by Abby Wambach
I start crying, long, jagged sobs that scorch the back of my throat, and I don’t care who sees or hears me. I am crying so hard that some guard takes pity and brings me a glass of water, explaining that forcing yourself to drink makes your body stop crying. For once I drink it greedily, and by the time I take my last gulp it’s worked its magic, calming me down enough to pick up my ringing phone. It’s my lawyer, who advises me to take the Breathalyzer test; if I refuse, they’ll issue a warrant forcing me to give a blood sample instead. My blood sample, he explains, will reveal with inarguable specificity exactly what’s running through my veins right now, while the Breathalyzer is an imperfect test. And if I refuse the Breathalyzer, I’ll lose my license immediately for a year, according to Portland law. Before we hang up, he reminds me that I have the right to refuse to answer any questions they might ask.
The Breathalyzer it is, I think. I am confident it will show I am below the legal limit.
I follow an officer into the test area, passing a clock along the way: just after midnight. I open my mouth and he shines a light inside, making me lift my tongue to prove there’s nothing underneath. With the device hovering by my mouth, I close my eyes and blow. The number says .142; the legal limit is .08.
That can’t be right, I think. No fucking way.
Two and a half minutes pass, and I’m instructed to blow again; this time it reads .131. “Wait,” I say. “There’s a huge discrepancy—for two and a half minutes—between .142 and .131. Based on my calculation, in ten minutes I’ll be under the legal limit. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s pretty common,” the officer says.
“All right, but I don’t believe this is pretty common. This is my first time ever doing this, and I don’t trust this thing. My life is in the hands of this machine. And the machine is telling me that in ten minutes, I’ll be under the legal limit. That is crazy to me.”
The officer nods and smiles as though he’s heard this tirade a thousand times. I’m led out of the room and through a series of doors. Along the way they take all my personal effects—watch, wallet, cell phone, my grandmother’s ring—and seal them up. I start crying again, even harder than before, and someone appears with another glass of water, which pauses the tears long enough for a mug shot. My last public photos featured me playing a charity golf game with Caitlyn Jenner and jumping into a pond, showboating as if I’d scored a game-winning goal. I imagine the mug shot going out to the world, attached to thousands of tweets, featured on the news for all my nieces and nephews to see. This is happening, I think. This is truth. Everything I’ve worked for is going to be lost. As soon as the flash recedes, imprinting specks of light inside my closed eyes, I begin to cry again.
I’m led away, this time to a waiting room crammed with rows of chairs. Officers occupy a line of desks along the back. A partition separates the women’s side from the men’s, and each side has a blaring television set. The first person I see is a woman who’s obviously a drug addict. She’s tweaking, fingers grating her skin, narrating a story only she can follow. The room is freezing, sixty-something degrees, and I tuck my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my shins. I lower my head to the points of my knees and rock myself back and forth. I think about Sarah, waiting outside for me in her car, ten thousand dollars in cash in her purse.
Within minutes I hear a cacophony of footsteps shuffling toward me, and I look up to see a half dozen pairs of shoes, all of them, strangely, without laces. Weird, I think, and my eye focuses on one pair in particular: a man’s high-tops, the tongues so long they flap down to lick the tips of his toes. And then it hits me: no one is allowed to have shoelaces in jail because shoelaces are a potential deadly weapon, a means of suicide or murder. I wonder why they didn’t take mine, too—they must realize, on some level, that I don’t belong here. Then I look down at my feet and have my answer.
I’m wearing Birkenstocks.
Hours pass, feeling like days. The tongues of the man’s sneakers still lap at his toes. The tweaker scratches at her skin as though it’s a lottery card. I wait, and wait, and think of Sarah, still sitting out in the car. I am almost relieved when someone calls my name. I go to the window, where I’m told my information needs to be entered into the system. One by one my fingers are pressed against a screen, scanning and recording my fingerprints. A woman stands nearby, watching. I notice her name tag, which bears the initials JT. She’s wearing civilian clothes and no gun; I assume she’s a clerk.
“I need a number to call,” she says. “I need to call someone to make sure all your information checks out.”
I tell her I don’t know my wife’s number—it’s programmed into my cell, which is in storage—and instead I give her my mother’s land line, my old land line.
JT must see the panic in my face at the thought of calling home. She speaks softly, kindly, telling me it’s going to be okay. They just have to run my fingerprints through the FBI database to make sure I have no outstanding warrants or DUIs. Standard procedure before I can be released on my own recognizance.
I return to my seat. I watch the clock, the minute hand moving with agonizing lethargy. I approach one of the desk officers. “I really, really would appreciate it if someone would go outside and check on my wife,” I say. “She’s out there sitting with a bunch of cash in a really bad part of town. If I’m not going to get out of here until seven in the morning, I would really like for someone to just tell her to go home.”
He agrees and picks up my backpack; he’ll bring it out to her and tell her what I said. He’s kind enough to return with her phone number, and points to a stainless steel phone in the waiting area. I can use it to call her collect.
“Please go home,” I beg when she picks up. “It makes me feel better knowing you’re safe.”
