LITMIR.BIZ

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later, when I was going out with Deana, I needed something a bit less laddish so I bought a brand new VW Golf. I used to get slaughtered by the other United players because of the number plate M13 EKS – which, with the letters bunched up, I had looking like M BECKS. Most of the lads have probably forgotten that. The one they never left me alone about was my first sponsored club car. At the time, United had a deal with Honda to supply the young players with a new Prelude once they’d played twenty first-team games. Gary and Phil and the rest all got theirs before I did, having been involved with the senior squad more often over the previous couple of seasons. By the time I was ready to pick up mine, I’d worked out exactly what I wanted to do.

      I chose one in a very dark grey. Then I paid extra to have them fit a leather interior, a new CD player and big alloy wheels. That was money I didn’t really have to throw around at the time and – because the cars would go back to Honda, eventually – it was money that I was never going to see again either. Of course, my new Prelude looked completely different to everyone else’s. And I loved it because it was just how I wanted it. We’d often take it in turns to give each other lifts into training. That particular model was pretty cramped in the rear seats, which is probably why Gary – an old man, you see, even then – changed his for a four-door Accord. One day at the Cliff, after we’d finished training for the day, I was getting ready to drive out of the car park and I already had someone in the front passenger seat. David May came running over and asked if he could jump in the back. Well, I’d just got this beautiful new car and I said no. David swears to this day that what I actually said was: ‘No chance. I don’t want you to scuff the leather.’

      It took about half an hour for everyone at the club to hear about it; and then several years for me to stop hearing about it. I don’t remember saying it but – if I’m really honest with myself – I can imagine I did. I am particular about looking after the things I like and, in a football club dressing room, whether it’s on Hackney Marshes or at Old Trafford, that can get you into trouble. Footballers will always find each other’s weak spots and, once they do, they’ll never leave it alone.

      I’ve always had a streak in me, which might seem flash if you don’t know me, of being particular about the things I want and of valuing individuality, even if I get stick because of it. When I was about six years old I remember a family wedding where I’d been invited to be a pageboy. We all went along to get fitted for our outfits and I got my heart set on a particular look: maroon knickerbockers, white stockings up to the knee, a frilly white shirt, a maroon waistcoat and a pair of ballet shoes. My dad told me I looked stupid in it. Mum said she needed to warn me that people were going to laugh at me. I didn’t care. I loved that outfit and I just wanted to wear it. Never mind at the wedding: I wanted it on all the time. I think I’d have worn it to school if they’d let me.

      Along with being very particular about what I like, I’m very careful about looking after what I’ve got. My mum will tell you how, when I was at school, I used to come in and change but would only go out to play football after I’d folded up my dirty clothes. I’m still tidier than almost anyone else I know. When I first arrived at United, the other boys of my age weren’t convinced about me, and maybe put some of my character, as they saw it, down to fancying myself a bit too much. The truth is, though – whether you’re talking about a pageboy outfit, a club car with leather seats or a tattoo or a sarong, come to that – it’s got nothing to do with one-upmanship or with making a point. My friends and my team-mates know that now, just as my family always have: I’ve got my own tastes and if I can indulge them I will, whatever other people might say. I’ve always been the same: knowing what I like is just part of who I am.

      Everything that was happening away from football just added to the excitement at Old Trafford during my first season as a regular. I’d wake up every morning hardly able to believe what was going on around me. I’d drive into training, thinking to myself: I’m a first-team player. I’m doing my work on the main pitch at the Cliff. I’ve got my own spot in the car park, with my initials there in white paint. When I went to the training ground for the first time as a boy, those white lines marked out with the initials of the United players I idolised seemed to represent everything I dreamt of achieving for myself. Now, I belonged and it might have been easy to get swept away with it all. People at the club, though, and the manager in particular, didn’t let that happen. They didn’t suddenly start behaving differently towards me and the other young lads just because it said ‘DB’ on the tarmac and me, Gary and the rest were on the teamsheet every week.

      I was excited every morning about going in to train with Eric Cantona, too. We’d made a good start without him during that 1995/96 season, but the captain being back at the club and back in the team counted for a lot. I don’t know about the other players but, if Eric was in the dressing room, I’d find myself watching him: checking what he was doing, trying to work out exactly how he prepared for a game. If he was there, I hardly seemed to notice anything else that was going on. I’ve always been a fan: a Manchester United fan. And I still am. When I had my first chance to go into the dressing rooms at Old Trafford as a boy, I asked where Bryan Robson sat and then walked across to sit there myself. I was the same about Eric and couldn’t quite get over the fact that I was sitting alongside him in the build-up to games, never mind that we’d be playing together later that afternoon.

      We played some great football that season. I remember one night at Old Trafford when we played Bolton and won 3–0. It could have been ten. Paul Scholes scored twice, Giggsy got the other and we absolutely battered them. When the team was flying, Eric Cantona was usually at the heart of it. The difficult games, though, were the ones in which he really left his mark. After Christmas, we had a run of 1–0 wins. United supporters didn’t even need to check: it was always Eric who scored. I remember one game against QPR down at Loftus Road. We were terrible and they were winning 1–0. I’d actually been substituted and the injury time at the end just dragged on and on. The home fans were going mad and then Eric arrived in the penalty area right on cue to equalise. Goals like that – results like that – turn a whole season.

      We spent month after month chasing Newcastle United, who were twelve points ahead of us going into 1996. We went up to St James’ Park in the spring and Eric – who else? – scored the only goal. From then on, we knew that we could do it. The penultimate game that season, at home to Nottingham Forest, was the night I realised we actually would. We beat Forest 5–0. I still remember the two goals I scored. Eric hit a volley which skewed off target and I headed in as the ball came across me. Then, I received a ball just inside the area which I turned on and hit under the keeper. In the end, we had to win our final game at Middlesbrough to be absolutely sure of the title, but everyone – players and supporters – at Old Trafford that night just knew we were going to be champions.

      We’d just kept coming in for training, turning up for games and were all on the kind of high which has you half-expecting things to go wrong at any minute. In the United first team? Winning the Premiership? There had to be a catch. But there wasn’t. Instead, it got better and better. We weren’t just on our way to winning the League. How many FA Cup Finals had I been to at Wembley with Dad? Every time, both of us imagining what it would be like for me to play in one? And now, March 1996, here were United at Villa Park for a semi-final against Chelsea, who had Mark Hughes in their side. I didn’t know if I’d ever have a better chance.

      I couldn’t wait, although I promised myself I’d stay well out of Sparky’s way when the day came. I’m really friendly with Mark now. We see quite a lot of him, his wife Gill and their three children, who are the nicest, politest kids you’ll ever meet. I always used to say to Victoria that they were how I hoped our children would be. I knew back then, though, that it didn’t matter how well I knew Mark or how close we were off the pitch; on it – if he had to – he’d smash me as soon as he’d smash anybody else. He was one of those players whose character changes when they go out to play. Mark Hughes would fight for the ball, and fight anyone for it, all day long, which is why supporters and team-mates loved him like they did. I’ve seen games where he didn’t just bully the centre-half he was playing against, he’d bully the entire opposing team.

      Chelsea took the lead on the afternoon, Ruud Gullit scoring with a header. Then Andy Cole equalised for us. Well into the second half, one of their defenders, Craig

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