Friday, August 10, 2007
Bend it like the back of Beckham's head
I was but a wee lass (OK, fine, I was 19) living in London the first time I witnessed the phenomenon that is David and Victoria Beckham (or Posh and Becks, as they're better known to me and anyone who's ever glanced at a British tabloid for more than a nanosecond). I was familiar with Posh, of course, having been something of a closet Spice Girls fan in the late '90s, and I believe I'd heard that she'd married a soccer star, but I don't think I was quite prepared for the rabid attention paid to this couple by the British press. I mean, in America, if a mediocre singer in a washed-up pop band married a sports star, they'd be doing good to make it onto the C list. But this was Britain, where the average celebrity tends to be more of the Helen Mirren or Judi Dench variety, and therefore not exactly good tabloid fodder. I mean, when was the last time Helen Mirren shaved her head and checked herself into rehab, or Judi Dench snorted some coke and ran her car into a tree? My point exactly. So Posh and Becks became Britain's media darlings.
I was unabashedly fascinated by this spectacle. Mind you, this was a time before celebrity gossip magazines flooded the U.S. market, creating the unholy tabloid trinity of Lindsay, Britney and Paris. I had never seen such a breadth of press coverage devoted to two people. To give you an idea of just how crazy it was, I once saw a picture of Posh and Becks illustrating a newspaper story about how the majority of young couples in Britain were struggling to make ends meet. The caption read something like, "Unlike most of Britain's young couples, Posh and Becks don't have to worry about money." Insane. Adding to my Posh-and-Becks fascination was the rumor (told to us by Hannah and Ann's host family) that the couple's London home was located in our neighborhood. I had my doubts about this one, as I never saw any paparazzi outside when I strolled past, but that didn't stop me from telling everyone I knew that I lived just a couple miles away from Posh and Becks. Plus, there was the fact that David Beckham is really hot, which was what led in part to the purchase of my coveted David Beckham keychain at the Trocadero in Picadilly Circus.
So when Monika mentioned that she had an extra ticket to last night's sold-out D.C. United game against the L.A. Galaxy, I didn't hesitate to snap it up. It was only on the Metro ride over, when I caught a glimpse of a headline in Express, that I learned about Becks' ankle injury and that he might not be able to play. And indeed, I spent most of the first half of the game peering through my binoculars at the back of David Beckham's head as he swilled Gatorade on the bench. At about the 40-minute mark, he got up and began to warm up on the sidelines, causing a bit of a frenzy among the packed stadium (and among Monika and me, as we excitedly passed the binoculars back and forth). However, that was nothing compared to the mayhem that ensued at minute 70 when Becks pulled off his warm-up jacket (necessitating a mad grab for the binoculars by yours truly), pulled on his jersey and prepared to take the field. Instantly, the crowd was on its feet (some of us may have even been jumping up and down...), thousands of flashbulbs flashed, and the stadium echoed with cheers (and a few boos).
At first, I was a little disappointed by what turned out to be an underwhelming 20-minute performance by Becks, but then I reminded myself that his soccer skills are not why I love him. No, the appeal of David Beckham for me lies in the media circus that his every move creates, which was in full force last night for what turned out to be his MLS debut. Plus, there's the fact that David Beckham is really hot. Especially in person and without his shirt on.
I was but a wee lass (OK, fine, I was 19) living in London the first time I witnessed the phenomenon that is David and Victoria Beckham (or Posh and Becks, as they're better known to me and anyone who's ever glanced at a British tabloid for more than a nanosecond). I was familiar with Posh, of course, having been something of a closet Spice Girls fan in the late '90s, and I believe I'd heard that she'd married a soccer star, but I don't think I was quite prepared for the rabid attention paid to this couple by the British press. I mean, in America, if a mediocre singer in a washed-up pop band married a sports star, they'd be doing good to make it onto the C list. But this was Britain, where the average celebrity tends to be more of the Helen Mirren or Judi Dench variety, and therefore not exactly good tabloid fodder. I mean, when was the last time Helen Mirren shaved her head and checked herself into rehab, or Judi Dench snorted some coke and ran her car into a tree? My point exactly. So Posh and Becks became Britain's media darlings.
I was unabashedly fascinated by this spectacle. Mind you, this was a time before celebrity gossip magazines flooded the U.S. market, creating the unholy tabloid trinity of Lindsay, Britney and Paris. I had never seen such a breadth of press coverage devoted to two people. To give you an idea of just how crazy it was, I once saw a picture of Posh and Becks illustrating a newspaper story about how the majority of young couples in Britain were struggling to make ends meet. The caption read something like, "Unlike most of Britain's young couples, Posh and Becks don't have to worry about money." Insane. Adding to my Posh-and-Becks fascination was the rumor (told to us by Hannah and Ann's host family) that the couple's London home was located in our neighborhood. I had my doubts about this one, as I never saw any paparazzi outside when I strolled past, but that didn't stop me from telling everyone I knew that I lived just a couple miles away from Posh and Becks. Plus, there was the fact that David Beckham is really hot, which was what led in part to the purchase of my coveted David Beckham keychain at the Trocadero in Picadilly Circus.
So when Monika mentioned that she had an extra ticket to last night's sold-out D.C. United game against the L.A. Galaxy, I didn't hesitate to snap it up. It was only on the Metro ride over, when I caught a glimpse of a headline in Express, that I learned about Becks' ankle injury and that he might not be able to play. And indeed, I spent most of the first half of the game peering through my binoculars at the back of David Beckham's head as he swilled Gatorade on the bench. At about the 40-minute mark, he got up and began to warm up on the sidelines, causing a bit of a frenzy among the packed stadium (and among Monika and me, as we excitedly passed the binoculars back and forth). However, that was nothing compared to the mayhem that ensued at minute 70 when Becks pulled off his warm-up jacket (necessitating a mad grab for the binoculars by yours truly), pulled on his jersey and prepared to take the field. Instantly, the crowd was on its feet (some of us may have even been jumping up and down...), thousands of flashbulbs flashed, and the stadium echoed with cheers (and a few boos).
At first, I was a little disappointed by what turned out to be an underwhelming 20-minute performance by Becks, but then I reminded myself that his soccer skills are not why I love him. No, the appeal of David Beckham for me lies in the media circus that his every move creates, which was in full force last night for what turned out to be his MLS debut. Plus, there's the fact that David Beckham is really hot. Especially in person and without his shirt on.
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