by Tim Howard
“We’ll name our son Jacob,” she said.
Once again, I agreed.
It was wonderful in all the ways that falling in love is wonderful—we felt carefree and giddy. Laura was easy to talk to, easy to laugh with. And so, so easy to fall in love with.
The end of that MetroStars season, on the other hand, was anything but easy. We still weren’t clicking as a team, and I was starting to worry that we never would. Not only had we lost our final three games of the year, we were one of only two MLS teams that failed to reach the playoffs.
Then I heard rumblings.
Bob Bradley’s in.
Bradley’s going to be our coach.
We hired Bob Bradley.
Bob had coached at Princeton, so he’d been active in the New Jersey soccer world. He was tactically smart, he drove his team hard, and he was a straight shooter who told you exactly what he thought.
When your team is struggling, when you’ve endured loss after loss and you’re trying to find the light, and then you hear that a guy like Bob Bradley is coming to your rescue, you think, Hey, maybe this is the end of all that other nonsense. Maybe Bob Bradley’s going to change things. Finally.
As the 2003 season kicked off, things were going well for me on all fronts—I was head over heels for Laura. Bob Bradley was, in fact, coaching the MetroStars. I was selected to train with the national team in Los Angeles; because the starting keepers Kasey Keller and Brad Friedel were busy in their English Premier League seasons, I saw some quality playing time. Dan had negotiated a better contract for me, so I was making decent money—not the European mega-salary that I’d dreamed of, but good money nonetheless.
Then one day, still early in the season, my phone rang, displaying a number I didn’t recognize. When I answered, the voice on the other end spoke quickly, in a crisp British accent.
Tim Howard? Tony Coton here. I’m the goalkeeping coach at Manchester United. We’ve seen some tapes of you play, and we’re a bit interested. No need to do anything. Just wanted to let you know we’ve got our eyes on you. Maybe we’ll even come see you play sometime down the road. Take care.
When you get a call like that, things register in different stages. British voice . . . not a name I know . . . Manchester United.
And then: Holy cow. Manchester United!
After Coton hung up, I stared at the phone. It had happened so fast, part of me wondered if it had happened at all.
Manchester United was the most famous club team in the world. It held the record for the most English Premier League titles: fifteen in total, seven of them in the previous decade alone. A few years ago, they’d become the first team in history to win a “continental treble”—the Premier League, the FA Cup, and the UEFA Champions League, all in a single season.
United not only attracted stars, they made stars. Irish legend George Best, the so-called “fifth Beatle” who inspired the line “Maradona Good, Pelé Great, George Best,” had played for Man U. Peter Schmeichel, one of the greatest goalkeepers of all time, was also a Man U guy. Bobby Charlton, Eric “the King” Cantona, David Beckham—all played for United.
The manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, had won his knighthood for services to English soccer.
Had that call really happened?
Manchester United could have any goalkeeper in the world. I was a 23-year-old kid from New Jersey. Sure, I had some talent, but I was young and relatively inexperienced. Feyenoord hadn’t felt compelled to sign me. And let’s face it: in the last World Cup, I’d been ranked the number four keeper for the U.S. National Team, behind Kasey and Brad and Tony. I had yet to play in any international match of consequence.
I dialed Dan. “I just got this crazy phone call . . .” I said.
Next, I phoned Laura to tell her about Coton’s call. I could scarcely believe the words coming out of my mouth: Manchester United. Tony Coton. Said they’re watching me.
“Oh my goodness, Tim!” she exclaimed. “That’s so great!”
Later, she confessed that she immediately called her brother after we spoke. “Hey, Jerry?” she asked. “What’s Manchester United?”
During the MetroStars preseason in March 2003, I was selected as an alternate keeper for a U.S. game against Venezuela.
Kasey would be there, too. We’d train together for a week.
I explained to Laura how big this was. Kasey had been playing in the Premier League for over a decade now; he was a veteran of three World Cups.
“He’s an outstanding keeper. The best in America at the moment,” I told her. “During a 1998 game against Brazil, he made ten saves. Some from point-blank range. It’s incredible. Ten saves!” It was true. Not only had the U.S. upset one of the best teams in the world; Kasey had earned a shutout. One particularly spectacular save had so impressed the famed Brazilian striker Romário that he’d interrupted play to shake Kasey’s hand. Romário later said that it was “the best performance by a goalkeeper I have ever seen.”
