by Abby Wambach
I talk about my family and being raised on competition, the bruises that covered my body after long days playing with my brothers. I talk about my first devastating failure, losing the state high school championship, and how it propelled me to try harder and never give up. I talk about how it paid off the following year, during my rookie season at Florida, when—precocious little shit that I was—I took over my team’s huddle and announced that we’re not fucking losing to these bitches. I talk about breaking my leg before the 2008 Olympics: the difficulty in staying home, the humility in realizing that my team didn’t need me to win. I talk about my last World Cup and the hard, cold realization of knowing my time was almost up, that the one defining skill of my life had faded and dulled. I talk about summoning the will to lead from the bench, telling younger players to seize their chance that the future is theirs to define.
Then I flip the conversation, addressing the students directly. You should defy labels, I tell them, whether imposed by others or yourselves. You should become comfortable with conflict and disagreement. You should not be afraid to speak your mind. You’re going to be the catalyst for real change. The world is out there, waiting to hear your voices and mark your steps. It’s not your failures that define you, but how you react to them and use them to change. You should all ask yourselves three questions: Where do you want to go, how do you want to get there, and why?
This time, I believe my own words, and am on my way to finding the answers.
EPILOGUE
It’s early, the sun still too low to cast shadows, and I’m running along the streets of Paris, letting myself get lost, a routine I established as soon as I arrived. Soccer has taken me all over the world but never allowed me to see it beyond the hotel rooms and training facilities and fields. So though I’ve visited Paris many times, this ancient city is new to me. It suits me, this atmosphere of discovery, of not knowing where every twisty path might lead. In the three months since my arrest I’ve felt new to myself, open to whatever I might find—good or bad, soothing or disconcerting, familiar or strange.
I’m here for three weeks, covering the Euros—Europe’s championship tournament for men’s soccer—for my new job with ESPN. Soon after I landed, my colleagues invited me to meet them in the bar of the Hotel Pont Royal. I was prepared for the inevitable question—Do I want a drink?—and I responded the same way I have since I quit: “I’m not drinking, I’ll have water.” I launched into my customary follow-up explanation, laced with self-deprecating jokes: “I’m not drinking because I got a DUI, as everyone knows, and clearly drinking wasn’t working for me. I tried like hell to make it work for me. No person on the planet has tried harder to be good at drinking, and yet all of my practice amounted to nothing.” Something new and strange: realizing I will never again be the main spectacle at the party, the engine that makes it go, and not missing that role at all.
A few moments later, one colleague approached and said he’s been sober for twenty-something years, and I’m welcome to accompany him to a meeting anytime. Another followed, and made sure no one else was listening when he offered this advice: I don’t have to keep bringing up my DUI. I shouldn’t feel like I need to explain or justify my behavior. No one needs to be comfortable with my motivations but me.
I thanked him, and had another moment of recognition: I don’t need to justify my behavior, to acknowledge the messiness of my past, but I want to. Talking about it wrests away the control it’s had over me. Talking about it razes the shame, leaving room for another emotion to rise in its place.
The Eiffel Tower looms to my right. My data watch beeps alerts about my heart rate and speed, a sound that will always be familiar. I cross the bridge to the south side of the Seine and pick up speed, weaving around pedestrians, catching snatches of mysterious conversation. I pass floating gardens, the Musée d’Orsay, the Louvre. At the Pont des Arts, the bridge famously weighted with thousands of love locks, I think of Sarah, back in Portland, in the house I still don’t call home.
All of our anger and resentment and blame, smoldering for years, have finally put themselves out. When the smoke cleared, and my sobriety allowed me to excavate my feelings, I admitted all of my faults—both what I’d done and what I failed to do. I never gave her enough credit for encouraging me to confront my issues. I never gave myself fully to her, because I’d long ago given myself to soccer. I tried to split my time and devotion between the two and ended up failing at both. Our future together is still uncertain, but now the good memories have asserted themselves, reminding us why we once worked so well, and of the gifts we’ve given each other. I’ve spent my whole life running—from pain, from fear, from myself—and without her I never would have stopped.
