The Keeper

by Tim Howard

  “Nah,” I told Dan.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I just want to go home and be with my kids.”

  My assistant, Amber, showed me the “Things Tim Howard Could Save” memes that had been popping up all over the internet. There I was, saving the Titanic. Saving a swimmer from the shark in Jaws. Saving Janet Jackson from her Super Bowl wardrobe malfunction.

  She also showed me a screen grab for the secretary of defense’s Wikipedia page: some prankster had briefly substituted my name for the real one, Chuck Hagel. Then Chuck Hagel himself actually called to congratulate me.

  It all seemed so surreal; I couldn’t process what was going on.

  Only when I saw a New York Times graphic showing all 15 saves superimposed onto a single image did the number itself make sense. I studied them in turn.

  Oh yeah, I’d think. I remember that one. And that one, too.

  My flight from Brazil back to the U.S. landed just as the summer sun began its rise above the horizon.

  It didn’t occur to me at the time that maybe President Obama had been right and I should have shaved off my beard when I had the chance. As soon as I arrived at the terminal, I was immediately swarmed by people of every age, every background, every shape and size.

  They gave me high-fives. They crowded in for selfies—too many for me to count. They asked for my autograph on their boarding passes and coffee-shop receipts.

  “Captain America!” shouted one middle-aged woman.

  “I’m gonna grow a beard just like you!” shouted a college-aged kid, dressed in jeans and flip-flops. “You’re the man!”

  “Tim Howard!”

  “Great game!”

  “We’re so proud of you!”

  “Game of your life!”

  I heard that phrase again and again: game of your life.

  Was it?

  What I did against Belgium is the same thing I’ve tried to do throughout my career: keep the ball from going into the net.

  That’s just my job. Some games, I barely touch the ball. I’ll focus for 90 intense minutes, only to make one big save.

  Other days, like when we played Belgium, I’m asked to deliver 15 of them.

  Okay, so I made history on that field in Salvador. But it didn’t feel like beating Mexico in Azteca, or defeating Spain in the Confederations Cup. It’s not as if there were last-minute heroics like Landon’s winner in South Africa.

  Slowly, it dawned on me. Over the following days I began to understand that, somehow, people saw something that mattered to them in this game even more than winning.

  They’d seen us fight. We’d been knocked down and battered and depleted. Yet we kept at it. Not just me but every one of my teammates. And every day all over America, people were fighting with similar intensity against their own opponents, internal and external, in their own way.

  But our fight had been seen on TV by tens of millions, in the U.S. alone. And because I was the keeper—the last line of defense—I became the face of that battle.

  That’s when I understood: maybe, it really was the game of my life. Maybe “the game of your life” is simply the one that means the most to others.

  I went to Destin, Florida, with Trey and Laura and the kids . . . and 50 members of Laura’s extended family.

  Laura and Trey got a bottom-floor condo, and so did I, so the kids moved back and forth easily between the two. We set our beach chairs next to one another and relaxed in the sun. At night, Trey and the kids came over to my condo, and we all watched baseball.

  We ate all our meals together. Laura rolled her eyes as people surrounded our table asking for photographs and autographs. I caught her winking at Trey, as if to say, See? What did I tell you?

  But I said no to requests when I was with my family. Soon after I’d gotten home, Ali had said, “I wish people didn’t always have to come up to you, Daddy.”

  “Not while I’m with my family,” I told people. “Sorry, but I’m with my family now.”

  It was a busy summer. I visited Carlos Bocanegra, my old teammate and friend, in Los Angeles for the baptism of his baby boy. I was his son’s godfather.

  I was so honored to have been asked, first of all, that I had been rendered speechless. The godfathers to my children were my brother and Steve Senior—two people who I knew would be in my life forever.

  And I was thrilled that I could be there for the baptism. I’d missed so many meaningful moments during the years—weddings and funerals and births and baptisms. But this one: this one I could attend.

