by Tim Howard
“And I felt so alone trying to help him,” Faith added. “Doctors couldn’t tell us what he had. Once we finally figured it out, we couldn’t find information, we couldn’t find guidance, we bounced from doctor to doctor trying to find someone who could help.”
I glanced at my mom; I felt sure she was thinking about how hard she’d worked to find information, how little there had been.
As Faith spoke, my eyes kept drifting toward Kim. This was the first time I’d ever spent time with anyone else who had TS. Although Kim’s vocalizations were louder, his motor tics more pronounced than mine, I saw myself in him. There were so many similarities between our stories: the inexplicable urges . . . wondering what in the world was happening . . . feeling alone.
My mom, I could tell, glimpsed her own mirror image in Faith.
Driving home that day, Mom said, “Kim’s symptoms were pretty severe, huh? I didn’t realize how lucky we were that your symptoms are mild.”
Then I was silent. I knew Mom hadn’t meant any harm, but there was something wrong with that word. Mild. Nothing about TS had ever felt mild to me. It was a condition I’d spent half my life trying to hide, trying to conquer.
But no matter how hard I tried, TS had won, every time.
“Mom,” I finally said. “I know it may seem like that to you. But I don’t imagine TS ever feels mild for anyone.”
She thought about that for a while. Then, without speaking, she reached over and took my hand.
When the MetroStars released the news—a starting keeper with Tourette Syndrome!—it got picked up by the New York Daily News, the Newark Star-Ledger, USA Today. I got a feature in the New York Times, a profile in Sports Illustrated.
Faith put me right to work, too. I began hosting events for kids with TS after MetroStars games. I’ll never forget my first one. By now, I’d signed hundreds of posters. I’d given dozens of interviews. I’d already received and responded to countless letters from children, always telling them the same thing: You can do anything anyone else can do.
But this was the first time I was in a room full of people with the same condition I had.
It’s a funny thing, looking out at a crowd of kids with TS. You see movement—head jerks and quick arm motions, leg kicks and eye blinks. You hear coughs, hums, hoots, yelps.
TS is equal opportunity. Which means every sort of kid was there in that room: every color, every background, every age. They wore hoodies and jeans and baseball caps, like all kids do. They had crew cuts and ponytails.
If they were remarkable at all, it was for how wonderfully ordinary they were.
“I’m Tim Howard,” I said to that fluttering room. “I have Tourette Syndrome. I live with TS. I try to excel with TS. What I don’t do is suffer from TS. And you don’t have to, either.”
Some other things were happening that season, too. I was playing well, but I became aware of a new sort of pressure. I was beginning to understand what an emotional roller-coaster ride I had signed on for—the way your whole world, your whole sense of self, could rest on the outcome of a single game. Win, and you feel euphoric. Lose, and it’s like a punch to the gut—it knocks the air right out of you.
Mind you, as athletes go, I was small-time—earning my keep with a losing team in a league where few Americans could name more than a handful of players. But still, I heard a faint voice inside my head warning: Don’t rely on winning for your peace and comfort. Find something else. When you find it, cling to it with all your might.
I thought about my Nana, the inner peace she’d always projected. It was exactly what I craved for myself.
I called her.
“Hey, Nana,” I said. “I’d like to go to church with you this weekend, if that’s okay.”
“Well, Tim,” she replied, “you know that’s more than okay with me.”
I loved going to Mount Zion. I loved that it brought me and Nana closer together. It felt like there was no hierarchy in place, no egos raging. Pauper or millionaire, the place welcomed everyone with open arms—all those hugs from congregants, each of whom sought and often found their own spiritual refuge there. Not one of them cared if I’d won or lost my last game.
A teammate and I started a Bible study. Once a week, a group of us met at a Barnes & Noble to read and discuss passages that moved or puzzled us.
In addition to the Bible study group, we started a pregame prayer session that still exists today. We found a chaplain to lead it, and quietly mentioned it to a few other players who might appreciate it.
Each time we met, the chaplain chose a scripture that seemed especially connected to that week’s game. He might talk about courage, or fear, or playing for the glory of God. When he was done, players might ask him to lead a prayer for the team’s health and safety. If one of us had a family member traveling to the game, we prayed for their safe arrival.
They were quiet moments, just a few minutes of prayer. By the time I walked out of that room, I felt ready to play in a way I hadn’t before. I felt renewed.
I remain a religious man to this day. But over time, my faith would change and mature. It would become more complex, more private, much harder to define.
I look back now on those afternoons in the Barnes & Noble, amid the whir of espresso machines and the dings of cash registers, as well as on all those tiny pregame chapels. I see now that I was reaching to grab hold of something that would ground me. I had come to my faith seeking stability. I yearned for purpose in the years to come.
And big things were coming—that was for sure.
I want to go to Europe.
Just as graduating to a travel team was the obvious next step from the Brunswick recreation league, a move from MLS to Europe became the way forward.
European clubs are institutions, often more meaningful than local governments or cultural landmarks. The best players on earth wind up in Europe.
