David Beckham has never really fitted in. He emerged with a batch of talented young players at Man Utd in the mid 1990's but was never quite part of the gang. 'Fergie's Fledglings' (and journalists were rummaging frantically through thesauruses to find an alliterative collective name to match The Busby Babes) were mainly local lads with sensible haircuts. They scurried about a lot and played short passes. Nicky Butt was a fine example, a tireless perpetrator of actions tactically critical but invisible to the naked eye. Beckham was always too southern and too flash. From his ludicrous lob of Neil Sullivan in 1995 to his juvenile red card in the 1998 World Cup to his Spice Girl marriage and bewildering array of hairstyles, his career was a constant scream for attention. Nobody was surprised that he became the first of the brood to flee the nest – or possibly be ferociously kicked out of it by Alex Ferguson.
At Real Madrid, though, he went to the opposite extreme at the wrong time. His 'private' life briefly supplanted the most tiresome of soap operas, largely thanks to an imperfect understanding of how a mobile phone text function works. He rarely shone on the pitch, however. Beckham arrived during the era of the galacticos, superannuated stars who did absolutely nothing of value but looked great while failing to do it. Here the epitome was Roberto Carlos, a hilariously inept defender whose sole function was to violently thump free kicks 50 yards over the bar. Beckham just couldn't compete. Shunted from his favourite right midfield slot, he tried proving his worth by scurrying about and playing short passes. Even his hair grew more rational. He turned himself into Nicky Butt.
Hopefully he will find a proper home at LA Galaxy. It hasn't started well, however. When news of his contract - £70,000 a day, a virgin sacrifice tied to the rocks each month and all the ambrosia he can drink – came out, Beckham assured us he wasn't moving for the money. He was attracted by the massive potential of the club and the massive potential of football in America and so on. And who in his new homeland was he trying to convince here? Fans of LA Galaxy, a team which sounds like an especially annoying nightclub, and the rest of the MLS will react like everyone in the football world – a sceptical roll of the eyes so violent it risks straining a muscle. They are only a small group, however. Most US football fanatics care solely about the Latin American countries where they were born or the high school team which their daughter plays for.
Many Americans do like money, however. They like celebrities too, and they especially like celebrities who flaunt their money shamelessly. Beckham needs to go for this market if he wants to make himself a genuine star in the States. He should wave his contract like a talisman and pretend that being the highest paid player in history magically makes him the best. He should cruise the chat show circuits, he should build a Beverley Hills mansion which makes Beckingham Palace look tasteful and humble. It's likely to help football in America. Previously a stunted, stigmatised immigrant, the sport is suddenly offering the absurd salaries of basketball and attracting the corresponding attention. LA Galaxy's attendances will surge, part of the new crowd being enthusiastic teams of auditors wondering how the hell they can afford it. And if Beckham really gives it his best, if he pushes his image to the max, perhaps nobody will notice that he's an ageing trundler who can manage about three half-decent crosses per game.
At Real Madrid, though, he went to the opposite extreme at the wrong time. His 'private' life briefly supplanted the most tiresome of soap operas, largely thanks to an imperfect understanding of how a mobile phone text function works. He rarely shone on the pitch, however. Beckham arrived during the era of the galacticos, superannuated stars who did absolutely nothing of value but looked great while failing to do it. Here the epitome was Roberto Carlos, a hilariously inept defender whose sole function was to violently thump free kicks 50 yards over the bar. Beckham just couldn't compete. Shunted from his favourite right midfield slot, he tried proving his worth by scurrying about and playing short passes. Even his hair grew more rational. He turned himself into Nicky Butt.
Hopefully he will find a proper home at LA Galaxy. It hasn't started well, however. When news of his contract - £70,000 a day, a virgin sacrifice tied to the rocks each month and all the ambrosia he can drink – came out, Beckham assured us he wasn't moving for the money. He was attracted by the massive potential of the club and the massive potential of football in America and so on. And who in his new homeland was he trying to convince here? Fans of LA Galaxy, a team which sounds like an especially annoying nightclub, and the rest of the MLS will react like everyone in the football world – a sceptical roll of the eyes so violent it risks straining a muscle. They are only a small group, however. Most US football fanatics care solely about the Latin American countries where they were born or the high school team which their daughter plays for.
Many Americans do like money, however. They like celebrities too, and they especially like celebrities who flaunt their money shamelessly. Beckham needs to go for this market if he wants to make himself a genuine star in the States. He should wave his contract like a talisman and pretend that being the highest paid player in history magically makes him the best. He should cruise the chat show circuits, he should build a Beverley Hills mansion which makes Beckingham Palace look tasteful and humble. It's likely to help football in America. Previously a stunted, stigmatised immigrant, the sport is suddenly offering the absurd salaries of basketball and attracting the corresponding attention. LA Galaxy's attendances will surge, part of the new crowd being enthusiastic teams of auditors wondering how the hell they can afford it. And if Beckham really gives it his best, if he pushes his image to the max, perhaps nobody will notice that he's an ageing trundler who can manage about three half-decent crosses per game.
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