Kasey turned out to be full of contradictions. He was affable as well as competitive, a family man who watched Barney with his kids yet blasted heavy metal whenever he got the chance. His reputation was so intimidating that the rest of us were in awe, yet he didn’t bring a shred of ego to the field.
“Really great,” he might tell me if I’d made a save he liked, and what Kasey said, he meant. I could hear it—the same animated tone I’d heard from Tony Meola after he’d gotten to know me.
I watched Kasey get ready for the Venezuela match. The guy was totally relaxed. No clenched jaw, no apparent jitters.
I realized something about him then: Everything that could happen in this sport had already happened to him. Over the course of his career, Kasey had faced thousands of shots coming at him from every angle, every speed. He’d stared down some of the best strikers in the world. There was nothing left that could surprise the guy; he’d already seen it all.
Kasey recorded his 29th career shutout for the U.S., against Venezuela that day. Just as I once chased the standard set by Tony Meola in training with the MetroStars, I now stalked Kasey. There was still a big gap between us, I knew. But if it was experience that could close it, then experience was the thing I needed most of all.
I tumbled that phone call from Tony Coton around in my head over and over again. Maybe we’ll come see you play sometime. We’ve got our eyes on you.
In March, Coton called again. He’d be coming to Houston to see me play in a U.S.-Mexico exhibition game, one of my first starts with the national team. It would be the first match between the two teams since the U.S. had knocked Mexico out of the World Cup the previous year.
The U.S.-Mexico rivalry is among the most combative in all of soccer. No opponent stirs both our pride—and our ire—more intensely than Mexico.
For decades, the rivalry was one-sided. Mexico dominated CONCACAF—the Confederation of North, Central American and Caribbean Association Football—and it was simply assumed that our neighbors to the south would always kick our ass. El Tri had a rich soccer history, and for a long time Mexico was the only nation outside South America and Europe considered worthy of hosting a World Cup.
But in recent decades, the U.S. had steadily improved, playing with increasing skill and fostering a relentless fighting spirit. Since 1999, we’d had five clean sheets against Mexico on home soil. The U.S. shutout of Mexico in the 2002 World Cup had been more than a historic victory; it confirmed a shift in the regional balance of power.
The game that Tony Coton would see on May 8 had been billed as La Revancha en la Cancha. Revenge on the Field. Mexico was planning to take back their honor.
Most of the seats had been snapped up within the first five days of sale. Between the high stakes and Tony Coton’s presence in the stands, there would be a whole lot riding on those 90 minutes.
“TO WHOM MUCH IS GIVEN”
Laura and I celebrated her 26th birthday at the swank W hotel in Times Square. We’d been dating for seven months—long enough for me to be sure.
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br /> This was the girl.
When Laura arrived, there was a bubble bath waiting for her surrounded by candles in Laura’s favorite scent, warm vanilla sugar.
“What is this?” she gasped upon entering the bathroom. I smiled. The surprises wouldn’t end here.
Behind the closed door, I could hear her sinking into the tub.
That was my cue to scatter rose petals on the floor. Then I pulled out the dozen roses I’d hidden in the closet.
Tonight, I’d ask her to marry me.
A while later, I heard the sound of water draining out of the tub, followed by a blasting hair dryer. I fired up a Freddie Jackson CD and waited. The bathroom door opened and Laura emerged, stunning in a black dress and heels. I pressed play, and the first few piano chords of “You Are My Lady” filled the suite.
For a moment, Laura froze. She stared at the rose petals and then at me, slowly raising her hands to her mouth and holding them there briefly. “Tim,” she said, “what is this?”
I took her hand and led her to the window, the lights of Times Square twinkling behind us. As I went down on my knee, her eyes darted all over my face. Then I pulled the ring from my pocket.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Laura,” I said. I had no idea what that life would look like yet, no certainty about where it would take place—the U.S.? Europe?—or how far I’d get as a soccer player.
All I knew was that I wanted her by my side.
Laura threw her arms around me. “I can’t believe it,” she murmured, then said it again. And again. “I really can’t believe it.” She looked at the ring. “Tim,” she said, “yes.”
Within minutes, she’d picked up her phone and dialed.
