The Keeper: A Life of Saving Goals and Achieving Them (10 page)

Just keep blocking shots
, I’d think.
Keep getting between the ball and the net.

N
egotiations got bogged down. Both sides had dug in and were holding firm. Dan made a suggestion. “What if you offer to make up the difference from the first year of your salary? Even doing that, you’d still earn seven figures next year. And you’ll be at Man U.”

“Done,” I replied.

N
ow I needed that elusive work permit. Manchester United would be presenting my case to an appeals panel. If four out of the six panelists agreed to grant the appeal, I’d get my permit.

Still, there was no guarantee. Players are denied work permits all the time. Cobi Jones, one of the most accomplished American
players, had been turned down. So had Brad Friedel, even after submitting multiple applications. If the same thing happened to me, I could forget Manchester United, forget the million-dollar contract they’d dangled in front of me.

All this work—the hopes, negotiations, the phone calls, the scrambling to pull together myriad documents for Manchester United—would be for nothing. I’d be going nowhere.

I
n the end, very little gets in the way of what Manchester United wants to do. I got my work permit. Apparently Alex Ferguson himself appeared at my hearing and said that I would be his goalkeeper.

Almost immediately, the headlines began appearing:

UNITED WANT AMERICAN WITH BRAIN DISORDER
—The Guardian

MANCHESTER UNITED TRYING TO SIGN DISABLED GOALKEEPER
—The Independent

WE SWEAR IT’S TRUE: TOURETTE’S SUFFERER TARGET FOR UNITED
—The Mirror

I never read the articles below the headlines. I didn’t need that kind of garbage cluttering up my brain.

I
played my final game for the MetroStars—against the New England Revolution, in Foxboro, Massachusetts—on Saturday, July 12, 2003.

In the locker room, Bob Bradley announced to the team that I’d be captain for the day—a classy gesture that I’ve never forgotten.

After, I walked from our hotel—the team was staying at a Sheraton that looked like a fake brick castle—to the South Shore Plaza mall, and headed to Macy’s. There I bought the clothes I would wear when I signed my name to the Manchester United contract. I thought I’d picked out a pretty sharp outfit—pinstriped suit, dress shirt, and tie, all in coordinating shades of light blue and navy.

I shook Bob’s hand. Thanked him for everything.

“I hope we can work together again,” I said.

“Good luck to you, Timmy.”

Then Dan, Laura, and I took an overnight flight to England.

I
t was a whirlwind trip of 36 hours. After landing, we drove to the Manchester United training ground in Carrington. The first team was on the field, going through some punishing drills. Right in the middle of them was none other than Sir Alex Ferguson himself. He came over to greet me. Then he stopped the session and called over the team.

“This is Tim Howard,” he said to them. “New keeper.”

Now I was shaking hands with some of the biggest names in English soccer.

The Neville brothers, Paul Scholes, Ryan Giggs, Nicky Butt—nearly all of the renowned class of 1992—all except David Beckham, who’d recently left for Real Madrid. In 1992, Ferguson had replaced the older, experienced players on the team with these guys.
You’ll never win with kids
, he’d been warned by pundits. But these kids went on to win the league, and in the process, they became United legends. And Ferguson had sealed his reputation as one of the brilliant managers of all time.

There were other faces I recognized: Rio Ferdinand, one of the world’s most famous defenders . . . Roy Keane, the captain with the legendary temper . . . Ruud van Nistelrooy . . . Fabien Barthez.

These guys were international stars, every one of them. Now they were all right in front of me. In a few hours, they’d be my
teammates
.

I
spent the next four hours in various doctors’ offices. Manchester United wanted to rule out any existing or potential medical problems before they sealed the deal. So I shuttled between technicians and physicians, who measured my lung capacity and joint functioning, took my blood pressure, calculated muscle mass and dental needs. I had CT scans, stress and blood tests, an electrocardiogram, and an echocardiogram. They found no surprises, so the signing was on.

