It was Jefferson that once said, “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on”. A phrase David Beckham has taken all too literally in the twilight years of a career rhapsodised by pundits and fanatics alike. Far removed from the twinkle of the Tinseltown lights Beckham was ostensibly fated to identify from a young age, there has been a football career unique in its recitation from any other. Beckham was a pioneering football prodigy, one of the few players to ever cross the white line whose every career decision felt like it had some mystical bearing on your own existence.
Originally beginning his fledgling career at the lesser prestige of Tottenham Hotspur, the grand overlord of the contemporary kick about, Sir Alex Ferguson, spotted a competitor steeped in technical proficiency. He consequently poached, then introduced him into the grassroots of the most refined assemblages of footballing aptitude in a generation; Manchester United. My Father once described him during a loan move to Preston North End as “Devoid of pace, yet overcompensated with the best right boot in the business”.
Alongside his wing wizardry, David happened to convey an angelic formation of features. It was sheer providence that dictated his rise with the stellar ascent of the Spice Girls; cue one Miss Victoria Adams. The rest as we know is history. An English Georgie Best with a penchant for a public photo, yet an evidently less fervent passion for the bottle was born. If Best was ‘El Beatle’, then Beckham was surely the Paul to George’s John. Both men were coincidentally products of the red side’s paranormally proactive legend machine.
There was THAT goal at Wimbledon, the halfway line crack that made the Premier League customary Neil Sullivan look like a hungover 14 year on a Sunday morning. We all recollect graphically, the sensational and almost supernaturally struck free-kicks that seemed to home like scud missiles past flabbergasted ‘Keepers across the land. This earned David international recognition and a hefty helping of publicity.Then came the contemptible kick out at Simone in 1998. Beckham saw red, and consequently witnessed David Batty make a mockery of the term ‘Penalty Kick’. Becks could be forgiven for a feeling of prejudice, as his juvenile shoulders unjustly took the weight of the perpetual malevolence that follows an English World Cup exit. Truth was, and for the record still is, they simply were not good enough. Like a phoenix from the proverbial ashes of national dismay, Beckham rose to orchestrate a benchmark of British footballing history. The ‘99 treble. Emanating from a family inclined to disregard Mancunia’s most successful club, it was through resisted awe I watched Beckham regurgitate with almost celestial class, an array of sumptuous set-pieces, pinpoint passing and most markedly, the unwavering desire to track back any given distance to recoup a lost ball. A celebrity at this point? Probably. A Sporting Superstar? Most definitely.
The Nou Camp is of course the Elysium of purist football and philosophy, and has in turn been auspicious in offering sanctuary to the likes of Cruyff and Messi. Even the most partisan of Catalans must threaten a smile at the contemplation of Becks whipping over a trademark corner, for the Baby Faced Assassin to convert with the most ruthless conviction. The European Cup had been pilfered in an outstandingly galvanising fashion. The Red Nosed Dane executed gymnastics of jubilation, as Manchester readied itself to regale their next wave of European Champions. They say the music died on an aircraft with Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper in ’59. The same went for Mancunian football (the red half) in ’58, as a tragic quantity of the Busby Babes, a symbiotically youthful team of inconceivable talent, met an icy and harrowing end. Empowered by the fertile loins of Fergie’s youth system, the rebirth was spectacular, and the focal point was one D. Beckham.
Though it must be declared, nothing lasts forever. The Greece qualifier was a final international hurrah at Old Trafford in 2001, accumulating in Beckham curling home a last gasp free-kick, an art comparable to any surrealist offering from Dali. The Stretford End went delirious as Becks had guided his Golden Lions to another World Cup. It must be said that these feats of phenomenal sport were now almost expected by the national faithful. It wasn’t too long after this that the rumours of Fergie’s boot kicking antics came to the fore. Beckham’s wounds seemed to prove such, and hence followed a premature passage from the hallowed turf of Old Trafford as Leytonstone’s prodigal son bidded ‘Hasta Leugo’ for the final time. A Schoolfriend had just purchased a draw full of DB7 clothing. This range of garments in hindsight, along with the autobiography, was an ill advised marketing decision. You can imagine a 12 year olds sentiment.
