by Abby Wambach
In the fall, Sarah and I move back to Hermosa Beach and I start to plan my proposal. Our commonalities brought us together, but I think our differences will make us last, safeguarding against my extremes. We each know our roles and play them well. I cook elaborate feasts, piling the counters with pots and pans, and she cleans up every last crumb. I shop with abandon and she waits for sales. I scatter and she organizes. I bounce from interest to interest, and she takes her time in both adopting and abandoning hobbies. She is a passionate but even-keeled warrior who’s not afraid to challenge me. I am happy, happier than I’ve ever been, which gives me a newfound appreciation for those long, deep trenches of depression. Without them, the happiness would be duller, leached of color and noise.
I have a ring designed by my family’s longtime jeweler in Rochester, and the end result is perfect: a cushion-cut diamond flanked by smaller stones, set in platinum. While I’m at it, I order two wedding rings for Sarah, simple bands of round diamonds. Put together, it looks like the center stone is floating on a sparkling pillow of diamonds. I decide to pop the question around the holidays, and until then I mark the passing time on my calendar. I plan each moment meticulously and daydream about how it will unfold, Intense Abby and Chill Abby both in their element.
For Christmas, we fly to Dallas to visit her parents. I remain intensely traditional in some ways; there are lessons from my mother I can’t unlearn. I will never get a tattoo, or want my partner to have one. I’ll never find out the sex of my children before they’re born. And I believe that if you intend to propose, it’s respectful to ask your partner’s parents for their blessing. Now, in Dallas, I know it’s the only chance I’m going to have, and I’m buzzing with nerves. After dinner, and numerous glasses of wine, I find them in the kitchen. The three of us are alone; Sarah has gone out with her sister. Her mother is gathering plates and her father is washing dishes, hands plunged into the sink.
Pulling the ring out of my pocket, I say the words I’ve been practicing in my head: I’m in love with their daughter, and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her. I will honor and cherish her always, and take care of her, and it would mean everything if I could have their blessing.
Time passes. It could be a minute, five, ten; I’m too petrified to count. Everyone is on pause. Me, standing with the ring pinched between my fingers. Sarah’s mother, halfway to the sink, balancing a pyramid of plates. Her father, hands motionless beneath running water. Drip, drip, drip.
At last, her mother punctures the moment. “Oh, wow,” she says, and the words shake her dad into action. “Oh, wow,” he repeats, and adds, “I was not expecting that question.”
I smile, but I’m shrinking inside. My mind rummages for ways to justify this reaction. I know her father worries that Sarah lives in my shadow, soccer-wise, and he (understandably) wants her to feel independent and be able to support herself. And while I know it’s not me, per se—her parents have always loved me—I suspect they’d hoped that when Sarah settled down, the needle on the bisexuality wheel would be pointing toward “man.” There’s no denying it would be an easier life, but, I argue silently, not necessarily a happier one.
Finally, her mother speaks again. “Oh, we’re so thrilled!” she exclaims, and rushes to embrace me. I love her even more for lying just to make me comfortable.
The day after Christmas it’s time to launch phase 2, which I’ve been planning for months. I’ve arranged for a group of our closest friends to meet in Breckenridge, Colorado, for a few nights of New Year’s revelry. We’ve rented a huge cabin set high in the mountains, and Sarah and I are there to greet each new arrival. There’s food and wine and more wine, but not so much that we can’t rally for a group hike the next day. While Sarah is getting ready, I gather all our friends and whisper my instructions. “Listen,” I say. “At some point on this hike, when we come to a really steep hill, just stop and say, ‘Hey, I’m tired. I’m going to go back.’ And one by one you guys will haul ass down. And when we get back, we’re going to have a hell of an engagement party.” They agree, and we head out.
