Forward

by Abby Wambach

  I decide to view the injury as an opportunity: I’m going back to Portland. My life is blowing up right now, I think, and I need to salvage what I can.

  I am so excited to be home, to feel the dogs lick my face and smell their terrible breath, to see Sarah in the house I built for us. She is sweet and attentive, ordering me to rest, and despite her continuing refusal to come to New York, I want to believe we’ll be okay. We meet friends for dinner and I have a glass of wine, and then another, until the glasses amount to a bottle, and when we get home she says words I deserve to hear: “Your drinking is killing us. When you drink, it feels like you’re leaving me, like you don’t want to be with me, like you want to be by yourself.”

  “No,” I insist. “It’s not that. I just don’t trust this, what’s going on.”

  Once again I wish I’d voiced my thoughts: I want to be with you more than anything, but I am afraid of being rejected, of once again feeling unloved and unlovable. If I numb myself enough I won’t feel it when the inevitable finally occurs.

  Two more incidents that summer solidify it as the worst of my life. On June 28, a Saturday night, I’m driving along Skyline Boulevard, a narrow, twisty road that winds south of downtown Portland. I take a corner too fast and my Range Rover is airborne, spinning, landing on the roof and collapsing into itself, mimicking my falls on the field. Shards of windshield glass hang like stalactites. When everything goes silent and still, I’m almost afraid to move; I’m not in any pain, but surely I’ve broken a limb, or sliced my head open, or pulverized my organs so I’m bleeding inside. I unbuckle my seat belt, inch my hand toward the door, fold my body, and slide out. The shards fall; I was a second away from being impaled. One by one I test my arms and legs and find all my bones intact. A quick rub of my scalp imparts no blood on my hands. Miraculously, I’m unscathed, and I look up and down the road, thankful no one else had been in my path.

  Three weeks later, I get a strange message from a teammate about Dan Borislow, my friend and old team owner. She says someone—she doesn’t recognize the number—texted her claiming that Dan died of a heart attack, and this person is trying to get in touch with me. I refuse to believe it, and then my phone rings, flashing my mother’s name. I almost don’t pick up, as if refusing to hear the news will somehow make it untrue.

  I relent and answer on the final ring.

  “Is he dead?” I ask, without preamble.

  “You know?” she says.

  By morning, I’m in Florida with his family. Dan was fifty-two, and died after playing a soccer game. He played every bit as hard as he worked—one of the reasons we connected—and while his death is sudden, it’s not shocking. I speak at his service in front of five hundred people. “We love you, Dan,” I say, and turn to his family. “I’m here for you all.” I remember the last time I saw Dan, at my wedding. The morning after the ceremony we held an impromptu poker party on the balcony—alcohol flowing, chips piled up, high rollers only.

  In his honor I book a trip to Las Vegas, withdrawing fifteen thousand dollars of the money Sarah and I received for our wedding. I hit table after table, playing poker, blackjack, craps—intending to lose every cent. In fact, I want to lose it, and I bet as irresponsibly as I can, hitting on seventeen, placing sucker bets on big six and big eight, making comically bad bluffs. To my frustration, I keep winning, racking up chips hour after hour until I find myself with thirty thousand dollars, double what I came with. Fuck, I think. That’s the opposite of what I wanted to happen. But beneath my dismay I feel a spark of hope: Maybe this is a sign. Maybe we are not yet too far gone. Maybe I am not yet too far gone.

  18

  CHAMPION

  In the spring of 2015 I announce that I won’t be playing for the Western New York Flash in the upcoming season of the National Women’s Soccer League. I release a statement, explaining that I need to prepare mentally and physically for the World Cup tournament, to be held in Canada in June. I’m prepared for the criticism—why am I exempt, when my national teammates have to honor their club commitments?—but not willing to reveal the truth: my sabbatical has nothing to do with the World Cup and everything to do with my troubled marriage.

