by Abby Wambach
U.S. Soccer’s monetary figures are equally unsettling. In 2017, the women’s team is expected to generate $17 million in revenue compared to $9 million by the men, and yet the men’s salaries still dwarf the women’s across the board. For wins, the women’s team earns thirty-seven cents to every dollar earned by men. Players in the National Women’s Soccer League earn between $6,842 and $37,800, while members of Major League Soccer earn an average salary exceeding $200,000. The growing popularity of women’s soccer will help me make my case. Our World Cup final against Japan attracted 750 million viewers worldwide and was the most watched soccer match in U.S. history; our viewership even trumped the 2015 NBA championship featuring Stephen Curry and LeBron James. Even if it’s too late to benefit from my own advocacy, I want future generations to be granted the respect and compensation they deserve.
I’ll work as hard at striving for equality as I did perfecting headers. I’m stubborn, strong-willed, tenacious. I am fiercely devoted to the concept of fairness. I have always followed my own path, seeking authenticity even before that became a trendy word, and I can inspire others to do the same. I don’t quit. I won’t quit, no matter what happens.
Except for soccer. I have to quit soccer.
Before I do, I have one last month of games for the national team’s victory tour. In December, we’re scheduled for four matches across the country, beginning in Honolulu and ending on December 16 in New Orleans. I spend the entire flight to Hawaii researching Teslas, and as soon as we land I order one online. My new car is the highlight of that trip; we decide we should cancel our match in Aloha Stadium, since their artificial field looks like it hasn’t been replaced in years.
Instead we play Trinidad and Tobago in San Antonio, a 6–0 win, and then beat China in Glendale, Arizona, my penultimate game. Before the whistle blows, instead of taking charge of the huddle and unleashing my usual medley of encouragement and obscenities, I hold back and say nothing. To my delight, two of my teammates step forward and run the huddle, and I know I am leaving the team—and the game—better than I found it.
After we celebrate and I drink my vodka and take my pills, I lie on my bed, trying to freeze my mind, to keep my concerns and fears and hopes quiet for just a few hours, long enough to sleep before they start all over again. My mind ignores my request, and all night I think of the end of soccer and the beginning of something else, still wonderfully mysterious and exciting. I think of Sarah, who plans to come to my last game even though we’re barely speaking, even though we have no idea what we are. Retirement is not peaches and cream, I think, and I’ll talk about that when the time comes. People don’t talk about the hard transitions enough, the hard bits of life. Strength is a full gamut. You’ve got to be strong from top to bottom, but you also have to raise your hand and say, “I’m feeling weak right now. I need some help.” There is true strength in being able to ask for help.
Without meaning to, I start to cry, tears hitting my pillow like a clichéd love song, and at least I’m strong enough to let them fall. Poor Sydney, trying to sleep across the room, hears me through her earplugs. From the corner of my eye I see her sit up and remove them, and then take careful steps to my bed. She lies down and makes room for herself, crying right along with me.
20
CONTROL FREAK
One of the like-minded, badass women I’ve been speaking to offers a metaphor that perfectly captures this moment in my life. We’re talking about retirement and transitions, the challenges involved in letting go of the only work and life you’ve ever known. Trapeze artists are so amazing in so many ways, she says, because they are grounded to one rung for a long time, and in order to get to the other rung they have to let go. What makes them so brilliant and beautiful and courageous and strong is that they execute flips in the middle. The middle is their magic. And if you’re brave enough to let go of that first rung, she concludes, you can create your own magic in the middle.
I think about that magic, my magic, as I compose an e-mail to my inner circle before the final game:
Hey guys,
First off, I just want to thank all of you for taking the time to come to my last game. Gosh, even as I type that, I feel relief (while drinking a glass of red wine). It’s time and I have known for a while.
Anyways, I (with a nudge from a friend) just wanted to write to you guys telling you all “why” I want all my closest friends and family there with me. And I will totally mess up how I would say it to your faces, so bear with me—I’m a much better talker than writer.