  The night before the baptism, Carlos and I split a bottle of wine from our birth year—1979. We smoked cigars. He told me that he was nearing the end of his MLS career; a few months later, he would announce his retirement. Carlos had been retired from the national team for over a year now. Already, he was staring at life beyond the soccer field. For a few days, I got a glimpse into what that life might look like.

  My face was suddenly everywhere—newspapers, magazines, TV, and gossip-entertainment web sites. When I went on a date, or so much as talked to a woman, it was shown online for the whole world to see.

  My mom called me.

  “Tim,” she said. “Who are these women, and why don’t I know anything about them?”

  I laughed.

  “Mom, I promise you. When there’s somebody in my life in a significant way, you’ll know it.”

  Weeks after Belgium, I opened the door to Laura and Trey’s house.

  “Hey, is anybody here?”

  My greeting committee—the four huge dogs that live with Laura and Trey and the kids—gave me a rousing reception. Clayton was among them, that old hound, wagging his tail in circles. The years were slowing him down and his muzzle was now covered in gray fur, but he was still unmistakably the creature who’d wreaked havoc all over that beautiful Man U house so many years ago.

  “Okay, guys,” I said, pushing my way through them. “Come on, let me through.”

  Trey’s daughter, Savannah, hugged me first. “Hey, Tim,” she said. “Dad’s in the garage. Laura’s in the kitchen.”

  Then Ali came charging into the room. She leapt into my arms. God, she’s getting so tall now.

  I carried her into the kitchen. Laura was loading dishes in the dishwasher—four hungry kids make an awful lot of dishes. “Hey, Tim.”

  Jacob ran into the kitchen from outside. At nine, he’s already all limbs and angled muscles. “Hey, Dad. Can Jake sleep over tomorrow?”

  Of course he could.

  Then Trey came in. We clasped hands and came in for a friendly half hug.

  Trey rumpled Ali’s hair. “Hey, Ali. Get that picture for your dad, will you?”

  Ali ran over to the table and picked up a picture she’d made. It was done in Magic Marker: a green field, with a crisscross net at one end. There were two players on the field—stick figures with different color uniforms, a ball between them. The player in front of the goal was about to kick the ball. Above his head, she’d written the words NO GOAL. All over the sky, she’d added the words USA! USA! USA!

  “This one’s going on my refrigerator for sure,” I said.

  And it did.

  In August, the first-ever session of the Tim Howard NJCTS Leadership Academy kicked off in New Jersey. By then, I was already heading back to England.

  I got updates about the Academy from my mom, from Faith, from people we knew in common.

  Over four days, 23 kids with TS were led by eight coaches—all of whom also had TS. Later, Faith Rice described for me a single moment from the Academy—a five-minute period when 31 participants, both coaches and kids, all started having tics at the same time.

  There was whirring and hooting and echoing and roaring. There was shoulder jerking and neck-rolling and eye-rolling. There were outbursts of laughter and yelps.

  After a while, it began to feel like everyone was volleying their tics back and forth. The room was so loud, so fluttering with movement, that nobody could hear a word anyone was
saying.

  Faith looked around, at all these kids. This, she thought, is the most glorious cacophony I have ever heard.

  She started laughing then—laughing about the absurdity of this disorder, and at the joy of seeing these kids be 100 percent themselves.

  When the kids all noticed her cracking up, they burst out laughing, too.

  I was happy for those kids, maybe even a little jealous. I wished that when I was a teenager I had been surrounded by people who understood me, who knew what I was going through. I wish we could have laughed together about our funny brains.

  I’ve gotten letters and emails from kids with TS for many years. I’ve read them all. Sometimes I can’t respond personally, but every one matters.

  If I could sit down with all of them, I know exactly what I would say:

  Trust yourself exactly as God made you. Let your tics pass over you without fear or shame. Let them lead you along your own extraordinary journey. It’s true what that doctor told my mother all those years ago: Tourette comes with its own beautiful flip side. It gives you gifts. Mine was soccer, goalkeeping. You have something, too.