When all that was over, we went to look at several houses, owned by Manchester United, where we’d live for at least the first year. I’d never lived in a house before—when I left my mom’s apartment, I moved into a one-bedroom with my brother. These Man U homes weren’t just any homes, either: they were beautiful, spacious, and overflowing with English charm.

I tried to picture actually living in one of these homes with Laura, but the whole prospect still seemed dreamlike, as if I were imagining someone else’s life.

We finally picked a beauty on Hawthorn Lane in Wilmslow, a brick Tudor with six bedrooms and expansive country gardens. It had huge bay windows, touches of leaded glass, skylights, built-ins, and double French doors—far fancier than even the Fox Hill Run homes I used to marvel at back in Jersey.

And it was mine.
Ours
.

On our way to Old Trafford stadium for the signing, Dan gave me some great advice. Listening to it would be one of the wiser things I’ve ever done.

“Tim,” he said. “This is a lot of money. But your career is front-loaded; you have only a short window when you’ll be able to earn this much. So conserve it until the basic concerns are off the table.”

“What are the basics?”

“However you define them. Decide what you think you’ll need to live on over the long term, and sock that money away. You’ll be tempted to spend a lot of it, but keep your eye on that long term.”

We headed to Old Trafford to sign the contract that would change my life and to announce to the world that I had joined Manchester United.

I would now be earning $1.4 million per year, and double that if I actually played regularly. I was jumping from the bottom team in MLS to one of the best teams in the world’s top league. I didn’t feel exactly like Cinderella, but the whole thing was enough of a fairy tale to make me wonder when the clock would strike midnight.

After, we went outside to have a photo taken in front of Old
Trafford—they’d given me a red Manchester United scarf to wear around my neck, maybe to underline how official it was. Hundreds of fans had already gathered. To see me. They knew exactly what I looked like from all the pictures in the English papers when my transfer was announced.

“Welcome, Tim!” they shouted.

“Look, it’s Tim Howard!”

“Gonna be the next Peter Schmeichel, are ya?”

I held up a Man U jersey as the fans cheered. I was still dressed in the navy suit with pale blue pinstripes from Macy’s. It would be months before I realized that the suit I’d so carefully chosen featured the team colors of United’s bitter crosstown rival, Manchester City. This was a massive faux pas in English soccer, and one of many things I’d learn only in retrospect.

L
aura and I huddled together on the flight home, talking about the wedding. It would have to be postponed until the Premier League season ended.

“Or we could . . .” I said, my voice trailing off.

“What?” she asked.

“Why don’t we get married before I go.”

“
Before
you go?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I answered. “Why not?”

“Tim,” Laura said, looking at me with both caution and surprise. “Your first game is in a couple of days.”

“So let’s go to City Hall as soon as we land,” I said.

It seemed so obvious now.

“Oh my goodness, Tim,” she said. “We could. We could just do it.”

Laura had already bought a wedding dress, ordered stacks of
engraved invitations, put down deposits with photographers and florists. But I could see by the way her eyes sparkled that she liked the idea.

“Doesn’t it feel right?” I asked.

“Tim,” she said, “it feels perfect.”

We’d be landing in Newark, but New Jersey makes you wait 48 hours to marry after applying for the license. We didn’t have 48 hours.

In New York, the waiting period is just 24 hours. That we could manage.

Mom picked us up at the airport.

“Mom,” I said once we’d settled in the car, “can you take us into New York? City Hall. We need to get a marriage license.”

I
t rained on July 18, 2003, but no one seemed to notice or care. Laura and I didn’t, anyway; if the sun wasn’t shining, it sure felt like it was around 3 p.m. when we were married in Central Park. It was an impromptu ceremony that marked the line between what had been and what would be. Only ten people could attend the ceremony on such short notice.

Afterward, we celebrated at the Chart House in Weehawken, directly across the Hudson River from Manhattan. We were taking photographs outside when word got around the restaurant that a professional athlete was on the deck. The next thing I knew, people started coming out to snap their own shots.

Everything in my life is about to change
, I kept thinking.
The world I know, the people I love, I’m leaving it all behind.

I wrapped my arm around Laura’s waist.