I don’t want you guys to feel bad for one moment about the way these few days will go (me being excessive with flights, hotels, etc.). It’s gonna be crazy fun, and I wanted to create an environment to in some way SHOW you all how I feel about you and the support you’ve given me during my time as your friend. You see, I only have—and AM—everything because of the support system that I’ve been lucky enough to be around.
I know you guys see the “Fun Abby,” out at bars and going on vacation more often than not, but for the most part of my life I’ve been gone, alone, in search of something . . . I think that’s why I fell so hard for every one of you. It’s because you can see me searching for something, and love the parts of me that don’t always equate to this “pro” athlete, yet you still never judged my character. I can’t tell you how valuable THIS kind of personal acceptance you all have given me, during my time as a soccer player, has been.
What I do know is that your acceptance HAS defined me!! You all, not the game, have helped me find myself a place in this world. And it’s so bizarre to be writing this and have no idea where my next paycheck will come from . . . I just want you all there for me, in my last moments identifying as a soccer player, to remind me of who I am, and who I want to be, and that soccer isn’t ALL of who I am. It was a part of the search . . . Here’s the thing . . . what I have found is that I will always be in search. It’s who I am.
Cheers to closing this chapter in my life, and I can’t wait to see what goes on and happens on our next pages together. I wouldn’t want to spend time between these trapeze bar rungs with any other people. People need to hold on and feel safe and secure, and I’ve had soccer my entire life to secure me and make me confident and make me think I knew who I was. . . . These last few years have been a struggle for me in soccer. And so finally, I’m letting go of the trapeze rung and letting some MAGIC happen in the middle.
Before I grab on to the other side, I need some magic (crazy, or danger, or risk, or love, or to let myself become un-fucking-raveled) and I know, with all you beauties by my side, I will be just fine. I may cry—that’s okay, I’m in touch with that part of myself. I may drink too much—tell me, “Don’t be a stupid idiot, you don’t run around now for a living, dumbass.” But what I need you all to know is that sometimes being in search of something greater doesn’t mean it’s always out there. Sometimes I may need someone (Sarah) to pull me back home to planet Earth.
Quite frankly, I don’t know what tomorrow brings, and that freedom for the first time, and truly accepting it, is something new, and something I’m growing fond of minute by minute. My confidence is coming back. I’m regaining that “it” factor I stopped being able to muster on the field. I’m honest with myself about that, don’t worry. What I do know is I can call on any one of you if I ever need anything. And maybe I always overdo it, because I just want you guys to love me (control freak, and fear of being unlovable) and so I give you anything I think would make you all happy and fulfilled. That is my own bullshit I gotta sort through, but this trip is different. It is only a big fucking THANK YOU!! Come, enjoy, and let’s see what kind of shit we can do in the magic. I bet it will be glorious and splendid.
I am the lucky one.
Forever grateful,
Abby
The only thing I like less than rules is the complete absence of them—as long as they’re ones I craft and enforce myself. Over the course of fifteen years, from my first appearance in a national game t
o my last, I’ve developed a pregame ritual that combines the pedantry of Sun Tzu and the paranoia of Howard Hughes. Depending on the quality of my play in any given game, I add and subtract and modify superstitions, certain that a minor tweak to the formula will set things right again. By my 255th international appearance on December 16, the last game of my career, the ritual looks like this:
Two hours before the whistle blows, I eat a plate of chicken and salad, with a side of caffeine pills. The chicken serving must be modest, no larger than the size of my fist, because I want to be light and fast. I drink a gallon of water straight from the jug, hydrating myself nearly to the point of nausea, and then test fate by drinking even more, chugging down a few helpings of Gatorade as pregame fuel. On the way to the game, I usually call Sarah and play solitaire; on this day, I do only the latter. I have to win before I reach the stadium, and the number of attempts it takes is either a good or bad sign. When I get to the locker room I drop my bags off, line up my gear, and remove my jewelry.