“Mom!” she said. “Guess what!?”
May 8. Houston. Show time.
The crowd at La Revancha en la Cancha—all 70,000 fans, overwhelmingly pro-Mexico—was deafening. The stadium was a sea of green El Tri jerseys. My body vibrated from the noise.
But out there in front of me was a team I knew could handle the next 90 minutes: Carlos was at the heart of our defense, Clint Mathis was in midfield, and Landon Donovan, the boy wonder, was up top.
I glanced toward the stands.
Somewhere in that stadium is Tony Coton, I thought.
Mexico put us under pressure right from the start, and their fans made such a racket that my defenders couldn’t hear me shouting at them.
Twenty-four minutes in, El Tri thought they had drawn first blood when Jesús Arellano’s shot from the edge of the box arrowed toward the top corner. I have a pretty decent vertical leap—something that was always helpful in both basketball and goalkeeping—and I needed every inch of it. Launching myself as high as I could, I was able to get my fingertips to the ball, barely deflecting it to safety.
I was hoping that Tony hadn’t taken that exact moment to go to the bathroom because I was proud of that save. The game ended in a scoreless draw—a shutout. Dan called me after.
“How did Tony like the match?”
Dan thought for a moment. “He didn’t give us a final answer. He said he saw what he needed to.”
“Anything else?”
“Well,” Dan said with a laugh, “he wanted to check out the Galleria Mall. I dropped him there on my way to the airport. Tony was excited about the pounds-to-dollars exchange rate. He brought an extra suitcase to fill up for the trip home.”
It was the biggest game of my life. Tony saw what he needed to see and then went to the mall to fill an empty suitcase. What the . . .
“For now,” Dan said, “we’re just going to have to wait.”
The wedding plans were in full swing. We’d be married in November, after the MetroStars’ season ended, at the Racquet Club in downtown Memphis.
The guest list was already at 250 people, with new names being added by the hour. Laura pored over every detail: Floral bouquets. Bridesmaid dresses. Photographer portfolios. One day, she phoned me, absolutely giddy. “I found my dress, Tim! I love it, and I can’t wait to marry you in it!”
Then Dan got the call. Manchester United wanted me. They wanted me to join the team at the start of the Premier League season, which was only a few weeks away.
In England, every game matters. There are no playoffs. The championship is given to the team with the best record over the season. The difference can be one game over the course of a 38-game season. Even in the Premier League weeks off, teams play other competitions, like the FA Cup or League Cup.
All this means that players don’t miss a game. Ever. Not even to get married to the warmest, most adorable Southern girl in America.
But will you actually play at Manchester United?” That’s what everyone—teammates, family members, my mom—wanted to know. It was a polite way of saying that I wouldn’t.
Which made sense. After all, I was young and unproven. And Man U had Fabien Barthez, goalkeeper for the 1998 World Cup champions, France. I figured I’d sit on the bench, as I had under Tony Meola.
But I was hungry. And this was Manchester United. I’d have gone there to wash cars if they’d asked me.
Some serious obstacles still stood in my way. First, Manchester United had to buy me out of my contract with MLS. In Europe and other soccer leagues around the world, players are routinely bought and sold. There’s a tacit understanding among clubs that a good player shouldn’t miss out on the big break of his career, or a chance at exponentially improved earnings.
But MLS didn’t buy that logic. It had only a few American stars, and it didn’t want to lose them. Bayern Munich tried to acquire Clint Mathis immediately after the 2002 World Cup. MLS asked for more money than Bayern would pay; Clint was only able to move to a lesser club in Europe years after when his MLS contract expired. That was the MLS strategy: don’t say no outright; instead, quote a price that’s out of reach. Or, if the club doesn’t balk, keep moving the finish line until it gets frustrated and ends the negotiation.
As soon as Manchester United decided they wanted me, Dan got to work. Every few days, sometimes more often, he would give me an update.
Man U made an offer.
A few days later, MLS has agreed to make a counterproposal.
We’re getting closer, he’d say, his voice calm as always. After each call, I would phone Laura, then Mom, trying to sound nonchalant. Then I would get back to practice, determined to stay 100 percent focused on my MetroStars career.
Just keep blocking shots, I’d think. Keep getting between the ball and the net.
Negotiations 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.
Now 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.
In 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.
It 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.