But I’ll have Laura. My wife will be with me.

L
aura spent her first day as a married woman flying back to Memphis to begin the process of saying goodbye to her friends, family, and hometown—the only place she’d ever lived. I hopped on a plane to join my new team and get ready for our first match. I’d travel with them to a couple of friendly matches in the U.S., then we would head together to Portugal to play Sporting Lisbon.

Before I left, I scribbled out some words that had been rattling around in my head. They were from Luke 12:48, the parable of the faithful servant:
To whom much is given, much is required.

Without knowing why, I tucked the piece of paper into my day planner. I had no idea how often I would unfold it and read that line, again and again. I’d even pull it out more than a decade later, fresh off the field in Salvador, Brazil, after the U.S. lost in overtime to Belgium in the 2014 World Cup—the most eventful game of my life.

I remember telling myself that I was taking all the excitement in stride. And I suspect that anyone who knew me then would agree; they’d say I played it cool, never got rattled.

Looking back, however, I can see that I was the same kid who’d tried to act tough while getting his first tattoo, then squirmed in his seat.

I was a wreck.

My first match for United, against the Italian giant Juventus, would be held, ironically enough, in New Jersey—at Giants Stadium, where the MetroStars played their home games. When I walked out onto the field, I remember being in utter shock. Yes, it was still Giants Stadium, but it was transformed. There was a capacity crowd. The atmosphere was electric.

There’s a photo of me, taken moments before kickoff. I’m
smiling, but it’s not the assured-looking grin I usually see in photos of myself. This smile is shy, even sheepish. I look like a little kid. A little kid asking himself,
Do I even belong here?

The whistle was about to blow.

What I felt, most of all, was fear.

B
elgium’s a formidable team. Twelve of their players are in the Premier League. Their keeper, Thibaut Courtois, hasn’t lost a game for Belgium in 20 international matches. They have Chelsea’s Eden Hazard, one of the most gifted midfielders in the world. Eden won the Professional Footballers’ Association award for best young player this season; he was runner-up for PFA best player, too. They have Marouane Fellaini, whom I’d played with at Everton before he transferred to Manchester United; I’ve seen firsthand his rugged tackles and aerial challenges. And they have Rom, a game-changer.

Belgium has power and pace and skill.

Thirty seconds in, Jermaine brings the ball just over the line into Belgium territory. His pass is intercepted by Kevin De Bruyne, who gallops down the right wing toward me. He’s youthful and fresh-faced with red hair and freckles, but he’s got unbelievable velocity with the ball at his feet.

On my right, I can sense Divock Origi also making a run. Origi is another young Belgian. I know he’s good because he’s starting in place of Romelu.

Origi races past our defender, Omar Gonzalez. De Bruyne passes him the ball.

He’s got a clear shot.

Origi pulls back his right foot and snaps it forward.

Then it’s just me and that ball.

Time stretches. The world around me retreats—the stadium, my teammates, Origi himself.

It all happens in a fraction of a second. My brain flickers back and forth between the ball and my own body. I measure the ball’s angle, its speed. I adjust my body.

And then
Whap!
The ball hits my leg.

The world returns in a flash. I saved it.

I shake my fist and bellow at my defenders.
Get fucking tighter!

I need it to be absolutely, 100 percent clear: this cannot happen again.

Forty-five seconds on the clock. I’m focused now. My blood is pumping.

I’ve made my declaration—to myself, to the world. That ball’s not getting through.

I
t was like I’d gone to Jupiter. As if I’d rocketed not merely into a different league, different country, different culture, but onto a different planet altogether.

Before I left the States, Mulch had shaken my hand and said, “Tim, go represent the 732.” I laughed; 732 was our Jersey area code.

“Always,” I’d said. Then I’d pulled him in for a hug.

It wasn’t long before the 732 would vanish in a haze with the rest of Jersey’s hardscrabble charm. In this new world, flashbulbs popped, people swarmed team buses and screamed as if we were the Beatles. Security guards in neon jackets pushed back crowds that were ten people deep, all of them craning their necks, hoping for a glimpse.