  Sarah herself is doing well, having retired from soccer and secured a job with Nike, carving an identity outside of the sport and cultivating a new group of friends. She had always been dependent on me, and I’m not used to her having a life so removed from the one we’d started together. I hate myself for missing her neediness, for being so needy myself. I had come home in the hope of closing the distance, but my presence seems to make it worse, deepening it by the day. I am the problem no one wants to mention, the elephant in every room.

  She proposes a truce, suggesting we should table all our issues until after the World Cup. It’s my last chance, and she doesn’t want our issues to divert my focus. If I don’t win I am going to be angry and disappointed and tormented for the rest of my life. She wants this for me, for us, and she promises to be there for me while I’m on the road. I agree, but I know soccer will never again have all of my mind or heart.

  In the midst of these private negotiations, my public life is also getting complicated. FIFA has announced that the women, and only the women, will play their World Cup on artificial turf. In the entire eighty-five-year history of the World Cup, which has seen twenty tournaments for men and six for women, the games have never been played on anything but natural grass. Resources are not an issue—FIFA is worth billions—and it’s clear that their decision is rooted in sexism.

  Forget our mounting successes and our increasing popularity. Forget the fact that artificial turf negatively impacts our play, changing the way the ball bounces and rolls. Forget that it also increases the risk of injuries, jostling our joints and sloughing off a layer of skin each time we slide against it. Forget that taking a diving header on turf is akin to taking a plunge onto concrete. It’s just one more indication that women’s soccer is inferior, that women themselves are inferior, and I decide it’s time to speak out.

  My teammates are equally outraged. Sydney posts a picture on Instagram of her battered and bloodied shins with the caption, “This is why soccer should be played on grass!” Pinoe asserts, simply, that forcing women to play on turf is “bullshit.” Celebrities take notice. Los Angeles Lakers star Kobe Bryant shares Sydney’s photo, using the hashtag: #ProtectTheAthlete. Tom Hanks follows up with a tweet of his own: “Opinion: Women’s World Cup is the best Soccer of the year. Hey FIFA, they deserve real grass. Put in sod.” I decide to spearhead a lawsuit against FIFA and the Canadian Soccer Association, charging them with gender discrimination. Forty female international players—from Canada, Brazil, Spain, Japan, and Germany, among others—join me, and the law firm of Boies, Schiller & Flexner (the same firm that successfully argued in favor of same-sex marriage) offers to represent us pro bono.

  “It’s about doing the right thing, and I think this is the right thing to do,” I say in an interview. “We have to fight this fight for this World Cup and World Cups in the future. We have to make sure FIFA knows this is not okay. And they know it’s not okay. If you were to ask all of them, they know that they would never do this for the men.”

  Artificial turf is only one item on my growing list of grievances against both FIFA and U.S. Soccer. Our coaches are not allowed to hire their preferred staff, a restriction that sets them up to fail. There are disparities in the quality of our training: the men’s team travels to top facilities around the country, and their expensive equipment—specialty treadmills and weight machines—is shipped along with them. The promotion for our team is subpar; there is no official Women’s World Cup app, and the official FIFA app only features the men’s World Cup. Most infuriating is the pay gap: the men’s team makes more money if they lose games than we do if we win. If we play twenty exhibition games in a season, we each earn a base salary tied to years of service (the highest amount being $72,000), and a $1,350 bonus for each win—a maximum salary of $99,000. For the same schedule, p
layers for the men’s team earn a maximum salary of $263,320, and make a base salary of $100,000 even if they lose every game.

  It was difficult for me to identify these inequities when I was in the thick of my career, just thrilled to be getting paid for playing my sport. But with the end looming—along with the realization that I am going to have to find another job—I think about them every time I put on my uniform and go to work. For now, the lawsuit is the extent of what I can do, but I know this battle has only just begun.

  At training camp in Los Angeles, six hundred miles from Sarah, our problems embed in my mind, accompanying me onto the field. I am not myself, and everyone knows it, and I conclude that the least I can do is admit it out loud. I ask our current coach, Jill Ellis, if we can speak privately.

  “Listen,” I tell her, “I’m serious. However you want to use me, then that’s the way I want to be used, because I need to feel like you want my services. I’ll do whatever you need. Trust that I will be ready for the World Cup. No matter what, I always am.”