Breckenridge is ninety-six hundred feet above sea level, and within twenty minutes all of us are gasping, our breath turning into smoke against the chilled air. One by one our friends profess exhaustion, turn around, and head back down to the cabin, until Sarah and I are alone at the top of a hill. The sky looks made of antique lace, draping down on snow-dusted mountains and winding through the trees, and it ribbons around us, framing the moment.
From my backpack I pull out a photo album titled “Life As We Knew It.” Every picture I’d taken of us since the beginning of our relationship is arranged in careful order, accompanied by funny or sentimental or romantic captions. The last page reads: “I just have one more question.” When she turns around I’m on bended knee, holding the ring aloft.
I tell her all the reasons I want to marry her, keeping just one to myself: I know she will never let me get too far gone.
She says yes.
15
HERO
Before I come out of hibernation for the Olympics, before Intense Abby steps forward and asserts herself, Sarah tells me she has a surprise.
“Hey,” she says. “April 8 is the third anniversary of our first date. We’re going somewhere.”
We drive my Jeep twenty minutes from Hermosa to Long Beach, the wind cooling our faces as quickly as the sun warms them, everything in harmony. She’s packed a picnic basket, but I’m not allowed to peek inside. I attempt to guess our destination and she merely smiles in response. We pull into a heliport, where a two-seater helicopter is waiting, and the pilot lifts us up and lands us in Catalina.
Taking my hand, she leads me to a golf cart and we drive around town, teetering through the narrow streets and stopping at a wedge of land overlooking the ocean. She spreads out a blanket and arranges our picnic: fruit, cheese, champagne. After a toast, she retrieves a wooden box and instructs me to open it. I do, and find a series of letter blocks, arranged in a sentence: WILL YOU MARRY ME? I look up, shocked, and see she’s holding a ring: a thick platinum band studded with diamonds, exactly what I’ve always wanted.
As we embrace, a thought occurs to me, and I have to voice it: “Did you ask my mom and dad?”
“Yeah,” she says, and takes me through the moment. After I proposed at Christmas, she called my parents in New York and said she had a question to ask relating to Abby, to our relationship. She knew the question would make my parents uncomfortable and she began crying and fumbling her words, until my mother took pity and spoke first. “Don’t cry,” she said. “We love you, and as long as you’re happy and as long as it’s something Abby wants, we want you both to be happy.”
I am happy—as happy about my parents’ approval as I am about the proposal—and I settle into the moment, wishing I could stretch it into the future with a guarantee that it will never snap back.
After that trip, I meet the national team for training camp in Florida. I am motivated, fully aware that this may be my last Olympics, and despite its age and ailments my body still does what I ask of it, falling back into its familiar routine:
First, get up at 8 A.M. and immediately pee in a cup to check hydration levels. Dawn Scott, our strength and conditioning coach (and quasi–team therapist), then calculates how many hydrating solutions I need, and I get down to the business of drinking them as quickly as I can. More than sprints, more than weights, more than dieting, more than ninety minutes of nonstop scrimmaging, I hate drinking water. In fact, I list it as one of my personal failings, deserving of a proper title with capital letters: “Terrible Drinker of Water.” But I slog through it, feeling as though my organs are swimming inside me.
Next, eat breakfast (two fried eggs, hot sauce, toast) and drink coffee, thereby negating the hard work I’ve done to hydrate. Read the paper, do a crossword puzzle. Tape my ankle and pull on my boot—my Achilles tendon is still in agony—and head to the field, slipping on my cleats as soon as I arrive. S
tart warm-up laps, jogging back and forth across the field, catching up with my teammates. What did they do the night before? What are they reading? (On my nightstand at the time is Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking—an attempt to better communicate with shyer players.) What TV show are they watching? Are they still fighting with their husband or boyfriend or girlfriend? If I’m feeling especially chatty, or if the collective mood is subdued, I’ll say something shocking to shake things up. “How many times per week do the rest of you have sex?” I’ll ask, or describe, in detail, the suppurating wound on my shin—one of the joys of playing on field turf.
