though. Then, I was taken through a door atthe far end that led off into the dressing rooms: not quite as imposingas the ones at the Bernabeu the day before.I took my time pulling on the Real Madrid uniform for the very firsttime. Then a couple of security guards and Simon and Jamie, from SFX,came through the dressing room and we walked across to Numero 2,a training field with low stands on one side and at one end, bothcrammed with supporters. It took a moment for my eyes to adapt,stepping outside into bright sunshine again. I ran through the gap inthe fence and a couple of soccer balls were thrown towards me. I knowI play for a living. Controlling a ball, keeping it up in the air, the oddtrick: it’s all second nature. But out on a patch of grass, in front of acouple of thousand supporters who are thinking: show us? It felt a bitlonely out there, to be honest, even though the reception I got fromthe madridistas was all I could have hoped for: families everywhere,cheering and waving. I waved back. The photographers got their shotsof David Beckham in a Real uniform for the very first time.How long was I going to be out here? What else did we need to do?I kicked a ball up into the crowd behind the goal. I peered up into thestand in front of me, trying to see who’d caught it, trying to get a clueas to how these same fans would take to me when I ran out at theBernabeu, alongside the galacticos, for a game. I knew I’d be back inMadrid to start work on July 24. The whirl of the last 24 hours suddenlyrushed to a full stop. The significance of what had happened today andthe previous day swept over me, filled my chest like a blast of pureoxygen. It felt fantastic.Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, while the security guardsfollowed my line of sight up into the crowd, I saw a figure away to myleft, darting out from behind the metal frame of a floodlight pylon. Alad – eleven, twelve – tanned, black hair stood on end, bare chestedand wearing a pair of jean shorts and some battered trainers. And hewas racing towards me. I think I saw him before anybody else did.There were shouts of surprise from the crowd. The security peopleswiveled and looked towards me. Too late: the boy – named Alfonso,I found out later – was standing a couple of feet away from me. It wasa shock but there wasn’t anything about him to make me step back.His eyes were wide open, pleading, like he wanted something from mewithout knowing what. My instinct was to just hold my arms out towardshim. He didn’t need a second invitation: he jumped at me, laughing. Icaught him and held on, almost as tightly as he did. I waved away thesecurity guys: this was just a boy who’d taken his chance. I managedto prise him off for long enough to motion over to Simon who was infront of the other stand:‘A shirt. I need another shirt.’We walked across and met them halfway. I tried to give the shirt tohim but Alfonso just stood in front of me, tears in his eyes now. Heraised his arms at either side. I dropped the shirt over his head. Thiswas like some weird kind of ceremony going on here. I was half-awarethat people around the ground were cheering and whistling. He pushedhis arms through and the shirt settled on him, almost down to his knees.He looked up at me. His eyes were like a mirror: happiness, fear, awe,the wonder of the impossible just having happened. In a couple ofhours’ time, I would be on a plane back to England with my family.Time to start packing our bags. Where would Alfonso be then? I lookeddown into this boy’s expectant, passionate face. I could see how hardhe’d dreamed, how determined he’d been to be where he wasnow, standing there facing me. I felt like asking him; it felt like he wasasking me:‘Who are you, son? Where have you come from? How did you cometo be here?’1Murdering theFlowerbeds‘Mrs Beckham? Can David come and have agame in the park?’I’m sure Mum could dig it out of the pile: that first video of me in action.There I am, David Robert Joseph Beckham, aged three, wearing thenew Manchester United uniform Dad had bought me for Christmas,playing soccer in the front room of our house in Chingford. Twenty-fiveyears on, and Victoria could have filmed me having a kickabout thismorning with Brooklyn before I left for training. For all that so much hashappened during my life – and the shirt I’m wearing now is a differentcolor – some things haven’t really changed at all.As a father watching my own sons growing up, I get an idea of whatI must have been like as a boy; and reminders, as well, of what Dadwas like with me. As soon as I could walk, he made sure I had a ballto kick. Maybe I didn’t even wait for a ball. I remember when Brooklynhad only just got the hang of standing up. We were messing aroundtogether one afternoon after training. For some reason there was a tinof baked beans on the floor of the kitchen and, before I realized it, he’dtaken a couple of unsteady steps towards it and kicked the thing ashard as you like. Frightening really: you could fracture a metatarsal doingthat. Even as I was hugging him, I couldn’t help laughing. That musthave been me.It’s just there, wired into the genes. Look at Brooklyn: he always wants