|
| Foocha! is a non-profit Web site. We do it for kicks, not for cash. If you're interested in writing for the site, click here |
|
 |
|
|
 |
|
| Books,
Matthew Fresco,
15 January 2001 |
Rating: F3
|
|
| |
| |
|
At only 168 pages David Beckham's world is short and empty. For football fans it is a glorious insiders view to selling rights to a Sunday paper. But he is a story best told in pictures and this slender volume is stuffed with the sort of vainglorious photographs that have made him front page tabloid news and regular broadsheet diary fodder.
Harry Enfield has been lampooning England's most talented footballer as a 17th century fop, an effeminate dandy more concerned with fashion than sport, a pampered icon in a privileged protected world. This book lacks that style, humor and self-deprecation, which is a pity. He is endlessly "over the moon" and "gutted" but in keeping with his image as football's premier league moaning git he is mostly gutted.
But the boy from Leytonstone was spotted at 11 and joined United at 16. He got his first chance in September 1992 as a sub against Brighton scoring on his debut and ever since he has realized our schoolboy dreams. In 1994, Beckham made the break from local to global hero in a European Champions league match against Galatasaray scoring for United.
Reading this life story we discover that this is a chaste, home loving if naïve young man and not a nightclub luvvie. He is a decent role model. Clearly hungry for success on the field, we can’t begrudge him the desire to make money off it. After all, fame reflects our desires too.
So the shy boy from Leytonstone capitalizes with weddings in Ok magazine. We are privy to displays of his assets in photos of him semi naked, thighs splayed and to his wealth as he poses with his pop star wife and Ferrari. He complains that he lives with "cameras up my backside 24 hours a day" but we are not treated to those particular colostomy close ups. Is he to blame if we gave him such mediocre aspirations? He may have it all but we gave him precious little to collect. We can hear the regulars in the East End raising a glass and mouthing a jealous but respectful "Good on yer son".
But it is his skill on the pitch that made him. He became the most vilified man in Britain with that kick against Argentina's Diego Simeone. He asks for pity when he bleats about his treatment at the hands of the football faithful that judge him on performance alone. He says he has been "hit by thongs and knickers" but also obscene chants from the terraces. After the World Cup fiasco for which he shouldered the shame of England's impotency rumor had it that he would cut and run to Real Madrid. To his credit he stayed and faced his terrace terrors. Beckham started the 98/99 season as a hate figure but finished it a hero.
He can be self-critical, acknowledging that, "showboating, hitting flash stupid balls" is a waste of talent but this is no George Best. He has a prodigious talent, the best midfielder since Bobby Charlton. We could only have got to the World Cup with him but would not have won it without him.
Sport is the opiate of the masses. It allows us ho debate. It diverts us from discussing real issues but it also allows us to develop passions and beliefs without having to go to war. I have always felt an enormous relief at the sight of English fans rampaging through distant streets. Far better to fight over football than be bad at sport and live in a real war zone. It means our heroes are not generals on plinths but sports stars on pedestals. Beckham is almost a worthy hero. Ultimately he is as vacuous as we are, "I once had one really, really good friend called John at primary school but we moved on, we went to different schools and sort of split up".
Cassell
Top Home |
|
|
|
|
