Beckham by David Beckham Page B

up with Mum and Dad and we had this conversation on the way up. 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 May 2 1988, my thirteenth birthday. United were at home to Wimbledon and Alex Ferguson was waiting for us:
    â€˜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 muchlike eating. At half past five, 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:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.

3
Home from Home
‘You may have signed for Man United, but you haven’t done anything yet.’
    â€˜You know I’m Man United, but I don’t want that to put pressure on you. If you decide to sign for somebody else, I won’t be upset.’
    Dad had always made that clear to me. Of course, I’d always known he was lying about the last bit. So the day I signed at Old Trafford was as fantastic for him as it was for me. By the time we left Mr Ferguson’s office, Mum was in tears. She was happy for me but she knew it meant that, sooner rather than later, I was going to be leaving home. She’d put so much love and so many hours into a kid who was mad about soccer; and the moment we’d arrived at our destination was also the moment she was going to have to get used to the idea of her boy heading north to start a career.
    She did a fair bit of crying in the months between me signing up and starting my YTS at United. But I knew, deep down, she was as proud of me as my dad was. Not letting my parents down meant everything to me. They never made me feel like I owed them for the support they’d given me, but I felt I had to do all I could to make sure they didn’t end up disappointed. Think about it: if I let them down, it would mean I’d let myself down as well. It’s never been a case of me having to live up to their expectations. It’s just that I’ve taken my parents’ expectations of me and made them the starting point for what I expect of myself. Even now, when my own family and career mean I don’t see as muchof them, I think I still judge myself by the standards I learned from Mum and Dad.
    What could have been more exciting than that day? Everybody shaking hands, me in my blazer and club tie, a United player; or, at least, a lad from Chingford who’d just taken the first step towards becoming a United player. Out in the corridor, Dad and I met up with the United captain, Bryan Robson. We’d spent hours in front of the television watching