Then on to drills, set plays, batting the ball with my head, over and over again. Hit the weight room for supersets and plyometrics. Afterward, I worry about increasing the girth of my legs; like every other girl on the planet, I’ve studied my body in the mirror and thought, My thighs are huge.
On to the recovery room, finally, where I pull on compression pants and sit still for a half hour, waiting for the swelling to deflate. To unwind, I play video games—soccer, football, and poker—and then call Sarah. I want to hear about her day and imagine I’m there; no event is irrelevant, no detail too mundane. Four more months until the Olympics, I tell myself, and then I can get back to my life.
Our next training camp is in Princeton, New Jersey. The same routine, but with one key difference: Kara is back with the team, working as our sports therapist. Our relationship has been strained since she confronted me about my drinking before last year’s World Cup. One night, after I leave the recovery room, she asks to speak to me privately, and I follow her into her hotel room.
“What the fuck?” she says. “Things are weird between us, ever since I said something to you. They feel inauthentic.” She asks questions: Do I understand how difficult it was for her to confront me? Especially since I’ve made a habit of surrounding myself with people who would rather have fun with me than be real with me? Especially since I can be prickly when I hear something I don’t want to believe?
“Look,” I say. “I love you, but I don’t trust you.”
She aims her next words with precision. “You don’t trust me because I care about you?”
I’m stolid and impassive. “No,” I said. “I have to work my way back to trusting you again.”
I turn and leave. I know the conversation is just beginning, but right now I’m not able to hear another word.
I’m in England, at the Olympics, in a place I haven’t been for eight years. I remember how miserable I was back in 2008, laid up with my broken leg, having to summon every last leadership instinct to stop myself from flying to China—to stop myself from making it all about me. I am feeling strong and ready and, most of all, present, steeped in every moment, all my focus and energy on the task ahead. Before the flight, a reporter asked me what my expectations were for the games.
“Based on the fact that we have so many fans now, and so many people pulling for us,” I said, “for me, it’s gold or bust.”
My agent, Dan Levy, was standing beside me. “Did you really just say that?” he asked.
“Sure did.”
He laughed. “Well, you’d better bring that gold home, then.”
“I got this,” I told him. “We got this.”
And now, on the field against France, I can see that we do. Although we start off tentative and shaky, allowing two goals in the first sixteen minutes, we push back, finding our groove. I score the first U.S. goal of the game: a corner kick from Pinoe that ricochets perfectly off my head. Three more goals—two from Alex Morgan and one from Carli—and we win our first game, 4–2. We win our second, too, against Colombia, during which I get sucker-punched in my right eye. Afterward I tweet a close-up picture of my shiner: “Thanks for all the well wishes. Eye is healing fine.” #reverse smokeyeye #notcool.
We win next against North Korea—my busted eye doesn’t prevent me from scoring the game’s lone goal—and nine of us clasp hands and celebrate by attempting old-school popping and waving, undulating our arms from the beginning of the chain to the end. We win another against New Zealand, with a goal from me and one from Sydney Leroux, a new player I’ve started to mentor. She wears an expression of joyous shock, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s done, and I recognize what I’ve never had: a pure love for the game, so real and intense she’d even play alone.
Our semifinal game, against Canada, is later named by the Globe and Mail as “the greatest game of women’s soccer ever played.” The game is rough and dirty before it even begins; John Herdman, the Canadian head coach, accuses us of “illegal tactics” and singles me out specifically, citing my header against France off a corner kick. I recognize his motives: he wants to gain an early advantage by shaking our confidence and preemptively influencing the referees. Despite myself I have to admire his cunning; I understand the willingness to do whatever it takes to win.