If I was going to become the best, that’s where I needed to go. But to get there, I needed an agent. I had already encountered a number of them—the strong-handshake, fast-talking, name-dropping types. These slicksters often hung around in locker rooms, team and league events, and road hotels. The more success I had, the more they gravitated to me. And when they approached me, they acted as if they were the sole person who could bring me vast fortune and fame.
Their bluster held me back, kept me from committing.
Then I met Dan. A lawyer with a master’s degree in history from Oxford University, Dan never planned to be an agent. But he loved soccer and had attended the University of Virginia Law School at a time when UVA was the top college team in the country. When MLS launched in 1996, a number of those UVA players had called him to ask for help with their contracts. Now he had a solid list of MLS clients, including guys like Eddie Pope, Ben Olsen, and Josh Wolff, all of whom I knew and respected.
We met in a midtown Manhattan restaurant for lunch. Dan asked me about my goals, and I said one word: “Europe.”
The waiter poured water. Dan sat quietly, waiting until our glasses were full. Then he replied, “That’s a great goal. But Europe isn’t one thing. It’s many different clubs, within different leagues, within a whole lot of different countries.”
It was a thoughtful, low-key response—so different from the other agents I’d talked to who heard “Europe” and immediately said, “Done.”
“You’re a good goalkeeper,” Dan continued, “but even so, a move to Europe isn’t going to be easy.”
He explained some of the obstacles. First, European clubs rarely recruit internationally for goalkeepers the way they recruit for strikers, attackers, and center-backs. Most countries believe they can produce their own keepers.
There was also the language barrier. A midfielder or striker might be able to get away with speaking a different language than the rest of the team. But not the guy whose job involves organizing the defense.
“England’s your best option,” Dan explained. “But even if there’s interest there, it will be difficult
to get a work permit.” A player can be sure of obtaining a work permit only if they’ve played 75 percent of their country’s national team games over a two-year period. I hadn’t.
To get a permit, then, I would have to go through an appeals process. Those appeals, particularly for Americans, were often declined.
“In the meantime,” Dan said, “I’d recommend you focus on other European countries without such tight restrictions. Maybe you can even get an invitation to train at one of these clubs in the MLS off-season—it’s often a great way to fuel interest.”
By the time lunch was over, my European dreams in some ways felt farther away than ever. But in another, important way, they felt more real, more concrete, than they ever had: now I understood the obstacles. I had a sense of what it would take to overcome them. And thanks to Dan—who I already decided would be my agent—I had a plan.
It was a good year. I played every minute of every game that season. Although I let in plenty of goals—I can still remember, for example, a San Jose rookie phenom named Landon Donovan netting his first-ever MLS goal against me that season—I finished strong. I had a 1.33 goals-against average (the average number of goals per game conceded over the course of a year), a pretty impressive record, considering how much time the MetroStars spent defending. By the end of the season, I was named to the MLS All-Stars, and I was voted MLS Goalkeeper of the Year, the youngest-ever player to earn that honor. I was also selected as part of the league’s “Best Eleven.” Perhaps most rewarding of all, I was named MLS Humanitarian of the Year for my work with Tourette Syndrome awareness.
I put those trophies in a box and sealed them up. I was afraid if I looked at them too much, if I had them on display, it would make me complacent. I wanted to stay hungry.
Dan and I thought carefully about which country, which league, which club, might be the best fit for me. Holland is one of the stronger soccer countries in Europe. Its top league, the Eredivisie, isn’t rich like England’s Premier League or Germany’s Bundesliga, but it’s good.
In the winter of 2001–2002, an elite Dutch club, Feyenoord, was looking for a goalkeeper. They invited me to train with them for two weeks—essentially giving me a tryout. I felt confident, physically and mentally ready. I’d had a great MLS season and I’d been getting looks from the U.S. National Team. I was so pumped, in fact, that when I stepped off the overnight flight to Holland, I didn’t even bother to stop at my hotel before heading straight into my first training session.
It was a good two weeks. I trained my ass off. I liked the team, and felt like I fit in. By the end, I fully expected that Feyenoord would make an offer.
But they didn’t. Instead, they told Dan that they thought I had great potential, but that they didn’t feel sure enough to make a move.
Okay, so now what? I decided that I would aspire to be the best goalkeeper in MLS for a few more years, try to push my way into the U.S. National Team. Europe would come when I was a slightly more established commodity. And I had some luxury there; goalkeepers tend to have longer careers than field players.
But it wouldn’t be long before my whole life would turn upside down.
“WE’VE GOT OUR EYES ON YOU”
People’s lives can change when—and where—they least expect it. Mine took a sudden turn in August 2002, at a place called “Club Poogo,” which wasn’t actually a club. It was Clint Mathis’s basement.
Clint had joined the team a few seasons ago, transferring from the LA Galaxy. It didn’t take him long to charm everyone; as soon as he scored his first goal for the MetroStars he’d lifted his jersey to reveal an “I ♥ NY” T-shirt. The fans ate it up.
