It took an article in the NY Times to make me understand my feelings for David Beckham. Ironic that it had to come from a land where they don't even call football by its proper name.
Beckham is 35 years old now, almost ancient in footballing terms. But he still has that drive to play. He played himself into the ground last year, playing all year around with LA Galaxy then with AC Milan to prove his fitness to an England team, to get a spot on the plane to South Africa, to represent his nation one more time at a World Cup. When he ruptured is Achilles right at the end, thus ending his dream of a final World Cup, he broke into genuine tears of sorrow and disappointment. As someone who knows a little something about trying so hard only to fall at the final moment, i feel for him.
There is something almost reverent about a person who dedicates his life to his work, his passion. At some point, it has to be more than just the money that pushes him along; he has more than he'll ever be able to spend in a lifetime. No, he plays now, because he wants to, not because he has to.
He joins a very small, very elite club of people. Ones who have reached the pinnacle of their profession out of their love for what they were doing and do everything they can to stay there even when it would be much more convenient to just step aside. Steve Jobs? Bill Gates? Warren Buffet? Beckham is in your company, gentleman.
