Mr David Beckham Sir
By
Alaa Abdel-Ghani
With all the talk and news print about David Beckham moving to Real Madrid, I can't help but throw in my two cents' worth of opinions on the subject. But first, I'd like to say a few words about me and Becks.
I had a brief, chance encounter with Beckham two years ago in Singapore. I was vacationing there with the family and so, too, was Manchester United, although officially the club was visiting the Asian country to play a friendly against its national team. On the morning of the match I, my wife and three children had gone to the vast Takashimaya mall. We first went to the toy department in the hopes of buying whatever it would take to placate our two sons and daughter. I figured the toys would make them friends for life -- or at least for a couple of hours while we shopped.
I was looking around when suddenly I saw somebody who looked a lot like Beckham. For an instant, I though it was him but the next instant I persuaded myself that it couldn't possibly be him. David Beckham -- the most famous football player on planet Earth -- standing no more than five metres away from me and absolutely nobody in between us? Where were the buzzing TV crews, the paparazzi, the dozens of flashbulbs popping off simultaneously, the hundreds of frenzied teeny boppers desperately clawing their way just to get a glimpse of him or, better yet, touch him? Where were all the outstretched hands with bits of paper and pens and pencils being shoved up his nose in a frantic attempt for an autograph? And where was the other half? No Posh, in one of the poshest malls in Asia? No, this couldn't be Beckham. Nobody was haranguing this fellow. In fact, except for a burly character of Western features standing close by, there was nobody near him. And besides, how could David Beckham be in a mall, in Singapore, at the exact same time I was? Such a coincidence can only happen in stories that begin with "Once upon a time..."
But I couldn't help but keep looking -- staring actually. I had seen Beckham just a day earlier, on TV, and his hair, which makes headline news every time he changes it, well, there was hardly any. It had been chopped down to ground zero, just like the gentleman standing in front of me. Other pieces of the puzzle began to fit. United were in town and Beckham's boy Brooklyn, then two, explained why the player was looking for toys. And anyway, don't icons sometimes become human and do mortal things like shop?
I was weighing the odds when a young Singaporean provided the most compelling evidence. He strode up to the man in question, said a few words to him, then produced a slip of paper and a pen. That was all the proof I needed.
I, too, wanted Beckham's John Hancock but I knew I had to act quickly. It was only a matter of time, seconds to be sure, before he would be recognised and then all hell would break loose. Beckham was and remains particularly huge in southeast Asia.
Like all good journalists, I had a ballpoint in my pocket. I fished a scrap of paper from my wallet, on which was listed some sights in Singapore, and went up to the player. Wearing a blue and white track suit, he was tall and thin, too scrawny I thought for the rough world of professional British football.
Not having rehearsed for the occasion, I stammered: "Uh, excuse me, uh, Mr David Beckham Sir." (Beckham recently received the Officer of the Order of the British Empire, or OBE, in Queen Elizabeth II's honours list, so I had predicted correctly). Before I could state my request, he took the pen and paper, said not a word, did not smile and turned his back to me as he scribbled his name. I forgave him for having an attitude. I'd also be irritated if I had to write my name for the zillionth time.
By this time, a small crowd had started to form and apparently not wanting to stick around for the festivities, Beckham backpassed the paper and pen to me and made a beeline for the escalator going down. He and the husky man with him, whom I took to be a bodyguard, quickly disappeared.
I proudly displayed the autograph to my wife who, with the straightest of faces, asked: "Who was that guy?"
Good question. Who indeed is David Beckham? The best footballer in the world? No. That accolade goes to the three players on his new team: Zidane, Figo and Ronaldo. All have won Player of the Year awards. The most expensive? Think again. Real bought Beckham for $41 million, far less than the world record $77 million transfer set by Zidane when he moved from Juventus to Real two years ago.
Beckham is England's captain, soccer star and Britain's most talked about, written about and photographed personality. He's a brand unto himself, a marketing colossus and all-around mega celebrity. He's a huge name in most of the soccer-loving world, where his pretty-boy face and No 7 shirt are plastered across billboards and used to sell everything but the kitchen sink, although that, too, might soon change.
Of course, Beckham is not the second coming of the Beatles; it just seems so.
But why all the hoopla? What about his football, the trade that got Beckham where he is? Sure, he's one of the best in the world at crosses and free kicks, but can he star on the pitch alongside some of the world's greatest players? Michael Henderson of the Daily Mail doesn't think so. "I loathe everything Beckham stands for," he wrote, "the cultivation of mediocrity, the celebration of kitsch, the veneration of the trivial".
Beckham perhaps does personify his era, one obsessed with celebrity and image over substance. But there are limits to how popular a person can get without truly deserving it. Beckham will be under immense pressure to show he is in the same class as the Real stars and that is because the focus will not be on his hair, his wardrobe, his cars or even his wife and children. No, the attention will be on his football -- and he must make that speak for him.
I still have Beckham's autograph but I do intend to eventually sell it. Its price will depend greatly on whether he can improve a Real forward line that is already without question the best in the business and probably in the history of club football. If he cannot, then I'll hang on to it a bit longer.