She tells me she’s not going anywhere.
The room is still freezing. I try to send my mind to another place: I’m at camp, preparing for a tournament. I speed-walk around the rows of chairs, doing laps, five in one direction before I spin around. I lean against the wall and sink down so my thighs are parallel to the floor, holding for two minutes. I watch my quad muscles flex. I realize I’ve yet to take a piss—how drunk could I possibly be? I do squats, more laps, more wall sits. I’m about to embark on another round when JT, the clerk, summons me over. She tells me I’m ready for release—she just has a few final questions.
“Are you on drugs?” she asks.
“No, I’m not on drugs,” I say.
“Have you ever taken drugs?”
“What does this have to do with anything?” I ask, and think: My lawyer has invoked my right to silence.
“You need to answer these questions. Have you ever taken drugs?”
“Over ten years ago, but what does this have to do with tonight? I don’t understand.”
She looks up, pen poised over paper. “I have to ask these questions to make sure you’re not going to hurt yourself or hurt anyone else.”
I tell assure her that’s not a possibility, but she presses on. Have I done heroin? No. Have I done meth? No. Have you ever done marijuana?
“Over ten years ago,” I repeat. “I don’t know what this has to do with anything.”
Cocaine?
“Again,” I say, “I don’t know what this has to do with anything.”
She’s finished with me, finally, and I’m crying again. By the time I venture outside it’s nearly dawn, a pink fingernail of sun inching up the sky, and Sarah is still there, waiting for me. The way she leans against the door of her Jeep—arms crossed, face expectant—reminds me of Jake at the end of Sixteen Candles, hoping it’s not too late to get the girl, and suddenly I’m laughing instead.
23
HUMAN
I usually dread the morning after drinking. Who did I text? What did I post? What damage have I caused, what havoc have I wreaked? What don’t I remember? What have I put out into the universe that will boomerang back to me? But on this morning after, I am fully awa
re of what I’ve done and what I need to do. First, I gather every pill bottle left in my stash, give them all to Sarah, and vow never to take one again.
As of this writing, I’ve kept that promise.
I make a list of all the people I’ve hurt and disappointed and reach out to them one by one. My mother tells me that things happen sometimes, and that I’m going to be okay, and that she loves me no matter what—always has and always will. I call my family in Rochester and tell them I’ll come home that weekend; I want to gather all my nieces and nephews and talk to them candidly. Let this be a lesson, I’ll tell them. Let me be an example. Let me explain all the ways you shouldn’t be like me when you grow up.
I pick my public words just as carefully; I want them to sound like me—honest and straight, like someone willing to accept blame. I recognize a strange truth: after all the searching, the meditation, the drinking, the pills, the therapy, the solitary road trips, the tortured text exchanges, and the time spent living in my head, this colossal mistake will be the catalyst for getting to know myself again.
I post this paragraph on all my social media accounts:
Last night I was arrested for DUI in Portland after dinner at a friend’s house. Those that know me, know that I have always demanded excellence from myself. I have let myself and others down.
I take full responsibility for my actions. This is all on me. I promise that I will do whatever it takes to ensure that my horrible mistake is never repeated.
I am so sorry to my family, friends, fans and those that look to follow a better example.
—Abby
Now that it’s out there, I brace myself, waiting to see what will come back to me. I text with Kara, knowing she will help me sort through the mess I’ve made and challenge me to be my responsible self.
“Today is brutal,” I text her on Monday afternoon. “Now I have to feel and accept this. I have hurt a lot of people with all this. Myself mostly, but I’m aware that I’m responsible for others’ hurt, too.”
“Yep, I get that,” she responds, adding an emoji of mala beads. “Shaman’s death, dude. There is a part of you that is being called to die so you can be and have everything you’ve ever wanted. Try to see this as a blessing.”
“I’m so mad at myself that I got this far gone,” I reply.
“I gotta tell you . . . people in your life have reached out to me throughout the past year. I never told you. There has been stuff going on behind the scenes that I feel like I can be open with you about now.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “Train wreck . . . and Sarah and I? I’m so all over the place.”
“You gotta get clean,” she urges. “It’s number one. Don’t worry about that right now . . . Abby, you’re stubborn as fuck. You’re super lucky and the Universe has given you a love tap.”
“I know. And it’s not a tap. Punch to the motherfucking face. Which I deserve.”
“This is what you needed.”
“I know,” I admit. “I will need to be sober for one year. Which I pray will let me see life can be lived well and happy sober. I don’t know where to even begin again with my life.”
“Lean,” she says, and includes a peace-fingers emoji. “And try not to lean on folks that will only agree with you.”
“I know,” I tell her. “That’s why I have you, buddy. And I’m learning to find my own true north.”
News trucks intermittently cruise by my house; I hide out in a coffee shop until they give up. A few of the players on the men’s national team make pointed jokes. One of them tweets, “Must’ve been a foreign American player’s fault,” a reference to a comment I’d made about too many “foreign guys” playing for the U.S. team. His tweet launches its own debate. Although I stay offline, I’m thinking, He’s right. I’m an idiot and an asshole for driving under the influence. A half hour later, that same player follows up with begrudging kindness: “I almost forgot that I have to be politically correct because I’m an athlete. We’re human. Abby took full responsibility. Good.”
