Meanwhile, everybody else–Yanks, Aussies, all sorts of former colonials, Russians, Czechs, Germans, guys who’ve never won anything major before, guys who will never win anything major again–steals away with the glory. And the hosts no longer even exact a modest revenge by forcing the champion to grovel in front of the royal box before he gets to lay hands on the pricey hardware.
But I guess it’s a very good thing that England loves Wimbledon so much. If ever a nation desperately needed a sporting distraction right now, it is England. Because the nation is still reeling over the news that Manchester United, the New York Yankees of British soccer and England’s reigning Premiership champion, sold off its most popular player, David Beckham, for the tidy sum of $40 million. Not only sold him, but, in effect, exiled him from the Premiership to Spain’s La Liga. Not only exiled him, but to a powerful European rival, Real Madrid. Not only to a powerful rival, but to the very team that this past season booted ManU out of the most presitigious European competition.
A transaction of this magnitude is pretty much incomprehensible here in America, but let’s try. Try to imagine Michael Jordan playing in a uniform other than that of the Chicago Bulls. OK, forget that one. Imagine instead a team selling its superstar, a guy like Babe Ruth, to one of its chief rivals. Nah, forget that one, too. I guess we do get it and maybe even are inured to these seismic shifts in the sporting lineups. Roger Clemens pitching against the Red Sox. Joe Montana quarterbacking against the 49ers. Patrick Roy tending net against the Montreal Canadians. Been there, done that.
Still, the case of David Beckham is somehow different than all the other improbable uniform changes we’ve witnessed–if only because this country no longer has just one sport that defines it, a single sport by which it measures its standing in the world. When one says David Beckham is captain of England, nobody across the water wonders for a second what sport exactly are we talking about. England may treasure its rugby and cricket teams, but nothing rivals its extraordinary soccer history and pedigree. When Beckham was injured a few months before last summer’s World Cup, the nation went into a paroxysm of public grieving, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the death of Princess Di. And though a veteran now of two World Cup campaigns, he is still just 28 years old.
There has never been a famous American athlete who, as “captain of the United States,” has attained anything approaching stature of Beckham. Look what happened to Mike Eruzione who was captain of a U.S. hockey team, historically a position of modest rank. But thanks to “The Miracle on Ice,” Eruzione has remained an American hero for more than two decades and, I suspect now, in perpetuity. Imagine if this country actually cared about hockey. Perhaps the closest America has come to glimpsing the Beckham phenomenon was Joe DiMaggio. Synergy hadn’t been invented or at least articulated yet. But contemplate the magnitude of celebrity had he married Marilyn Monroe at the peak of his career rather than just hers.
If you can imagine it, then you’d have something like the celebrity union of Beckham and former Spice Girl, Posh. They are the new royalty of England and, as a result, his every step, fashion choice , haircut and evening out is chronicled–celebrated and deplored in that unique fashion of the British tabloid press. Americans got a glimpse of the madness recently, thanks to a delightful film, “Bend It Like Beckham,” which celebrated both his free-kick abilities and hunkiness in equal measure.
Now, Beckham was never an ordinary player in Manchester United’s pantheon of international stars. He was destined for the ranks of Man U from the time he was a highly-touted young teen. The coach’s affection for him was as close to paternal as Sir Alex Ferguson is likely ever to come on the field. And that inevitably compounded the wound he obviously felt, because filial betrayal has a special power all its own. Mind you, Manchester United just captured the Premiership, its 8th title in the last 11 years. But it was ousted by Real Madrid in the quarterfinals of the Champion’s League, the annual showdown of the European elite.
That classic matchup, a two-game series decided by total goals, was a precursor of Beckham’s fate. Real Madrid won the first game at home 3-1. A week later at storied Old Trafford in Manchester, Beckham wasn’t even in the starting lineup for the second game as the Madrid squad again took a 3-1 lead. In desperation, Ferguson inserted his designated scapegoat early in the second half. The reluctant supersub scored two goals within 10 minutes, one on a patented “bend it” free kick. Man U won the game, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. For Ferguson, the Premiership title without also topping Europe is evey bit as intoxicating as an A.L. East pennant is for George Steinbrenner in those years when the Yankees don’t go on to win the World Series.
Manchester United hasn’t worn the European crown since 1999. Note the year because that championship came just a few months before Beckham walked down the aisle with Posh Spice. And started down a path, at least in Sir Alex’s eyes, where he was a celebrity first and a soccer player second. There is a punishment for that and it turned out to be Madrid, a team that already boasts a linup with the best Spanish player (Raul), the best Brazilian (Ronaldo), the best Frenchman (Zidane) and the best Portuguese (Figo). It’s not clear that all will be back alongside Beckham next season, but it’s clearly a combustible mix in every sense. But even in that glittery lineup, Beckham’s centrality appears certain. On Monday, the day after it won another La Liga crown, Real Madrid fired its coach and named Ferguson’s right hand at Man U as its new head man. I suspect he will not be in the habit of benching Beckham next season.
The “Sir” that stands before Ferguson’s name had a little something to do with his elevated standing in this affair. Someone a rank short of knighthood (Beckham himself was just awarded an O.B.E, Order of the British Empire) might not have been tempted to joust with a younger man, a curmudgeonly Arthur pitted against the far more glamorous Lancelot. Ferguson is no doubt something of a bully, perhaps even a tyrant. Nevertheless, there is something more than a little appealing in this day when, in a clash between coach and superstar player, it’s finally the player who winds up hitting the road. Ferguson has provided us with a riddle for the ages: How do you say “bend it” in Spanish? Vaya con dios!
