Through all the tears, it's still clear David Beckham must go to World Cup

Matthew Norman
1 Apr 2010

Speaking before the most tear-jerking return England has known since John McCarthy came home from Beirut, or possibly since ITV briefly reopened the Crossroads Motel, David Beckham lauded Sir Alex Ferguson as quite the father to him. He meant it kindly, because he really is the sweetest of men.

Yet the memory of the flying boot reminded you that Marvin Gaye Snr was quite the father to Jnr until he shot him dead; and that Lord Vader was, in what Motty would identify as a very real sense, quite the father to Luke Skywalker.

Whatever kind of father Sir Alex is to Beckham now, the coolness of the Glaswegian's reciprocal praise ruled out one from a parable of Christ's.

This was a relief. If the banquet of emotion served up at Old Trafford was just about stomachable, a huge helping of fatted calf would have caused raging indigestion.

Anyway, there was a sufficiently biblical air to this Champions League second leg as it was, with the home fans cleaving to those green and gold scarves and the sense of victimhood they represent, and styling themselves as the Children of Israel enslaved in financial bondage by those wicked Pharoahs from across the Atlantic.

With all the nurturing warmth shown to Becks and the white hot rage directed at the attendant Glazer Fils, the last thing anyone needed was a superheated game of football.

Which was lucky, because that was the last thing we were going to get with Manchester United eventually running out 4-0 winners on the night, 7-2 overall.

Admittedly AC Milan started brightly. Had Ronaldhino's early header landed six inches the other side of the post, or Klaas Jan Huntelaar controlled a through ball in a less clumsy manner, they'd have levelled the aggregate at 3-3.

That might have lent the occasion a little squeaky bum time but it wouldn't have mattered.

In the absence of a sniper taking out Wayne Rooney, there was no way geriatric Milan — cute and dangerous in bursts, but too lightweight to dominate — could have won the tie, and they knew it.

Any hint of competitiveness vanished before the quarter hour, when Rooney deployed that smooth pate to angle home a gorgeous cross from Gary Neville.

From that moment, the sole point of interest was when Milan coach Leonardo would remove the lid from the sentimental pressure cooker, and bring on the man re-nicknamed “Green and Goldenballs” by an anti-Glazer placard.

Leonardo may be the only global football figure not only wealthier than Becks (he comes from a sensationally rich Brazilian family), but also more charming and good natured.

Me, I'd have left the returning hero on the bench for the entire game out of a mixture of spite and pique.

Leonardo did the noble thing almost on hour, once the reliably excellent Park Ji-Sung had added a third to Rooney's brace, and the greeting brought to mind the annual welcome given to Arnold Palmer at Augusta as he teed off, preparatory to shooting 94, deep into his 70s.

It was certainly mawkish, and you needed a heart of granite not to laugh at the undercurrent of self-pity (such happy days and not so long ago, when the boy played for us and no one had heard of Red Knights or Newton Sodding Heath) fuelling the warmth.

Beckham, Milan's best player on a night when the other superstars faded in the face of an impossible task, showed enough in his half hour to explain why Fabio Capello must take him to South Africa.

To have the option of deploying him late on in a game that needs salvaging is an irresistible luxury.

This tie had long since beyond salvation for Milan and with Beckham peppering United's box with decent crosses it dribbled away amiably enough.

Rooney was removed but not before scoring his second, and any minute he spends off the pitch between now and the World Cup is a bonus.

So grievous is the terror of losing him to injury that we need emergency legislation forcing him to live in a giant incubator until May.

As for Beckham, in the December of his career he remains agile and dangerous on the pitch, and a show-stealer of genius off it.

His mastery of the diplomatic niceties, as exhibited in the guff about Good Poppa Fergie beforehand, had another run out as he draped one of those Norwich City scarves around his neck, graciously permitted his eyes to moisten, and grinned appreciatively at the stands.

The watching Glazer Boys were smiling too, albeit nervously, reflecting perhaps that the only meat these prodigiously unloved sons of Malcolm can expect when they next return is their own flesh, roasting on a spit.