Before he left for the 2002 World Cup, Clint shaved his head into a Mohawk. While there, he scored a sensational goal against South Korea in their home stadium, earning the U.S. a 1–1 draw. In that one instant, Mathis looked like the best striker on earth. He helped the team to advance to the knockout stage, where we beat archrival Mexico in what was then the biggest-ever matchup of the regional powers. By the time the U.S. team arrived home after reaching the quarterfinals for the first time in our history, Clint had become the face of American soccer. He appeared on the covers of Sports Illustrated and ESPN The Magazine, and even bantered with Jon Stewart on The Daily Show about how to grow out a Mohawk.
Clint was the kind of guy who liked nothing better than a good party, so when he purchased a town house in East Paterson, New Jersey, he refinished the basement to look like a nightclub. Midnight-black walls. Velvet ropes. Funky red velvet furniture and a huge red pool table to match. There was also an enormous glass bar, complete with working taps and tiny bulbs casting a red glow over fake ice. He even had a sign custom-made with the words CLUB POOGO spelled out in red neon.
It was there, beneath Mathis’s twirling disco ball, that I met my future wife, Laura.
She was there visiting Ross Paule, who had recently been acquired by the MetroStars. Ross was a quiet, hardworking family man who’d become a regular at our pregame chapels. The dude had 24 cousins, and Laura was one.
I noticed Laura immediately. It was hard not to: with her flirty girl-next-door vibe, she was dazzling enough, I swear, to light up this whole dark basement.
We spoke only briefly that night—I remember I learned that she was a loan officer at a bank, that she loved animals, that she’d been an All-City basketball player.
I’m sure I blinked and cleared my throat eight million times during our chat. My tics come out especially fiercely when I get nervous or excited. This time I was both.
Before she left, Laura asked, “You guys are playing the Dallas Burn next month, right?”
I nodded. Near me, I could hear Clint’s unmistakable Southern drawl, Who needs another beer? Anyone? Anyone?
“Well,” Laura said. “Maybe I’ll drive up to Dallas to see you play.”
As I watched her walk up the stairs, Clint came over to me.
“Timmy, my friend. Can I get you another drink?”
Laura disappeared from view.
“Nah,” I said. “I’m good.”
The truth was, all I wanted was another chance to talk with Laura—in Dallas, or here. I’d have followed that girl to Timbuktu.
A few weeks later, Laura and Ross’s brother Ryan drove 450 miles—7 hours, round-trip—to see us play in Dallas. Afterward, I ran into her in the lobby of the Embassy Suites hotel. She was waiting for the elevator with Ryan and Ross.
“You want to come hang out with us?” Ross asked me.
Of course I did.
Upstairs, Laura and Ryan sat together on the sofa, while Ross and I took the armchairs on either side. We talked about the game we’d played that day. It was our fourth match against the Burn that season, and the first time we’d won—Clint had scored on a header in the second minute.
There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, Ross glanced at me, then at Laura. He stood up. “Guys, I’m going to bed,” he said.
Almost immediately, Ryan followed him.
Laura and I were alone.
It didn’t matter that I was a pro athlete who’d been named the best goalkeeper in the MLS. It didn’t matter that I’d been invited to play for the U.S. National Team in exhibition games. I was learning that a guy can accomplish all these things and still get jittery when he’s left alone in a room with a girl he likes.
When I looked back up at Laura, she patted the sofa next to her, smiling. “Well, don’t be so shy all the way over there. Come on and sit with me. We’ll watch some TV together.”
Feeling like I was back in seventh grade, an insecure kid who became tongue-tied around pretty girls, I got up and moved to the couch.
Laura clicked through the channels until she saw Denzel Washington on the screen and stopped. Denzel was saying, “You think football is fun?”
“Remember the Titans!” Laura exclaimed. “One of my favorite movies.”
It was a favorite of mine, too.
So we watched it together, quoting memorable line
s out loud, and when it was over I didn’t get up to go. Instead we talked some more, about Memphis and basketball and her days at Christian Brothers University. I told her about my Hungarian family, about my Nana’s church, about twitching and blinking and coughing my way through middle school.
We moved on to my high school basketball rivalry with Jay Williams. I told her about Mulch and my burning desire to play in Europe.
I told her about playing for the U.S. Men’s National Team—I’d played several games now, along with my friend Carlos Bocanegra, from the youth team. Carlos and I were the new kids on the block—not quite experienced enough to sit at what we called the “grown-up table,” so we hung around together during training camp, watching the older players and trying to pretend we weren’t completely intimidated.
Laura and I talked about everything that mattered, or so it seemed, and we didn’t stop until after the sun came up. When the clock said 6:15, I realized that the MetroStars bus would be leaving for the airport in 45 minutes.
“I guess I’ve got to go,” I said.
“I have a funny feeling we’ll talk again soon,” she said, grinning widely.
I grinned right back. “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
We did talk again soon—later that day, in fact, then every day and night thereafter. Our conversations often lasted for four or five hours straight. It wasn’t long before I visited her in Memphis. She introduced me to maybe a hundred relatives—uncles and aunts, cousins and nieces and nephews, her parents, her brother Jerry—and though I struggled to keep the faces and names straight, I loved being around this enormous family. I loved the way they welcomed me as if I’d always been one of them.
Within a few months, Laura and I were already imagining the dog we’d get together.
“Let’s name him Clayton,” she said, and I agreed.
Pretty soon we moved on to the child we’d have, too.