Sydney calls and cries and tells me how relieved she is to hear my voice. Apologize to your body, she tells me. That remarkable, incredibly gifted vessel that has served you so well for so many years. Treat it well and let it heal; that’s where your renewal begins.
As soon as we hang up I get a text from my brother-in-law, a firefighter, which I’ve read every day since my arrest and will continue to read for a long time to come:
Abby, I’m sorry to hear and read about your situation. I can only imagine what you’re going through. That being said, I offer the following: In the fire department, we see the damage and destruction that fires cause. Everyone always looks to the fire as the culprit, but the real enemy is the source. Some of the time, the source is obvious—the gas can left out, the cigarette in the ashtray, etc.—but the majority of the time we have to dig. The source is hidden within the walls, in the foundation of the home. It smolders, unnoticed to everyone, until it reaches the point of ignition and explodes.
Your metaphoric house caught fire this weekend. I believe that the source has been building unnoticed, except by you, for a while now. The good news is that if you attack the source, you can prevent further fires. Treat this as you would any other injury you’ve had. Let the bones and tissues heal, just like it’s an internal injury. Just as you’ve sought help before for your leg, you need to ask for help from your friends and family. You cannot do this on your own. Just like other injuries you’ve recovered from, this will be painful, frustrating, demoralizing. But you will get better. As with every fire I’ve gone to, you will rebuild and be in a better, safer place going forward.
I will get better, I think. And I have no choice but to go forward.
Embarrassing details trickle out: my mug shot, my experimentation with drugs, the legal repercussions after I plead guilty to driving under the influence of intoxicants. I choose to enter a diversion program, which involves drug and alcohol assessment and treatment. I lose my license for three months and have a Breathalyzer installed in my car. When I’m allowed to drive again, I’ll have to blow in it to prove my sobriety before I can start the engine. The judge orders me to abstain from drinking any alcohol at all. The order isn’t even necessary; I have no desire to drink. I’m in training again, this time preparing for the opponent within, the most formidable one I’ve ever faced. This time, instead of gaining speed I’m slowing down, unraveling all the excuses and lies, thawing everything I deadened and numbed. I’ve made so many decisions that have taken me away from myself, that have made it impossible to know who I am, and I’m ready to chart the path back. Intense Abby assures me I can succeed, and Chill Abby reminds me that a happy life still includes moments of pain.
As part of my program, I attend a victim impact panel, two hours of listening to people who made my same mistakes and others who’ve suffered as a result. It takes place one rainy Thursday night in an auditorium adjacent to the hospital. As soon as I sit down, the man next to me taps my shoulder.
“Are you Abby Wambach?” he asks.
I admit that I am.
He smiles and extends his hand. “When I saw you got arrested,” he says, “it made me feel better about myself.”
“Happy to help,” I tell him, and we become fast friends.
First up is Antonio, who was stoned when he got into an accident, crushing one of his legs; he uses a self-described pimp cane to get around. Joan, in her fifties, was the victim of a drunk driver twenty years ago. She broke the windshield with her head, injuring her brain so traumatically she became a different person. Likes became dislikes; long-held opinions changed; certainties morphed into questions. She had to relearn how to eat, walk, tie her shoes, comb her hair, brush her teeth.
I cry throughout her talk, realizing what I could have done to someone. I realize how thankful I am that I got caught in time.
John walks down the aisle led by a black lab. At first I think it’s a service animal, but he reveals that the dog belonged to his s
on and daughter-in-law, who were both killed by a drunk driver. Instead of raising his son, he’s now raising his grandson.
I cry again.
The last speaker is a judge—“Judge Amy”—who says she’s not here to lecture us, to tell us to quit whatever vices led us here today. She just wants us to stop and think: everything we saw and heard about in this session was 100 percent preventable. We have the power and the control. We can choose never to sit in these seats again.
I offer to withdraw from my scheduled speaking engagements, but they all still want me to come. I attend the People Analytics Conference at Wharton, an event I’d planned at the height of my addiction, and I’m grateful to be onstage with a clear mind, a sharper picture of who I am and what I can contribute. I fear it’s not much—I feel out of my league among these brilliant academics—but afterward Adam Grant says he admires the way I handled the DUI. If I’m interested, he’d like me to return to teach a class on creative management, emphasizing authenticity and the power in confronting your past. I tell him I’d be thrilled; by then, I might be an expert myself.
I especially appreciate speaking at colleges, where the audiences are people who have yet to make their worst decision, people who can still learn from my own. At each school—the University of Kentucky, Penn State, and Georgetown—the auditoriums are filled with students willing to hear what I have to say. Each time, my mind rewinds to one of my first postretirement appearances: the kids’ community soccer league, where the negative commentary scrolled through my brain and I felt like a fraud. As always, I have no speech prepared, and when the light drops down on my head, following me across the stage, I do what I’ve always done and just start talking, hoping the words land right.