贝克汉姆自传我的立场英文原版-5

to be playing soccer, running, kicking, diving about. And he’s alreadylistening, like he’s ready to learn. By the time he was three and a half,if I rolled the ball to him and told him to stop it, he’d trap it by puttinghis foot on it. Then he’d take a step back and line himself up beforekicking it back to me. He’s also got a great sense of balance. We werein New York when Brooklyn was about two and a half, and I rememberus coming out of a restaurant and walking down some steps. He wasstanding, facing up towards Victoria and I, his toes on one step and hisheels rocking back over the next. This guy must have been watchingfrom inside the restaurant, because suddenly he came running out andasked us how old our son was. When I told him, he explained he wasa child psychologist and that for Brooklyn to be able to balance himselfover the step like that was amazing for a boy of his age.It’s a little too early to tell with my younger boy, Romeo, but Brooklynhas got a real confidence that comes from his energy, his strength, andhis sense of coordination. He’s been whizzing around on two-wheeledscooters – I mean flying – for years already. He’s got a belief in himself,physically, that I know I had as well. When I was a boy, I only ever feltreally sure of myself when I was playing soccer. In fact I’d still say thatabout me now, although Victoria has given me confidence in myself inall sorts of other ways. I know she’ll do the same for Brooklyn andRomeo too.For all that father and son have in common, Brooklyn and I are verydifferent. By the time I was his age, I was already telling anyone whowould listen: ‘I’m going to play soccer for Manchester United.’ He sayshe wants to be a soccer player like Daddy, but United? We haven’theard that out of him yet. Brooklyn’s a really strong, well-built boy. Me,though, I was always skinny. However much I ate it never made anydifference while I was growing up. When I was playing soccer, I musthave seemed even smaller because, if I wasn’t with my dad and hismates, I was over at Chase Lane Park, just round the corner from thehouse, playing with boys twice my age. I don’t know if it was becauseI was good or because they could kick me up in the air and I’d comeback for more, but they always turned up on the doorstep after school:‘Mrs Beckham? Can David come and have a game in the park?’I spent a lot of time in Chase Lane Park. If I wasn’t there with thebigger boys like Alan Smith, who lived two doors away on our road, I’dbe there with my dad. We’d started by kicking a ball about in the backgarden but I was murdering the flowerbeds so, after he got in from hisjob as a heating engineer, we’d go to the park together and just practiceand practice for hours on end. All the strengths in my game are theones Dad taught me in the park twenty years ago: we’d work on touchand striking the ball properly until it was too dark to see. He’d kick theball up in the air as high as he could and get me to control it. Then itwould be kicking it with each foot, making sure I was doing it right. Itwas great, even if he did drive me mad sometimes. ‘Why can’t you justgo in goal and let me take shots at you?’ I’d be thinking. I suppose youcould say he was pushing me along. You’d also have to say, though,that it was all I wanted to do and I was lucky Dad was so willing to doit with me.My dad, Ted, played himself for a local team called Kingfisher in theForest and District League, and I would go along with my mum Sandra,my older sister Lynne and baby Joanne to watch him play. He was acenter-forward; Mark Hughes, but rougher. He had trials for LeytonOrient and played semi-professional for a couple of years at FinchleyWingate. Dad was a good player, although he always used to get caughtoffside. It took me a long time to understand how that rule worked andI’m not sure Dad ever really got it sorted out. I loved watching him. Iloved everything that went with the game, and I could tell how muchplaying meant to him as well. When he told me he was going to packin playing regularly himself so he could concentrate on coaching me –I must have been eight or nine at the time – I knew exactly what thatsacrifice meant even though he never talked about it in that way.From the time I was seven, Dad was taking me to training withKingfisher on midweek evenings down at a place called Wadham Lodge,just round the North Circular Road from us. I’ve got great memories ofthose nights, not just being with Dad and his mates, but of the grounditself. It was about ten minutes from the house in the car. We’d drivedown this long street of terraced houses and pull in through a set ofbig, blue wooden gates, past the first parking lot and onto the secondlot, which was right next to the training ground. The playing surfacewas orange-colored gravel and cinder, with proper goalposts and nets,and there was a little bar, the social club, that overlooked it. Beyondthat field, there were three or four others, including the best one whichwas reserved for cup games and special occasions. It had a little wallall around it and two dugouts. It seemed like a massive stadium to meat the time. I dreamed about playing on that field one day.Wadham Lodge wasn’t very well looked after back then. Everywhereyou turned was a mess, with mud on the floor, really dingy lighting andthe water dribbling out of cold showers in the dressing rooms. Thenthere was the smell of the liniment that players used to rub on theirlegs. It would hit you as soon as you walked in. There were floodlights– just six lamps on top of poles – but at least once every session they’dgo out and somebody would have to run in and put coins in a meterthat was in a cupboard just inside the dressing room door.As well as training with Kingfisher during the soccer