  The world will not always understand.

  But your TS gives you a window into people’s hearts. You know, better than anyone, that what lies on people’s surface isn’t the thing that’s real and true about them.

  Your brain is extraordinary. You are extraordinary.

  Everything—I promise you, everything—is possible.

  PHOTO SECTION

  Poppa, my mother, and Momma, at home in Hungary, before they had to escape under cover of night.

  With big brother Chris and my mom, looking sharp in our ’80s attire.

  As a kid I hated sitting still. . . . I suspect I could barely sit still for this photo!

  Chris was my fierce protector when I was young.

  (Photos are courtesy of the author unless otherwise noted.)

  As a child, I always stood head and shoulders above the other soccer players.

  Being named one of the captains for the ’96 high school soccer season by my legendary coach, Stan Williston.

  To my mom’s great relief, I managed to stay in school long enough to take this high school graduation photo!

  Tim Mulqueen: the man who made me the keeper I am today. He’s been a coach, a mentor, and is now a dear friend.

  (Brad Smith/isiphotos.com)

  The dream started at the MetroStars! Here I am, 21 years old . . . with still so much to learn.

  (Courtesy of Major League Soccer)

  Meeting Sir Alex Ferguson for the first time . . . naively wearing Manchester City colors.

  (John Peters/Manchester United/Getty Images)

  I couldn’t have dreamed up a better start to my Manchester United career. We beat Arsenal in a shootout to win the 2003 Community Shield and I made the decisive save. Here I am with the guys accepting the silverware (from left to right): Ryan Giggs, Rio Ferdinand, Eric Djemba-Djemba, Nicky Butt, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Paul Scholes and Darren Fletcher.

  (John Peters/Manchester United/Getty Images)

  The perfect wedding was planned in only three days.

  Nana in her Sunday Best at my wedding in Central Park.

  Everyone adored sweet baby Jacob . . . everyone but Clayton!

  Ali was a live wire right from the start.

  Two things Ali likes most: the ocean and her big brother, Jacob.

  My Everton mates celebrating with me after we beat Manchester United on PKs.

  (Javier Garcia/BPI/isiphotos.com)

  Nothing was more rewarding than a handshake from my goalkeeping coach, Chris Woods, after a big win.

  (Chris Brunskill/BPI/isiphotos.com)

  I’d run into a burning building for this man, David Moyes.

  (Jamie McDonald/Getty Images)

  My day job on a Saturday morning.

  (Matt West/isiphotos.com)

  “Before” shot: throwing the ball to Landon near the end of the 2010 World Cup game against Algeria.

  (Perry McIntyre/isiphotos.com)

  “After” shot: celebrating Landon’s game-winning goal against Algeria.

  (Phil Cole/Getty Images)

  Me and my pal Carlos after the last qualification game vs. Costa Rica, 2009. Thanks to the fan who threw me this hat!

  (John Todd/isiphotos.com)

  In our 2014 World Cup game against Portugal, I changed direction mid-dive to scoop Eder’s point-blank shot over the crossbar. It’s one of my all-time favorite saves.

  (Elsa/Getty Images)

  One of my 15 saves against Belgium.

  (Yves Herman/Reuters/Corbis)

  Brotherhood transcends even the toughest moments on the field: with Romelu Lukaku after the 2014 World Cup game against Belgium.

  (Kieran McManus/isiphotos.com)

  Tess and Paige Kowalski, two of the many incredible kids I’ve met with Tourette Syndrome.

  (Courtesy of the Kowalski family)

  Mom, Dad, and the kids sharing my proudest moment with me: my 100th cap for the U.S. national team.

  I am calmest, most at peace, when my children are close.

  EPILOGUE

  LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND

  AUGUST 23, 2014

  It’s the start of a new season and I’m standing in the tunnel at Goodison Park ready to step on to the field.