‘Goldenballs’, the newly crowned England captain, flew the nest to Madrid, with a WAG and film-star rank of recognition in tow. He fitted like a piston to a rod in the ‘Galacticos’ engine, as Real’s consistent conception of monopolising European football by buying the biggest and the best had brought Beck’s to their shores. In the balancing act of being David, there was of course international football to consider, as in 2002, the land of the rising sun was to play host to the greatest sporting show on earth. It seems to have been a recurring theme in his career; to reappear from controversy by communicating through his preferred medium of boot on ball. Perchance it is a gauge of the greats, that their destiny is almost scripted with a poetic irony from Beckett or Berkoff above. Of course we drew the Argentineans in the groups and of course Beckham avenged the indignity of his dismissal four years previously by slamming home a penalty to subdue the ‘Argies’ once more; Thatcher sunk the Belgrano, but Beckham had submerged far more. Metaphorically speaking, it is a rarity that a man can even the scores on an inequitable event of a past conflict, yet the repeated resurrection Of DB7, at this point DB23, was, to say the least, a meal ticket for the tabloid presses.
Inevitably, few chimes sounded before Beckham was again involved in National consternation. A penalty miss against the English kryptonite of Portugal in Euro 2004, saw him take partial blame for another preventable exit. Déjà vu transpired in 2006, as the injured skipper looked on with an expression of excruciation whilst his Lions limped out against the Portuguese. Those infamous English nerves once again capitulated during the pressure cooker of a penalty shootout. It was a dejected and weeping Beckham that faced the Vultures of the Tabloid’s the next day. True to his unpredictable temperament, he acted as a sacrificial lamb, giving up his beloved England captaincy, and quelling the general bloodlust that more heads must roll from the ‘Golden Generation’. His epoch as ‘Le Grande Fromage’ of British football came to an abrupt halt. The sensation of deterioration was sustained in his Madrid career, as the only dressing room in Europe with more stars than an astronomer could decipher, was proving a colossal challenge for the schoolmasterly merits of Mr Capello; the now sardonically placed villain of the piece.
It is a measure of the man, as despite the harbingers of doom circling manically over Beckham’s fragile career, he once again exemplified a Casanova like covetousness for his profession, confirming to Capello his steadfast skill. Real went onto conquer the league; Beckham went on to cement his name in footballing folklore. It was at this crossroads, Soccer’s James Dean, given a capricious career that would have given Spielberg a potential blockbuster, fittingly, set course for the municipality of angels. A decision perceptibly pressured by the label lust of his highly maintained missus. Unfortunately in all walks of humanity, when there is ascent there must be descent. Heroes do not exist, and if they do, they assuredly fade away. It is at this point that the plunge of our icon begins. A brief loan spell at AC Milan was engineered before the debacle of this year’s ‘African adventure’. It was a blatant attempt to prove his worth to one time nemesis Capello. Won over before, the San Canazian, a man of devout Catholic faith, was almost convinced again, before the unrelenting adversary of any veteran footballers career brought the curtain crashing down on the illustrious 115 cap campaign; the Achilles Tendon.
Beckham delineated the ‘adroit persona’, and a maturity some thought may never come to fruition as he chaperoned the England team in South Africa. He worked as a mediator, given the England gaffers none too extensive knowledge of English vocabulary. Although given the performances, one can’t imagine him needing any more lexical variation than a few choice profanities. Becks has also invested his energies into spearheading the 2018 bid for World Cup football in Britain. He was forced to unwittingly act as the makeshift spokesman following the destructive nature of Lord Triesmans aristocratic faux pas, as it was theatrically embellished in the time honoured form of double crossing mistresses and Russian bribe Roubles. It is with understated anti-climax that Capello has dropped the guillotine on this, pardon the cliché, immortal career, without so much as a text message to the most capped outfield player the country has ever created.
David Robert Joseph Beckham OBE royally accredited, is a man who embodies the dogma of Kipling’s ‘IF’. He has never, throughout a career I have not even begun to scrutinise, lost the common touch. Experience has taught us that he is capable of swaying the self assured mentality of the Italian, though time eventually diminishes every man. The romanticist in me yearns for Becks to play on, yet if the Arch has seen the last swing of that fabled right boot, there shan’t be a man in the English territories that won’t exclaim, “The Boy Done Good!”