First to come off: a family heirloom ring made of diamonds from my grandmother’s wedding band, which I wear on my right hand. I slip it off and lay it in the middle of my locker. Only when it’s placed safely in its spot can I begin the task of getting dressed and taped. I pull on my sliders—the tight underwear that protects your legs from chafing against turf—and then my shorts and a warm-up T-shirt. I’m ready to be taped, a complicated, painstaking process that can go terribly wrong, requiring multiple do-overs.
One of my trainers tapes my left ankle first, then my right—no reason for the order, but once it worked it became law. I stand up, flex and point each foot, and then head back to the locker room, where my teammates are all immersed in rituals of their own. Sitting on a bench, I pull on my socks (first left, then right), my cleats (left, right), and shin guards (left, right). Now it’s back to the training room for more taping, where I have to select exactly the right roll of tape. It must be fairly used but flat to the touch, with no ridges or wrinkles. Sometimes my trainer will forget and hand me the tape. “No, put it down,” I say. “I have to pick it up myself.” Once I do, I return to the locker room, handling the roll of tape as though it’s a fragile artifact.
It gets weirder.
I plop down on the bench again and hold the roll aloft. In between taping parts of my body, and parts of my clothing that need to adhere to my body, I have to rip off a strip, making a clean slate, so that each successive piece of tape has its own specific purpose with no connection to the previous piece. I stick these “clean slate” strips on my knees, to be dealt with at the end.
But first, carefully, I unfurl a long ribbon of tape and cut it roughly in half, so that the pieces are not quite even. I wind the larger piece around the sock for my left shin guard; the smaller piece is always reserved for the right. If I don’t cut correctly and the pieces look identical, I have to remove all the tape, fetch a new roll, and restart the entire process from scratch. If I do it correctly, it winds around like a necklace, the two ends connecting seamlessly in the back.
I rip off two “clean slate” strips, place one on each knee, and repeat the process, this time taping above each shin guard (left, right). When those are finished, I press two more clean slate strips along my knees.
It gets weirder still.
The tape also acts as a substitute for my rings, both my grandmother’s and my wedding rings, since we’re not allowed to wear jewelry when we play. By the end of my career, I’m adept at yanking a piece of tape so that I end up with just the right amount, a width and heft that accurately reflects my level of neediness: a thin strip if I’m feeling confident, a thicker one if I’m not. I wrap one piece around my right ring finger and another on my left, a sign to my wife that she is with me on the field. On this night, for the first time, I leave my fingers bare; Sarah and I are not even in a place where I want her represented by a strip of tape. She’ll be at the game, sitting in box seats, and I know she’ll notice its absence.
It’s time to discard the clean slate strips, which involves an entirely separate ritual. One by one, I rip off the pieces on the left knee and fold them into themselves so that the corners precisely align, creating a triangular wad. I find the trash and release each wad with a flick of the wrist, spinning it like a helicopter into the can. If the wads don’t spin properly, or if I miss, I have to attempt all three again.
But by then, the damage is done, and I’m convinced it’s not my day. Regardless, the entire process must then be repeated on the right side.
It’s not over yet.
In games past, when Rachel Buehler was still on the team, her pregame routine had been a vital part of my own. She sat by her locker and retrieved pictures of people and things she loves. I looked not at her photos but at her face, watching her reactions, riding shotgun on her emotions. Now, without Rachel here, I’ll take a peek at Alex Morgan, who, before every game, curls herself into a ball at the bottom of her locker, head clamped between her knees, finding quiet amid the chaos.
When we’re ready for warm-ups, I have to be the first one out of the locker room; everyone is aware of and complies with this quirk. Of course, I have to lead with my left foot, and my left foot must touch the field first. Then I back away and step directly on the line, left then right. Now my crazy is sufficiently quelled, and I can begin to move, jogging a few laps before I stretch each leg, left and right.
Then the crazy resurfaces.
