David Beckham - David Beckham - My Side

‘Thanks, David. I’ll tell you what: I’ll sign you for Manchester United using this pen’.

Remembering that, it might seem strange that there was ever any doubt about who I was going to sign schoolboy forms with before I turned thirteen. But I’d been really happy training at Spurs and got on well with their Youth Development Officer, John Moncur. It was also important that White Hart Lane was fifteen minutes down the road from home. Much as Dad might have dreamt about me playing for United, he put that to one side when we sat down to talk. It wasn’t: this is what you should do. But: what do you want to do? We decided we should at least find out what Spurs had to say.

Maybe I knew all along that it had to be United. The meeting between me, my dad and Terry Venables, who’d come back from Spain and was then managing Spurs, left me feeling like I had more questions than answers. John Moncur took us along to Terry’s office. I can picture the scene now: Terry had dropped something on the floor, either some crisps or peanuts, and was bent down in his chair, scrabbling on the carpet, trying to pick them up. He looked up at us:

‘So, John, what have you got to tell me about this young lad?’

Never mind not remembering me from Barcelona: that must have seemed like ages ago. I got the impression that, although I’d been training at Spurs for a couple of years, the manager didn’t really have any idea who I was. I couldn’t help thinking about the times I’d been up to Manchester. Alex Ferguson knew all about me. He knew all about every single boy. He knew their parents, he knew their brothers and sisters. That seemed important to me, important for my future. It always felt like you were part of a family at United.

Spurs made us a really generous offer, which amounted to a six-year deal: two years as a schoolboy followed by two years as a Youth Training Scheme trainee and then two years as a professional. A thought flashed through my mind. By the time I’m 18, I could be driving a Porsche.

‘So, David, would you like to sign for Tottenham?’ Terry said eventually.

Dad looked at me. He’d never been one to make my decisions for me. I took a breath:

‘I’d like to think about it, Mr Venables.’

In my head, though, I was shouting out: United! It’s got to be United!

Of course, Mum and Dad and I talked about what we’d heard. I think Mum would have liked me to join Tottenham, because of Grandad and because it would have meant me being able to stay at home, but she kept that to herself. Neither she nor Dad were going to put pressure on me one way or the other. We all knew that, if I ended up signing for Spurs, things would be fine. I’d be happy and well looked after at White Hart Lane. We had an appointment at Old Trafford to get to first, though.

I drove up with Mum and Dad and we had this conversation on the way up, pulled over in a motorway services of all places. We knew what Tottenham had offered, and Dad and I agreed that the actual amount of money involved wasn’t the important thing. This wasn’t some kind of auction. All I needed was a sense of security. I wanted to know I’d get a chance to prove myself. If United offered the same six-year commitment that Tottenham had, then my mind would be made up: the wages wouldn’t come into it. If not, we’d drive back to London and I’d sign a contract with Spurs.

It was 2 May 1988, my thirteenth birthday. United were at home to Wimbledon and Alex Ferguson was waiting for us:

‘Hello, David.’

This bloke knew me. I knew him. And I trusted him. So did my mum and dad. I’d had a special blazer bought for the occasion and United gave me a red club tie that I wore for the rest of the day. We went away to have lunch in the grill room where the first team had their pre-match meal: there was even a birthday cake. Not that I felt much like eating. At 5.30, after the game, we went up to Mr Ferguson’s office. He was there with Les Kershaw, who was in charge of Youth Development at the club. Malcolm Fidgeon was there too. It was all pretty simple. United wanted me to sign and the boss set out the offer:

‘We’d like to give you two, two and two.’

I looked over to Dad, who was in another world. He’d been looking forward to this moment even longer than I had. I could see that he hadn’t taken in what Alex had just said. I knew, though, I’d just heard what I’d been wanting to hear : two, two and two , equalling the six years I’d been offered at White Hart Lane. I didn’t need to wait for the details.

‘I want to sign.’

And out came that pen. How long had it taken? A minute? It didn’t matter. I’d been ready, waiting to say those words, for the best part of ten years.

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