Beck-uieme for a dream

Let us spare a thought for poor David Beckham. It may sound odd to demand sympathy for a multimillionaire, one of the most famous men in the world and the man who may singlehandedly bring the World Cup to these shores in 2018, but Becks is a curious case. You can pour scorn on his modelling exploits, snigger at his silly voice and be frankly repulsed by his skeletal missus, but if you're an English football fan the chances are you'll be shedding a tear over the ruptured achilles that will cruelly rob him of the chance at glory in his fourth World Cup this summer.

It wasn’t always thus. Indeed, it’s remarkable just how much Beckham’s popularity has waxed and waned throughout his career. Going into France 98 he wasn’t considered a starter, but Glenn Hoddle bowed to public pressure after the first couple of games and put him in the team, only for him to flick his foot at Diego Simeone in the second round in one of those sporting acts of petulance whose consequences are similar in scope to those of chaos theory’s proverbial flapping of butterfly wings.

For the next year or so, Becks was truly loathed. Perceived as cocky and preening, he was a perfect scapegoat and found himself on the receiving end of epic tabloid hate campaigns, death threats, burning effigies and endless “does she take it up the arse?” chants. Playing for United, just about every neutral’s least favourite team, did him no favours at this point either.

Yet, somehow, he turned things around. While a new generation of pampered superstars struggled to give a flying one as soon as they donned an England shirt, their spiritual forebear was haring around the pitch as if his life depended on it. The last-gasp free kick against Greece which secured quailfication for the 2002 World Cup and the penalty against Argentina in the tournament proper are iconic moments in recent England history, and so passionate were his performances that subsequent penalty misses in crucial games somehow didn’t attract widespread criticism. When a pesky broken metatarsal threatened to thwart his participation in the Far East, the tabloids produced full-size pictures of his foot for us to rub, or kiss, in the hope that our collective prayers would somehow will Becks back to fitness. How far we had come.

Once Steve McClaren dropped him as soon as he took over as manager, the transformation was complete. Becks was now a martyr, thanks to a cowardly act by a man whose strength of character could never hope to match his own, an act that would inevitably help precipitate its maker's downfall. On our darkest night against Croatia, Becks was finally resurrected and almost proved our saviour, but even Jesus would have found winning on that night a miracle too far.

Schteve got the boot and Beckham went into international semi-retirement, getting wheeled out towards the end of matches like the Queen or something, enriching each game with his mere presence. I for one was tantalised by the prospect of a D-Beck cameo deep into a crucial knockout game in SA - one pinpoint cross or spectacular free kick would be all we’d need in a tight game. The stage was surely set.


Alas, the dream is now over. Besides Wayne Rooney, whose presence is all but essential if we are to stand any chance of success, David Beckham's was the last name I wanted to see plastered across the front pages in World Cup Injury Nightmare headlines. He wouldn't have started, he may have only played a handful of minutes overall, but England will be infinitely weaker without his presence to call upon in an emergency. The latest rumours suggest that Fabio will let him travel with the squad anyway. It may be cold comfort, it's also the very least we can do.

He may have the money, the fame and the lifestyle, but to step out onto the pitch to the adoration of a nation's football fans is something that can only be earned. It's something he might just have experienced for the last time. If this is goodbye then farewell Becks - it's been emotional.