season, we’d beback at Wadham Lodge in the summer vacations. Dad used to run, andalso play for, a team in the summer league, so I’d come to games withhim. We’d practice together before and after and then, while his matchwas taking place on the big field, I’d find some other boys to play withon the cinder next door. I’ve had most of my professional career at aclub with the best facilities and where everything’s taken care of, butI’m glad I had the experience of a place like Wadham Lodge when Iwas a boy. I mean, if I’d not been there with my dad, I might havegrown up never knowing about Soap on a Rope. More to the point, itwas where I started taking free-kicks. After everybody else had finishedand was in the social club, I’d stand on the edge of the penalty areaand chip a dead ball towards goal. Every time I hit the bar was worth50 pence extra pocket money from my dad that week. And, just asimportant, a pat on the back.The other dads might bring their boys along sometimes but, once Istarted, I was there week in and week out. I’d sit in the bar and watchthe men training and then, towards the end of the session, they’d letme join in with the five-a-sides. I was so excited to be out there playingwith the rest of them – these grown men – that I took whatever I hadcoming. I do remember an occasion when one of them came flying intome with a tackle and Dad wasn’t happy about it at all but, usually, if Itook a knock he’d just tell me to get up and get on with it. He warnedme that I had to be prepared to get a bit roughed up now and again.If he’d been running around telling people not to tackle me all evening,it would have been pointless me being there in the first place. The factthat I always seemed to be playing soccer with players who were biggerand stronger than me when I was young, I’m sure, helped me later onin my career.On the nights when I wasn’t at Wadham Lodge, I’d be in Chase LanePark. We had this secret cut-through to get there: across the road andthen four or five houses down from my mum and dad’s where therewas a private alley. We’d wait around at the top of it until there wasnobody about and then sprint fifty yards to the hedge, then through itand the hole in the fence. I still have one or two friends who I first metin Chase Lane. I went on to school with Simon Treglowen and hisbrother Matt, and I’m still in touch with Simon now. We decided wegot on all right after one particular row about whether or not I’d scoredpast him in goal. That turned into a big fight, even though Simon’s fouryears older than me. Fighting: it’s a funny way boys have of makingfriends. Usually we’d just kick a ball around until it got dark, but therealso used to be a youth club, in a little hut, run by a lady called Joan.My mum knew her and would phone up to say we were on our wayover. You could play table tennis or pool and get a fizzy drink or somechocolate. There was an outdoor paddling pool at the back that gotfilled up in the summer. Some days, Joan would organize a minibus andwe’d all head off down to Walthamstow baths. There was also a skateramp by the side of the hut. I suppose my mum knows now that someof my cuts and bruises were from skateboarding, even though I wasn’tallowed on a skateboard back then. The one bad knock I got happenedone evening when I fell getting our ball back from the paddling poolafter it had been closed up for the night. Joan was still there and shephoned home to tell my parents how I’d got the cut on my head. Forabout six or seven years, into my early teens, it was a whole worldin that park. All those facilities have gone now. It’s a shame. Timeschange and some kids started messing the place up until it had to beclosed down.My very first close friend was a boy called John Brown who lived justup the road. John and I went through both primary and secondaryschool together. He wasn’t really a soccer player so, when I couldn’ttalk him into a kickabout over at the park, we’d play Lego or, later,Gameboy round at one of our houses, or ride our bikes or rollerskateup and down our road. Later on, when I started playing for RidgewayRovers, John used to come along to some of our games even thoughhe didn’t play. A few of us, especially me and another Ridgeway boynamed Nicky Lockwood, were always up for the movies and John usedto come too; I remember Mum would drop us off at the cinema overin Walthamstow. When we were little, John Brown and I were bestmates but I suppose my soccer took me in a very different direction.John went off and became a baker after we both left school.Lucky for me, they loved their soccer at my first school, Chase LanePrimary. I can still remember Mr McGhee, the teacher who used tocoach us: a Scotsman and passionate with it, a bit like Alex Fergusonin fact. Kids used to tell tales about Mr McGhee throwing teacups,cricket balls, anything really, at the wall when he was annoyed. I neverwitnessed that myself but we were all a bit scared of his reputation,anyway. We had a really good team and used to turn out in this all-greenuniform. I was playing soccer with the Cubs as well, which you couldonly do if you went to church on Sunday. So all the family – me, Mumand Dad and my sisters – made sure we were there every time, withoutfail.My parents knew how much I loved soccer. If there was a way forme to get a game, they did everything they could to make it happen.Whether it was playing or getting coaching, I’d have my chance. I wasat every soccer school going. The first one was the Roger MorganSoccer School, run by the former Spurs winger. I went there over andover again, doing all the badges until I got the gold. Dad was a lifelongManchester United supporter and we started going to watch them whenthey played in London. My mum’s dad was diehard Tottenham and he