From the opening whistle, the play is a brutal spectacle of tackles, shirt pulling, elbowing, jostling, and one deliberate stomp on Carli’s head. The crowd boos Tobin Heath when she (fairly) wins a tussle. I’m keeping my eye on Christine Sinclair, a forward who’s neck and neck with me in the race to score the most international goals; as of this moment, she has 140 to my 142. I’ve called her “the most underrated player on the planet” and in the twenty-third minute she proves it, spinning and twisting through our back line and finding herself free in the box. She curls a shot to Hope’s right and hits the net with conviction (141 to my 142, now) giving the Canadians momentum as we brawl our way toward halftime. We haven’t lost to Canada in eleven years, and I don’t intend to let them break that streak.
My body does what it does best, mauling and blocking and barreling through. On a header attempt I’m called for climbing on a Canadian defender. Two minutes later I try again, leaping high and forward and aiming my head at the ball, which soars just past the post. At halftime, it’s still 1–0, and we gather in the locker room and reiterate a team vow: There is no way in hell we’re losing to Canada. There is no way in hell we’re going home without making it to the final and winning gold.
The second half starts off as turbulently as the first, with frantic back and forth in the midfield and jostling in the box, elbows stabbing and hands pulling and heads banging. I launch myself skyward, careening toward space, slamming the ball high with my chest—too high, it turns out, and I watch it loop over the bar. We execute set piece after set piece with me as the fulcrum—the vital part of the machine that makes it click and whirl—but the Canadians have studied me, anticipating my next move before I make it. The ball eludes me. Pinoe is luckier, or maybe less scrutinized, and scores with a gorgeous, unlikely corner kick in the fifty-third minute. We’re tied, 1–1, and the play on both sides accelerates, the ball zigzagging up and down the field. In six wild minutes three goals are scored—another by Sinclair (142 to 142, now), another by Pinoe, and yet another by Sinclair; I care less about her temporary lead in our goal race than I do about the Canadians’ lead in the game, 3–2.
With seventeen minutes left in regulation, I notice their goalkeeper trying to stall, taking longer than the allowed six seconds to dropkick the ball back into play. Within earshot of the referee, I start counting, making it all the way to ten. The referee notices but does nothing. When their goalkeeper stalls again, I resume my counting: One, two, three . . . and the referee blows her whistle for a six-second violation—a rare, nearly unprecedented call. I take a penalty kick, tying the game at 3–3. In the 123rd minute, Carli passes to Heather O’Reilly, who crosses to Alex; she rockets up and bats her head against the ball, sending it high over her defender and into the net.
We win, 4–3, and I find Alex in the thrashing pile of teammates. “I love you,” I scream at her. “I think I’m in love with you in this moment.”
Meanwhile, Twitter blows up, condemning me for counting out loud to the referee.
“Dear FIFA,” reads one tweet, “please investigate Abby Wambach f
or unsporting behaviour in attempting to influence the referee’s decision.”
Another: “Sorry, I will not be moved on this: Abby Wambach should be ashamed. It’s the Olympics, remember.”
And my personal favorite: “I want to get a punching bag, paste Abby Wambach’s face on it and work out.”
I tell reporters I regret nothing: “You can say it’s gamesmanship, you can say it’s smart, but I’m a competitor. We needed to get a goal.” Besides, I add, the incident rallied Canadians behind their team, and women’s sports need as much support as they can get, no matter the source or reason.
On August 8, a few hours before we’re to meet Japan in the gold medal game, I open my e-mail and find a message from Kara. The subject line reads “T,” signaling the next installment of our private game: Pick a letter for the other person, explain the meaning behind your choice, and exhort them to rise to the occasion.
The body says:
I pick the letter ‘T’ for you.
We hit a rough patch this year . . .
Shit came up and stared us both in the face. It was ugly and it was uncomfortable.
The letter T
Just before we left L.A. for this trip you looked at me in your living room, right after we sang the Lana Del Rey song together . . . You said, ‘Kara, the way I’ve been with you doesn’t work for me anymore.’ You told me how important it was to you that I was a part of your life.
The letter T
How is it that an ugly caterpillar climbs itself onto a tree limb, spins a cocoon, and completely disintegrates itself—only to emerge a butterfly with exquisite colors that can take flight?