  As soon as I finish talking, the answer comes to me: I’ll ensure that my teammates have the confidence that I can no longer summon for myself. Pearcie and I attend meetings with the coaching staff, absorb all Jill’s concerns and ideas, distill them into specifics, and convey them to the younger players. It’s easier for Jill if the captains field doubts and complaints, if we’re the bad cops delivering tough news. Her coaching style is effective—the woman knows how to win games—but noncommittal; she doesn’t want to criticize her players too harshly for fear of thwarting their focus. I grew up in a family that did its best to avoid messy emotional conversations, and this is my chance to learn to navigate that terrain.

  Every day after practice, I text three players an analysis of their performance, tailoring my comments to their personalities—blunt truth for some, gentle suggestions for others. I visit others in their rooms, look them in the eye, and tell them I’ve been where they are. I’ve heard the same criticisms, had the same fears, fretted over things I couldn’t control. I remind them that we’re all Type A women, perfectionists who are the very best at what we do, but none of us will ever be champions alone.

  I pay special attention to players who usually don’t leave the bench. In past years, there’s been one set roster, with a rotation of three or four players who would be called in to substitute. But this year Jill is devising a different strategy, intending to play many people in many games in different positions, and they all need to be ready. Listen, I tell them, what if there’s a chance you might start? What if someone suffers an injury, or you perform beyond expectation at practice, or Jill determines it’s your time? Don’t let anyone diminish you—least of all yourself—and don’t be comfortable with your current status. Think about it, and imagine yourself being better than you ever thought you could be.

  I hope my inspirational patter conceals my own doubts: my own best days on the field are long behind me, and I might not leave the bench myself.

  In May, just before the World Cup, we face Ireland in an exhibition match. I’ve played a full ninety minutes in only four of our last thirty games, and I need to regain my stamina and sharpness. It’s working, and I’m feeling at ease on the field, scoring two goals in the first half, the 179th and 180th of my career. In the opening minutes of the second half, I try for another, lunging my head against the ball and instead connecting with the elbow of the Ireland goalkeeper. My nose takes the brunt of it, the impact shifting it out of place and unleashing a torrent of blood. It streams through my fingers as I trot to the sidelines.

  “Get me one of those cotton balls, stuff it in my nose, and put me back out there,” I tell Jill and the training staff. They oblige, and I keep playing, feeling more alive than I have in months.

  During the World Cup opener, against Australia, I am mentally alert but can’t translate that feeling to my body. My Achilles tendon throbs, reminding me of that injury every time I move my leg. My attempts at headers are awkward, as if I’ve forgotten the mechanics of the technique; I’m connecting in the wrong spot, miscalculating the distance to the net. We win regardless, 3–1.

  In advance of our second game, against Sweden, I have to learn to play the game from the bench. For the first time since 2003, at the World Cup twelve years ago, I am not on the starting lineup for the women’s national team. Throughout the first sixty-seven minutes, I sit and scream and cheer from the sidelines, and in the sixty-eighth I’m called on to substitute for Christen Press. The crowd chants my name, telling me they still want to see me play, that I still belong here. I don’t score, but neither does anyone else, and the game ends.

  For the next few games, depending on Jill’s strategy of rotating the roster, I’m in and out, taking my turn on the field and on the bench. I start against Nigeria and, in the forty-fifth minute, blast the ball in with my foot, scoring the only goal of the game. In the knockout round against Colombia, my foot fails me, hooking a penalty kick wide to the left. I see myself miss—the misses are always visible—and I stare at the net in disbelief, my hands covering my mouth. I’m not my confident self, I think, and someone else needs to score. Carli and Alex do, thankfully, and we notch another win. I ride the bench against China, but once again Carli—wearing the captain’s armband—comes through, breaking a scoreless tie with her head, making it look as easy as I once did.

  During the semifinal game against Germany, the top-ranked team in the world, I sit on the bench next to Kelley O’Hara, a twenty-five-year-old wingback playing in her second World Cup. “Stay confident,” I tell her. “Don’t let Jill steal that from you. What if you’re called in, and you let her take your confidence for that moment? That moment will be yours. You will shine.” And she does, scoring the second and winning goal against Germany.