I find a ball and juggle it twenty-five times with my feet. On the last one, I pop it up, trying to trap it on its way down. If I succeed, I know I’m going to have a good game (a successful trap might even mitigate the damage done by a poorly aimed wad of tape). I’ve made it my job to grab the practice jerseys—or “pinnies”—for the pre-game scrimmage, always handing the first one to Pearcie. During drills, I have to score, kicking the ball through the gates. If I miss or hit a cone, the successful juggling no longer matters, and I’m doomed.
Sometimes it helps, especially toward the end of my playing career, to lay blame anywhere but on myself.
We take off our pinnies, throw them down, and move on to our official shooting practice. “Let it ride,” I’ll say to whomever is covering the goal, and they know not to block the shot. Practice is the only time I can witness the ball hit the net, and I try to carry that image with me for when it will actually count.
I have to be the second one back in the locker room; our goalkeeper, Hope, is always the first. She’s engaged in her own pregame ritual, systematically changing her whole outfit, down to her socks.
“Here we go, Hope!” I say.
“Here we go, Abs!” comes the immediate reply.
For as long as I can remember it’s been our standard call and response, as automatic as “Amen” after a prayer.
We’re almost there.
Everyone lines up to go to the bathroom, and I have to use the middle stall. Pearcie summons us over for our pregame pep talk, reminding us of strategy, of trick plays our opponents might attempt. Everyone trickles out onto the field and I’m the last in line. Our coaches are waiting for us, lined up a row with their hands raised, prepared to give high fives. When I reach them I pull my hand back and snap it forward with every ounce of strength, intent on making these high fives the most solidly executed and painful in high-five history. I approach the field, measuring out my steps so that once again the left taps the grass first.
When the national anthem comes on, I lower my head, close my eyes, and picture myself scoring a header goal. After the words “home of the brave” reverberate and fade, I hop lightly, three times. Back at our bench, someone hands me water. I squirt two shots into my mouth, spit it out, and then spray water all over my hair and shake my head like a freshly bathed dog. With my face still wet, I slap my cheeks three times as hard as I possibly can; the sound and the sting are the last signals to my body, assurance that it’s ready.
At long last, there’s the huddle on the field—my cursing, my stammering, my leading th
e “Oosa” chant—and then I find my position, jumping as high as I possibly can and mimicking a header, my eyes connecting with the net while they still can.
It’s over, and it’s just beginning.
My coach and my teammates insist on starting me, even though I’m ill prepared and unfit, for once underweight instead of over. The crowd, all 32,950 of them, transforms my name into a song—AB-BY WAM-BACH (clap clap, clap clap clap)! AB-BY WAM-BACH (clap clap, clap clap clap)!—and the beat lingers in my ears long after they stop. People wave enormous cardboard cutouts of an earlier version of my face, pinker and plumper. I hang in effigy over the railing, a red, white, and blue banner made to resemble Obama’s “Hope” poster. Earlier that day the president tweeted about my last game: “Congrats on a great career, Abby Wambach. For the goals you’ve scored & the kids you’ve inspired, you’re the GOAT!”
The whistle blows, and I do not feel like the GOAT. In fact, before the game, I hadn’t even known the meaning of the acronym (“greatest of all time”); I thought the numerous Twitter mentions were insults and accusations, that I had finally been exposed, and my agent had to reassure me that wasn’t the case. Now, my teammates take every chance to pass me the ball, but it seems like a live thing, moving of its own accord, rolling out of reach every time I get close. I am sad, listless Rocky, being outrun by chickens before Mickey whips him into shape. By the middle of the first half, I start screaming: “We need a goal! Don’t worry about trying to get me a goal—we need a goal!” They keep passing the ball to me anyway, and my best shot, from twelve yards out, skitters weakly toward China’s net. At halftime, in the locker room, my teammates take turns apologizing to me. There’s nothing to be sorry about, I tell them. Today is not about getting a result. It’s about celebrating our team and the time I’ve spent with them.