David Beckham’s football career might have ended 15 years ago had I not pointed him in the right direction.
He’d probably still be looking for the car park at Manchester’s city-centre Ramada Hotel (now the Renaissance).
It was a night I’ll never forget...a charity spectacular for sick and terminally ill children involving 30 of the biggest names in North-west sport.
The then unknighted Alex Ferguson was there, along with Manchester United stars Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt and a host of other A-list stars including future England cricket captain Andrew Flintoff.
The celebs mingled with 300 paying guests at a fundraising evening-dress event based on BBC TV’s A Question of Sport. And as a committee member, I was assigned to the welcoming desk in the hotel reception area.
All but one of the celebrities had been escorted up to the banqueting suite and Beckham was the only name not crossed off my list.
I looked at my watch and decided to give him a tiny bit longer. I mean, I wanted to see Posh Spice's fella close up.
I stood there alone, people-watching—and wondering what I would say if Becks actually showed up.
Then it happened. There was no dramatic entrance. In fact, it was an extremely hesitant Beckham who emerged from the swing doors, looking shy and confused.
I made a beeline for the Old Trafford glamour boy. ‘‘Hi David,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m…’’
.‘‘How do I get to the hotel car park?’’ he interjected edgily.‘‘Where’s your car?’’ I said.
“Out there.’’
He pointed vaguely in the direction of Blackfriars Street.
I hardly expected it to be in Birmingham but I resisted the temptation to joke with the clearly agitated youngster.
“Turn left at the traffic lights,’’ I said. “The entrance is 100 yards down on the left. You can’t miss it.’’
Beckham clearly found bending a ball into a net from 35 yards a much simpler challenge than bending his BMW sports car 200 metres around a corner.
But his confusion didn’t surprise me. These were the days when "y’know" constituted roughly 80 percent of the entire Beckham vocabulary.
‘‘No problem, I’ll come with you,’’ I said, heading for the swing doors. England’s most fanciable footballer followed me out, relieved that he didn’t have to go it alone.
Gleaming at us from across the road was that luxurious blue Beckham BMW. I tried to start a conversation as we waited for the traffic lights to change, hoping he might just leak an exclusive story. But the Beckham of the late ‘90s seemed incapable of stringing a full sentence together
Either that or he was petrified of Fergie’s hair-dryer burning his golden locks if he said anything out of place..
For the rest of the two minute journey I clung to Beckham’s every word. Both of them.
And before you could say "you know," we were facing a key-card protected barrier at the car-park entrance. “I’ll get someone to let you in,’’ I said, leaping out.
Somewhere in the gloom, a white apron and chef’s hat ghosted out of a door, with a camp cook inside them.
“Can I help?’’ asked the food fairy, lighting a cigarette and trumping Beckham’s array of continuous words in a single spurt.
“How do we get the barrier raised?’’ I asked, indicating the BMW at the barrier.: “I’ve got David Beckham over there trying to get in.’’
“David Beckham? WHERE?!!!!!’’
Suddenly there were people in white aprons everywhere.
The barrier lifted as if by magic, Beckham and BMW eased into an empty parking space to a round of applause from the gathered cuisinery, and I reflected on the fortune Beckham's Car Park Chronicles could have earned me had I managed to get his lips moving.
But the only story I got was this one.
He’d probably still be looking for the car park at Manchester’s city-centre Ramada Hotel (now the Renaissance).
It was a night I’ll never forget...a charity spectacular for sick and terminally ill children involving 30 of the biggest names in North-west sport.
The then unknighted Alex Ferguson was there, along with Manchester United stars Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt and a host of other A-list stars including future England cricket captain Andrew Flintoff.
The celebs mingled with 300 paying guests at a fundraising evening-dress event based on BBC TV’s A Question of Sport. And as a committee member, I was assigned to the welcoming desk in the hotel reception area.
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| UNITED FOR CHARITY: Beckham, Ferguson, Scholes and Butt |
I looked at my watch and decided to give him a tiny bit longer. I mean, I wanted to see Posh Spice's fella close up.
I stood there alone, people-watching—and wondering what I would say if Becks actually showed up.
Then it happened. There was no dramatic entrance. In fact, it was an extremely hesitant Beckham who emerged from the swing doors, looking shy and confused.
I made a beeline for the Old Trafford glamour boy. ‘‘Hi David,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m…’’
.‘‘How do I get to the hotel car park?’’ he interjected edgily.‘‘Where’s your car?’’ I said.
“Out there.’’
He pointed vaguely in the direction of Blackfriars Street.
I hardly expected it to be in Birmingham but I resisted the temptation to joke with the clearly agitated youngster.
“Turn left at the traffic lights,’’ I said. “The entrance is 100 yards down on the left. You can’t miss it.’’
Beckham clearly found bending a ball into a net from 35 yards a much simpler challenge than bending his BMW sports car 200 metres around a corner.
But his confusion didn’t surprise me. These were the days when "y’know" constituted roughly 80 percent of the entire Beckham vocabulary.
‘‘No problem, I’ll come with you,’’ I said, heading for the swing doors. England’s most fanciable footballer followed me out, relieved that he didn’t have to go it alone.
Gleaming at us from across the road was that luxurious blue Beckham BMW. I tried to start a conversation as we waited for the traffic lights to change, hoping he might just leak an exclusive story. But the Beckham of the late ‘90s seemed incapable of stringing a full sentence together
Either that or he was petrified of Fergie’s hair-dryer burning his golden locks if he said anything out of place..
For the rest of the two minute journey I clung to Beckham’s every word. Both of them.
And before you could say "you know," we were facing a key-card protected barrier at the car-park entrance. “I’ll get someone to let you in,’’ I said, leaping out.
Somewhere in the gloom, a white apron and chef’s hat ghosted out of a door, with a camp cook inside them.
“Can I help?’’ asked the food fairy, lighting a cigarette and trumping Beckham’s array of continuous words in a single spurt.
“How do we get the barrier raised?’’ I asked, indicating the BMW at the barrier.: “I’ve got David Beckham over there trying to get in.’’
“David Beckham? WHERE?!!!!!’’
Suddenly there were people in white aprons everywhere.
The barrier lifted as if by magic, Beckham and BMW eased into an empty parking space to a round of applause from the gathered cuisinery, and I reflected on the fortune Beckham's Car Park Chronicles could have earned me had I managed to get his lips moving.
But the only story I got was this one.