  After the game, she throws her arms around me and says, “That was all you. I would not have survived this tournament, this game especially, if you didn’t believe in me.”

  I pull away from her so I can look her in the eye.

  “No,” I say, “that was all you. Don’t forget you were the one who played. You’re the one who put yourself in a position to score.”

  I’m finished with soccer after this tournament, I think. My job here is done.

  Well, almost done. Before the final game, where we’ll face Japan, I record a seven-minute speech, knowing that will have more of an impact than anything I do on the field.

  The Fox Sports studio is darkened, and I sit in the swivel stool, rubbing my hands together and rotating my neck, as if I’m warming up to train.

  “I might get emotional,” I tell the crew. “I think I want to do this alone. Are you guys cool with that?”

  They are, and file out of the studio, leaving the camera running. The words will come, I think. Just start talking—you’ve never had trouble doing that.

  “Finally I have a room to myself,” I say, and take a deep breath to begin:

  “Everybody keeps asking me what this journey has been and what it will mean if we can be on that top podium Sunday night. I’m not one to necessarily show my vulnerable side, but the days are ticking, and my clock—as it pertains to being a pro soccer player—is coming to an end. But I have a few things I want to get off my mind, and they’re all going to be about my teammates.

  “I’ve had the best life. And it’s all in total because of the friendships I’ve made. I’ve literally grown up on this team, and the good, the bad, and the ugly—my teammates have helped me through it all. And I know that a lot can be said about this World Cup, and how it could be the culmination of my career. And a lot of people have been talking about how this World Cup has been different for me, and the biggest thing I need to express is my gratitude—to be able to have played for so long, to share the field with extraordinary women.”

  Tears well up, and I shake my head in an attempt to suppress them.

  “I can’t believe that I’m even getting emotional on camera,” I manage. “It’s going to be seen by millions.
But the truth is, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my teammates. I wouldn’t have scored the goals that I’ve scored or reached the successes that I’ve had without them. And the only way we win and get to that top podium is if we fight, and we fight, and we fight some more. And I know, no matter what the outcome of the game on Sunday, that we will all have done our best. I know that, in the thirty-five years of life I’ve had—such a wonderful life—I’ve experienced so many things I never thought possible. We’re talking about women’s soccer now. That’s something I’m really proud of, whether I’m on the bench or on the field.

  “Putting the crest on every single time means something to me. What would it mean to win this World Cup? It would mean everything. But we’re one game away. It’s not just going to be handed to us, we know that. We know that from the last time around. We know Japan is going to give us a strong fight. They will not give up. They will not quit. They showed that four years ago; they showed that throughout this entire tournament. We are going to have to play brilliant.

  “I want to thank my family. I want to thank Sarah. And my friends who have probably missed me more than anything. People don’t get the sacrifices that we make. People don’t understand the things that we have to do in order to follow and pursue these dreams that we have. I’m the luckiest person on the planet, and it’s not because of any individual award, or even playing on the grandest stage. It’s because I’ve been able to share it. My philosophy in life is that happiness is meant to be shared. And we all have dreams. And if you’re out there and you have a dream, and you want something, and you want something so bad . . .”

  And here I start crying again, thinking of both soccer and Sarah.

  “. . . you’ve got to risk everything. You’ve got to risk being completely devastated if you don’t achieve it. And when you fall down, you’ve got to get back up. So that’s what this means, that’s what this is, that’s who we are. This team does not lie down for very long. We have an opportunity to take the world by storm. We have an opportunity to bring back the World Cup, back to the United States. We can do it. I know we can do it. We’ve just got to go out there for those ninety minutes or those 120 minutes, or whatever that game calls for. We have to bring the fire. I know my teammates are going to do whatever they need to do, because I’m going to do it. Whatever my role is, whatever my job is, whatever I’m asked to do, I’m going to do a little bit extra, because I think that’s what’s it’s going to take.