CHIPPING the Wimbledon goalkeeper with power and precision from an improbable distance in the early days of the season is not, in itself, sufficient to earn a call-up into Glenn Hoddle's first. England squad.
But as with most things he does, David Beckham's effort last Saturday - a piece of play that earned him the chant from the United supporters at Selhurst Park of "We all agree, Beckham is better than Pele" - was perfectly timed.
Like those bits of political policy that are floated by a think- tank and discussed in the newspapers for a while before emerging as intended government policy, there had been much talk in informed circles these last few weeks that Beckham would be in Hoddle's plans.
For the casual observer such speculation was a surprise. Beckham is the least celebrated of Ferguson's Fledglings at Old Trafford, well behind Giggs and the Neville brothers in public recognition, apparently far more of a figure on the first team fringes than the combative Butt or Scholes.
It was widely assumed that when Alex Ferguson bought in Jordi Cruyff and Karel Poborski it would be Beckham who would be making way; he had, after all, only been filling in the right wing vacated by Andrei Kanchelskis until another flyer could be found.
Indeed, the gossip in the stands at United matches was that the young lads were somewhat cheesed off at their manager's summer spending spree, so certain were they that it room was to be made for the newcomers it would be them making it.
They had won him the double last season, was their alleged gripe, how come they were not considered good enough to defend it? Which was why Beckham's halfway-line goal on Saturday was such a cunning intervention. Deliberate, dynamic, dramatic, it gave evidence to a wider audience of what seasoned observers had long recognised: that of Ferguson's exceptional crop of youngsters, Beckham was the real vintage.
Like the two or three thousand diehards who travel up to Manchester once a fortnight and, for their dedication get nothing but widespread opprobrium in return, Beckham is a Cockney Red. He comes from a long line of them. Born and raised in Leytonstone in the faith, he turned down all offers from London clubs to pursue his dream of playing up north.
Trevor Brooking, oozing compliments on Saturday's Match of the Day must have been particularly sorry not to see him at nearby West Ham. Of all those playing since he retired, Beckham is the closest to the Brooking mould: a thinker rather than a leather-lunged sweat man and, though unafraid of scrapping, he is incapable of the malicious.
Indeed Beckham is an expression of one of the oddities of Alex Ferguson's management. The players Fergie produces are all clean good-mannered, gentlemanly of conduct: a credit to their mums, the headboys of football. It is the players he buys - Cantona, Ince and, in particular Keane who manifest his fierce, intemperate, flame-headed characteristics, his dark side.
Beckham was schooled in The Cliff nursery which inculcates Ferguson's Dr Jekyll attributes: wear a club blazer, don't get booked, be polite to the media but give nothing away.
In this learning place, parents play an important role. Unlike some managers, Fergie doesn't get irritated by keen mums and dads. He encourages them, believes they can help in a lad's development, keep him level-headed, away from the temptations that can attract well-paid teenagers in a busy city.
Beckham's paints, who are very close to the Neville folks, have travelled up from London to every game he has played. And when their boy was out on loan at Preston 18 months ago, that entailed more mileage than ever.
When Michael Atherton first appeared in the Lancashire dressing room, his team-mates daubed the prophetic acronym "FEC" on his locker: Future England Captain. The first time United fans became aware of Beckham - playing against Galatasaray in a Champions League game in November 1994 with unnatural calm and assurance, a performance rounded off by a crisp and classy goal some of the more astute reckoned there was a FEC in their midst.
But Beckham's rise turned out to be less meteoric than some of his contemporaries, his appearances after that game more sporadic. In the embarrassment of riches that was his squad, Ferguson had the luxury of making sure before throwing the occasionally lightweight Beckham into the harem-scarem of the Premiership.
Beckham's opportunity came when Hughes, Ince and more particularly Kanchelskis departed. He was promoted to play right wing, but it was never really his slot: his delivery of crosses and corners may have been significantly more adept than Kanchelskis, Sharpe or Gigg but he didn't have the break of speed to do real damage. You sensed he was biding his time, waiting for the move inside.
At last, this season, Beckham has shown he is beginning to be the player many suspected he could be. In the Charity Shield, he was everywhere, spraying passes with Cantona-esque accuracy. Paul Ince, confronting him in a friendly with Internazionale, said afterwards he couldn't believe how the lad had developed: no longer was he the lanky easy-to-brush-off-the-ball makeweight he had encountered in training. He was the real thing, with a real future.
Which would have come as relief to one section of the United juggernaut. With Sharpe departing for Leeds, a big hole opened up in the red duvet cover market. Beckham, as unfairly endowed in looks as he is in football skills, appears to be the idol to fill it: teenagers' bedroom walls look about to be redecorated in a new face.
Not, that Ferguson will allow such frippery to affect the player. A couple of months ago, fearing over-exposure for his protege, Ferguson pulled him out of an important United fixture: a fashion show for the merchandising department. Even at Old Trafford, it seems, football can take priority over marketing.
