A privilege to see Los Galacticos in action at Bernabeu

The soccer boffin continues his series looking at some of his favourite teams

Early in the evening of Saturday, March 9, 2002, I walked out of the Ritz hotel in Madrid and asked the doorman if he could call a taxi for me. He smiled politely. “Where to?” he asked. “The Bernabeu,” I said. Now he beamed. We were brothers. When the taxi pulled up he leaned into the driver’s open window and said with pride: “Santiago Bernabeu.”

He pronounced that last word as burn-a-boo. Since then, so have I. I used to say burn-a-bow. In Britain I had heard others saying burn-abay-oh. If a Real fan in Madrid said burn-a-boo, so would I.

I was in Madrid on a pilgrimage. When I was a boy my dad had told me about the team that made Real Madrid famous outside of Spain. He had seen them at Hampden Park, Glasgow, in 1960 when they won the European Cup for the fifth time in a row. I wrote about them in the first article in this series.

Since I was a boy I had promised myself that one day I would go to watch Real play in Madrid at the Bernabeu.

I am glad I waited until I was in my forties. By then they were building a team fit to be mentioned in the same breath as the one of the late 1950s and early 1960s, a team with names to rival those of Di Stefano and Puskas.

Between 1999-2000 and 2002-03 Real won the Champions League then La Liga then the Champions League again then La Liga again. Four trophies in four seasons. And when they did not win the Champions League they reached the semi-finals.

Florentino Perez was elected president for the first time in July 2000. He instituted a programme that became known as Los Galacticos. He wanted to sign a global superstar every year. For the first three summers, he did. Luis Figo arrived in 2000, Zinedine Zidane in 2001, Ronaldo in 2002.

Real already had another Galactico: Raul. And many good players: Roberto Carlos at left back, Michel Salgado at right back, Fernando Hierro and Ivan Helguera at centre back, Iker Cassillas in goal, midfielders such as Guti, Steve McManaman, Santiago Solari, and striker Fernando Morientes. Raul was a striker too.

The aim was to win in style. And for four glorious seasons in one competition or another they did.

Figo was a dribbler on the right wing, Ronaldo a fast, strong forward with a powerful shot. Zidane, in my opinion, was the best of them all. He could tame a ball hit to him at any speed and any height, then turn on the spot. He was not quick, but with that control and that movement he could leave opponents on the floor and get away from them. No one can run after you when they are sitting down.

When Madrid had the ball Zidane would go wherever on the pitch he thought he could have most impact. When they did not have the ball manager Vicente del Bosque just asked him to go back and fill a space on the left of midfield if no one else was there. Often they did not have a natural left winger. With Roberto Carlos at left back they did not need one.

Del Bosque’s contribution was vital. With so many great players Madrid ought to have a great team. Del Bosque gave them a basic framework they could develop for themselves.

More importantly, he kept everyone happy.

Great players often come with huge egos. Earlier Madrid teams had failed because the players did not get along. Del Bosque was able to keep everyone happy with themselves and each other. These players loved him. They warmed to him as to a nice grandad.

Because he looked like a grandad he did not fit Perez’s image of a young, cool Madrid. His contract was not renewed after Madrid won La Liga in 2002-03. He had helped them win four trophies in four seasons. It would be another four seasons before they won La Liga again, another 11 seasons before they won the Champions League again.

Around that time Perez’s Galacticos programme changed subtly – from signing the best players in the world to signing the most famous players in the world. After Figo, Zidane and Ronaldo came… David Beckham. He was the best English player, but far from one of the best players in the world.

Perez is said to have boasted that he would never sign a defender. With so many attackers, Madrid’s most important player arguably was Claude Makelele, a midfielder who covered for the attackers by sweeping in front of the back four. His teammates appreciated him. Most of them earned a lot more than him. When he asked for a raise he was sold.

Everything was now going wrong. I would rather remember what came before, and the small bit of it that I saw.

The Estadio Santiago Bernabeu, named after a long-serving Real president, is in the posh Madrid district of Chamartin. Somebody once said it was like having a football ground in London on Park Lane.

I passed through a turnstile then wound my way up flights of stairs, up and up until I reached an opening. I paused as the pitch came into view. I wanted to take it all in.

I looked down at the rectangle of grass, such a lush green under the floodlights, then up at the steep banks of seats.

I always do this on my first visit to a great stadium. I had done it before at the San Siro in Milan and would do it again at Camp Nou in Barcelona. There is something I want to savour about the first sight of the inside of a famous arena.

There was nothing particularly special that night about the football. Real Madrid beat Villarreal 3-0. It was a routine win.

Villarreal played as though they were expecting to lose and they got what they were expecting. I was there a few months too early to see Ronaldo. And Figo did not play – I cannot remember why, whether he was injured or suspended – but I did see Raul and Zidane.

It was enough for me to be able to say that I was there, that I had gone and had paid my homage.