On my fourth day here, I arrived at the studio to provide my first commentary on a game, Slovakia versus Wales. I am used to performing for an audience but my body has always done the work; even as I sunk into my chair, I worried my mind might not be up to the task. The men’s game is foreign territory, with its own history and nuances and rules, and it will take time to know it as well as I know my own game. So I approached the job as I approach everything: from the gut. I’m going to stick to what I know and what I’m good at, I told myself. And what I’m good at is bullshitting.
Moments after the camera began rolling, I realized my mistake. Wow, I thought. That was epically horrible. Another realization: I don’t know if I’ll ever be skilled at this, no matter how hard I try, and that’s okay. I’m not always going to be good, I’m not always going to win, and I’m no longer afraid of failure.
I keep running. I pass the gargoyles of Notre Dame, pensive and menacing and hideous. I veer off into a labyrinth of alleys, long stretches of cobblestones that seem to narrow with each step, as if leading to the point of a cone. Storefronts blur past: fromageries, boulangeries, pâtisseries, the last a reminder that I’m still forgoing muffins. At the end of one path a woman looks at me, and does a double-take. She waves me down, and I stop, my breath loud in my ears.
“Are you Abby Wambach? The soccer player?”
I’m in France! I think. Are you serious? My ego can’t help but preen as I acknowledge that yes, I am. Silently I correct her—I’m not a soccer player anymore—but then I realize she’s right. Soccer is no longer what I do, but it will always be a part of who I am, an indispensable thread of my past. I can’t deny it any more than I can deny the labels I’ve claimed in this book: fraud, rebel, wife, advocate, addict, failure, human—all of them. They’ll always be there, stitched into my psyche, even as I make room for new labels, ones I’ve yet to discover and claim.
I wave to the woman and run off, anonymous once again. The maze unfurls itself before me, beckoning. I realize I know where I am, and how to find my way back.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people in my life that inked the words to these pages. Your love and teachings and support are not lost on me. Thank you is wildly insufficient when it comes to my true, deep feelings for you all. I love you ALL.
My Family, My Body:
To Mom, Dad, Beth, Laura, Peter, Matt, Pat, Andy, Brooke, Tracy, all my in-laws and nieces and nephews . . . I have learned so many beautiful things along the way, and have felt your love and support through all my life adventures. Thank you for letting me go wander, yet always having a place to call HOME.
My chosen Family, My Spirit:
To Sarah, Are, Dena, Kara, Syd, Breaca, Audrey, Al . . . There are actually NO WORDS! You have carried my heart in yours, and the space you have allowed me to BE myself, and the learning and love I have felt in you, has shaped the person I am, but more important the person I want to become. My love for you is unending.
My work Family, My Mind:
I want to thank my editor Julia Cheiffetz and the team at HarperCollins including Lynn Grady, Sean Newcott, and Katie Steinberg. Writing this book was an intense process and I am indebted to Karen Abbott for her patience and brilliance in helping me tell my story. To Dan, all my teammates and c
oaches. . . I have spent most of my adult life with you all, and I have learned a great many things. I’ve learned what hard work actually looks like, and that it sometimes isn’t always pretty. I learned that no matter how badly you want to achieve anything in life, that the way in which you go about achieving it is actually the most important thing. Having this fierce integrity will always be with me for all of my life.
To THE love of my life . . .
Here is to the next 1,000 years.
PHOTO SECTION
Wearing my C.Y.P. uniform, feeling proud that day because I crushed it on the court.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
Kamikaze team picture in the McQuaid gym. After scoring twenty-seven goals in three games, I was asked to join the boys’ soccer league.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
I was excited to join the U-20 National Team. When we arrived at camp no one was expecting us. As a consolation they let me try on my uniform.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
In 1996, my Region 1 ODP team went to Beijing to compete. This was the first time I experienced a completely different culture. I would learn to accept that I would never understand time zones.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
In disbelief after Mercy High lost the New York State championship game in the second overtime to Massapequa, 1997.
(Courtesy Democrat and Chronicle/D&C Digital)
With Kelly O’Neill and Gina Montesano—my high school teammates in both basketball and soccer—at the Empire State Games.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
Congratulating Mia Hamm after scoring a goal on China’s National Women’s Soccer Team, 2004.
(Photo by Don Emmert/AFP/Getty Images)
LEFT: Warming up before a friendly game prior to the 2007 World Cup. RIGHT: After I scored my 100th goal in Rochester, New York, 2009.
