Save Our Squad With David Beckham (Disney+) puts the main draw up in the title. But though you might come for Goldenballs, you will stay for the U14 Westward Boys’ team who are threatened with relegation from the Echo premier league, where Beckham began his career. If there is anything more heartbreakingly and upliftingly guileless than a bunch of teenage boys playing football, do not tell me. My tear ducts cannot take it. As a concept, it is shamelessly cynical and manipulative. The programme begins with closeups of Beckham’s ridiculously handsome face as he recounts his early experiences and lifelong wish “to give back to football”, intercut with match footage from his glory days and a chorus of angels singing in the background. Not quite the latter, but nearly. The plan is to have him work with the demoralised boys – who haven’t won a match since they were promoted to the premier league – and teach them about the need for teamwork, sacrifice and dedication while avoiding relegation. He is nervous about being accepted by the boys, their parents and coaches. Really? Are you really, David Beckham? Do you not think you might be welcomed as a sort of god, walking among mere mortals and shining the light of divine success, talent and celebrity upon them? I do! And do you know what? I’m right. After their most recent and biggest defeat and a sad lecture from their coach, Ade Abayomi, about the likely outcome if their performances don’t improve, Ade announces to the stricken boys that they are bringing in someone to help. Beckham walks slowly down the corridor into the changing room and the lads brighten and open like flowers being blessed by the sun. I wonder what it’s like to be David Beckham? Not half bad, is my guess. As is mandatory with formulaic, cynical, manipulative formats like this, we must then endure a lot of guff. Beckham murmurs endless platitudes to camera about how it’s all to do with self-confidence, self-esteem and “being there” for each other, as if actual sporting ability, discipline, drive and practice don’t come into it. Despite these constraints (and the fact that Beckham is that rare case of a preternaturally good-looking superstar without the charisma to carry a programme), Save Our Squad survives and thrives. This is partly because when Beckham is properly in and among them while they are training, the artifice falls away. His easy charm and grace as he works on their skills, encourages their strengths and gently advises them how to mitigate their weaknesses is lovely to watch – a sidelight shone on that rare and precious thing, non-toxic masculinity on unapologetic show. And it is partly because there are endearing moments when the formula fails. It is one developed, in essence, for and by Americans. Brits cannot pull it off. At the end of his appearance in the changing room, Beckham says “I’m here to save this season.” It’s clearly a scripted line, designed to be delivered with gusto! A rousing finale to his triumphant advent into their lives! He delivers it with all the quiet embarrassment he should. It is a moment to make you swell with patriotic pride. But Save Our Squad, really, is saved by the squad. The boys are irrepressible. “I’m never going to wash my hand again!” cries one, wheeling off into the field after Beckham shakes his hand. There is the genuine horror of Kuro, but played for laughs, when he realises his shirt is creased as he settles down for his introductory chat to camera: “I can’t be looking like this in an interview!” Defender Gio loves football so much, he tells us, as he grabs the medals they won last season and hangs them round his neck, that “Sometimes the ball is in my bed!” Ethan tells us he doesn’t focus on girls. His pal Rio looks at him. “Don’t look at me,” says Ethan, before they both collapse laughing. You will laugh too. You will binge-watch (all the episodes have dropped at once). You will almost certainly cry. The formula works, despite itself. It’s basically balls, but golden.