  Prayer for my kids.

  Pray they’ll be safe. Pray they’ll know how much I love them.

  The Z-Cars theme starts playing. It’s our cue to start walking out.

  Don’t touch the HOME OF THE BLUES SIGN. Do touch the grass. Make a cross.

  Seeing the home crowd again—all those crazies in Gladwys, all those blue scarves flying—I realize how long it feels since the last time I was here.

  It’s the opening home game of the 2014–2015 season. Our opponents are Arsenal, the first team I’d ever played against in the Premier League. That was 11 years ago.

  I’ve accomplished a lot since then, but I’m hardly done. I want this team to win some silverware while I’m here, something to cement my legacy in Everton soccer history.

  For the past two decades, I’ve crisscrossed the world again and again, going straight from the pressure-cooker of the Premier League season into equally intense tournaments for the U.S. and back again. Over the summer, I made the tough decision to take a year off from playing for the national team. I have always believed that representing my country is a gift that’s not to be squandered.

  But Ali and Jacob: they are gifts, too, and I’ve missed out on too much of their lives already.

  I’m going to take care of myself. Keep working hard. Maybe, if all goes well, I’ll have one more World Cup in me. Maybe there will be a chance to take the U.S. to the quarterfinals.

  But I’m beginning to envision a life beyond soccer. After Brazil, I signed a contract with NBC to broadcast Premier League games on television. Next week, I’ll be stepping into the broadcasting booth at Etihad Stadium to help call the Manchester City–Liverpool match.

  Might I coach? It’s a tantalizing possibility, especially now that soccer seems to be making great strides in the U.S. The number of MLS teams has doubled since my MetroStars days; the league has been attracting high-level players from around the world—and losing fewer of our homegrown stars to Europe. MLS games now draw an average audience of 18,000—eclipsing figures for both the NBA and the NHL.

  So maybe the MLS hasn’t seen the last of me.

  Whatever I do, the paramount thing that will decide my future is time.

  At some point, I want to wake up to an entire day—or week, or month—during which I can be there for my kids, wholly and completely. I want to drive them to school and to soccer and basketball practice and to horseback riding lessons. I want to be that parent who’s at every game, cheering from the sidelines, as my kids—and my mom—have done for me.

  I’m looking forward to making dinner for Jacob and Ali and their friends, Trey’s kids among them. I’ll flip burgers on th
e backyard grill while all the kids splash in the pool and the warm Memphis sun sets through the trees.

  Every so often, maybe a friend of mine will visit—Carlos or Landon or Dan or Romelu or Mulch. We’ll crack open beers and talk about the good old days, distilling all those memories into a highlight reel: the glorious last-minute heroics, the clowning around in the locker room, those magnificent pileups after we’d scored. Never mind the long waits in airports, the endless bus rides, the bruised muscles and the constant fear of injury, the stomach-churning anticipation of the next day’s game, the families we couldn’t see for months on end. The bad memories will recede in time.

  To the kids, we’ll sound like old guys going on about When We Were Young. Exactly.

  After all that, we’ll go inside to catch a game on TV. On the way, maybe we’ll stop to look at my trophies, finally out of their boxes. Then we’ll sit around some more, cheering for whoever’s playing. Anyone, that is, but Liverpool or Mexico.

  If this is what my future holds, it will be enough.

  I don’t know if I’ll marry again. I can’t quite imagine how another person would fit into this tight-knit but unconventional extended family of ours—with the kids moving fluidly between Laura and Trey’s home and my own. If I can’t find the right person to embrace that life, I think I’ll be fine on my own.

  This future I’m envisioning isn’t far away. But it’s not here yet. Right now I’m still on the field; the present is still in play. I take a few steps back and forth in goal, feeling the turf beneath my cleats. I look out to the stands, then back to the center circle, where a team in bright blue and a team in red take up their positions. I see Romelu and Kevin, and I think how nice it is to have them back on my side again.