(Photos courtesy of the author)
Being taken off the field after a hard hit during the game against Brazil in 2008.
(Photo: U-T San Diego/ZUMAPRESS.com)
A header at the Algarve Cup in Portugal, 2008.
(Photo: M. Stahlschmidt/SSP © 2016)
Starting XI for a friendly match against Canada in Rochester, New York, 2009.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
Celebrating with teammates Alex Morgan and Megan Rapinoe after scoring in the first half of the women’s quarterfinal match during the London 2012 Olympic Games. I was always too big to jump on anyone, so I was often the one being jumped on.
(Christopher Hanewinckel/USA Today Sports)
After breaking my nose during the 2010 exhibition match against Ireland and having it fixed surgically. Possibly the most excruciating injury I’ve had in my career.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
Tired but elated after defeating Japan 2–1 to win the Women’s Soccer gold medal match at the London 2012 Olympic Games.
(Photo by Julian Finney/Getty Images)
After I scored my 159th goal (against South Korea, 2013) to bypass Mia Hamm for the most-goals-scored record.
(Photo by Don Emmert/AFP/Getty Images)
After I became the all-time goal-scoring leader in international competitions, Nike surprised me with my very own cleat. I was shocked and awed by the detail they put into making this one-of-a-kind shoe.
(Photo by Nike)
LEFT: Singing the national anthem at the CONCACAF Women’s Championship against Costa Rica at PPL Park. We won 6–0.
(Derik Hamilton/USA Today Sports)
RIGHT: Red carpet at the 2015 Time 100 Gala at Lincoln Center in New York City.
(Photo by Andrew Toth/FilmMagic/Getty Images)
My entire family came out to support me for my 2015 retirement game in New Orleans.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
During the 2015 World Cup, friends and family got to come and meet players post-game. I was always grateful to get away from the stress of a big tournament.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
After scoring against Nigeria during the 2015 WWC.
(Photo: L. Benedict/SSP © 2016)
After winning the 2015 World Cup final, I went over to Sarah and whispered, “I did it, WE did it.” “Kiss me!” she said.
(Associated Press)
Taking a lap after the World Cup Final. One of the best moments was spotting my family in the stands.
(Photo by Dennis Grombkowski/Getty Images)
Oh, hey, Mr. President, would you mind taking a selfie with us? At the White House, presenting President Barack Obama with an honorary team jersey.
(Geoff Burke/USA Today Sports)
Pre-game hug with my idol, teammate, and friend, Mia Hamm, before my last game in a national team jersey.
(Photo by Dan Levy)
Victory Tour 2015 goodbye to all my fans. I love you all, forever.
(Photo by Christian Petersen/Getty Images)
I was honored to have the opportunity to stump for Hillary Clinton in 2016 and talk about the importance of voting.
(Photo by Scott Eisen/Getty Images)
After the World Cup win, I traveled the country meeting with the brightest minds to talk about equality. Apple CEO Tim Cook is such a beautiful soul.
(Photo by Dan Levy)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABBY WAMBACH is an American soccer player, two-time Olympic gold medalist, Women’s World Cup Champion, and the 2012 FIFA World Player of the Year. A six-time winner of the U.S. Soccer Athlete of the Year award, Wambach has been a regular on the U.S. Women’s National Soccer Team since 2003, earning her first cap in 2001. She is the highest all-time scorer for the U.S. Women’s National Team and holds the world record for international goals for both female and male soccer players, with 184. A true leader on and off the field, Wambach is dedicating the next chapter of her career to fighting for equality and inclusion.
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CREDITS
Cover design by Ploy Siripant
Cover photographs: © Elena Seibert (front);
© Dennis Grombkowski/Getty Images (back)
COPYRIGHT
The names of some of the individuals featured throughout this book have been changed to protect their privacy.
Excerpt on Epigraph page from Dust Tracks on a Road by Zora Neale Hurston. Copyright © 1942 by Zora Neale Hurston; renewed ©1970 by John C. Hurston. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
“Untitled” by R. M. Drake reprinted with permission.
FORWARD. Copyright © 2016 by Abby Wambach. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-246698-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-06-265134-1 (Barnes & Noble Signed Edition)
ISBN 978-0-06-265135-8 (Books-A-Million Signed Edition)
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN 9780062467010
16 17 18 19 20 DIX/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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