by Tim Howard
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.
Laura 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.”
It 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.
Laura 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.
PART
TWO
USA VS. BELGIUM: WARNING SHOTS
ARENA FONTE NOVA
SALVADOR, BRAZIL
JULY 1, 2014
Belgium’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.
“YOU’RE NOT IN AMERICA ANYMORE, SON”
It 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.
A glimpse of us.
Manchester United is often talked about in purely financial terms—the most valuable soccer brand in the world, worth nearly $3 billion today. But for me this was even more of a cultural shift than a financial one.
A full-time staff of 600 supported the team. On game day, those ranks swelled to 1,200—nearly a hundred employees for every player on the field. During our preseason tour of the U.S., we traveled by private jet, chartered by the club from its owner, the Dallas Mavericks. It was a stunning 767 fitted with custom leather seats designed for the comfort of even the tallest NBA star—a far cry from the economy-class flights with the MetroStars, let alone the long-distance bus trips I’d taken with the Imperials.
By the time I arrived in Carrington for my first day of training with Manchester United, I would find a brand-new Mercedes waiting for me in the parking lot.
“You mean they’re just giving it to you?” Laura asked when I called to tell her. She was still weeks from joining me in England.
“Yeah,” I said. I could hear the disbelief in my voice. I was only a few years removed from my $800 Sentra; I still remembered the feel of that plastic steering wheel. “They’re just handing me the keys.”
I probably felt the full power of the Man U brand when we played Sporting Lisbon, the last of our preseason friendlies. We had won all of our previous U.S. games, but that streak ended abruptly in the Portuguese capital.
Sporting had this kid playing for them—a skinny, baby-faced 18-year-old with blond highlights in his hair. He had everything: speed and athleticism, touch and vision. He danced over the ball, tormenting our defenders before leaving them in his dust and bearing down on Barthez.
The kid was sensational. And every time he touched the ball, the stadium turned into a giant party. The fans knew something special was about to happen, and they were right: the kid performed astonishing tricks with the ball, then shrugged, as if to say, “Oh, that’s nothing.” It was a kind of look-at-me showmanship that bordered on arrogance, but it was impossible to take your eyes off him.
Later, in the locker room, I heard my teammates rave. Ronaldo, they exclaimed. Cristiano Ronaldo.
I stayed quiet, taking it in, heartened by the fact that even the best players in the world were still capable of being awestruck.
When Ferguson came into the locker room, Rio Ferdinand and Nicky Butt rushed up to him.
“That kid, gaffer,” they exclaimed, using the British term for boss, “we’ve got to sign that kid.”
Barely a week later, Ferguson announced that Cristiano Ronaldo had become a Manchester United player. He would wear the number 7 shirt made famous by David Beckham.
It all seemed so simple. We saw him. We wanted him. We got him. One game, one glimpse of this kid, and suddenly we had the most promising young player any of us had ever seen. All it took was roughly $20 million and the aura of Manchester United.
Training was grueling—the pace, the intensity, the physicality. My teammates were, to a man, better than anyone I’d ever played with. They were stronger. They were more technical. They were faster in every way. It’s probably not an exaggeration to say that some of the balls they sent my way reached speeds greater than my old Sentra ever had.
I had to react more quickly, be more decisive. Most of all, I had to win.
At Man U, my potential didn’t matter. Effort didn’t matter. Winning was the sole currency. Winning had made my teammates rock stars. If I was going to hold my own, I’d have to win.
I called Kasey Keller in London.
“So . . . uh . . . what do I need to know?” I asked. It was a stupid question, too broad to be meaningful. But how could I summarize how it felt to have gone from the soccer boondocks of MLS to the bright lights of the Premier League? It was impossible to explain the relentless pressure, the feeling that gnawed at me: I’m not quite ready for this yet.
Kasey thought for a while, then answered simply, “Well, Tim, I guess my advice to you would be this: make as many saves as you can.”
In Europe, soccer seasons tend to open with a “Super Cup”—one champion playing another for best-of-the-best status. In England, that super-championship is the Community Shield, where the winner of the Premier League meets the winner of the FA Cup. The game doesn’t count in the standings; it’s a glorified exhibition.
Manchester United was the Premier League champion. Which meant that we would face Arsenal, the FA Cup champion. It was two heavyweights slugging it out before the season officially kicked off a week later.
Arsenal, like Man U, is one of the great Premier League powers. The London club had a pantheon of international stars, a slick passing game, and plenty of attacking flair. In their hundred-year history, they’d already won 9 FA cups and 12 First Division and Premier League titles.
Hours before the game, Tony Coton told me I’d be starting. Not Fabien Barthez, who’d been the regular keeper. Me. Apparently it was on the strength of those friendlies I’d played in America. I’d made some tough saves against Juventus and Barcelona, and Ferguson decided to shake up the starting keeper position.
In the locker room, I saw a gray-and-white Manchester United goalkeeper’s jersey on a hanger with my name on it. I looked at it, marveling, I’ll be wearing that today. I’ll be wearing that when I play for Manchester United.
Roy Keane, the captain, called the team in. Already, I was impressed with his take-no-prisoners attitude and blunt talk. He was known for being a hard man—a guy who didn’t give a crap about conventionality or politeness or anything he personally deemed as bullshit. He wanted to win, and he was going to tell us how. What w
isdom would he impart in this all-important moment?
He reminded us of some tactical strategies, but then he said—in what I’d learn was his gruff, no-nonsense manner, “Just pass it to a red shirt, guys. It’s as simple as that: take the ball and pass it to another player in red.”
The game was a war from the first whistle. Seconds in, Phil Neville got a yellow card for a hard tackle on Arsenal’s Patrick Vieira. Then Arsenal’s Ashley Cole was booked for a clumsy challenge on Ole Gunnar Solskjær. We took the lead when Mikaël Silvestre scored on a header off a corner kick, but Arsenal responded moments later when Thierry Henry—Arsenal’s all time goal-scorer—won a free kick about 35 yards out.
With free kicks in scoring range, the goalkeeper sets up a defensive “wall”—a line of players, shoulder to shoulder, 10 yards from where the ball is spotted. The idea is to close off parts of the goal to the shooter, reducing the total area to be covered by the keeper.
The number of men you might put in your wall depends on many variables. Generally, you’re trying to cover as much of the goal as you can, without blocking a clear view of the ball or leaving their attackers unmarked. Against Henry, I called for a three-man wall and positioned myself in the unprotected area of the goal.
But Henry struck his shot with such power and precision that it rendered the wall useless. The ball flew over it and tucked inches inside the right post.
I dove, stretching my body flat out, but I couldn’t reach it.
At halftime, Ferguson just about took my head off.
Ferguson was famous for what the media referred to as his “hair dryer treatments,” so-called because he’d blow such blistering air at you, it felt like your hair was being straightened.
“A three-man wall!” he shouted, the muscles around his jaw so tight I could see them flex. “Against Henry! You needed four men on that wall. You’ve got to think”—he jabbed both index fingers at his forehead—“when you play this game.”
My teammates were quiet. I had heard enough about Ferguson to know that they’d all been through this themselves. But frankly, it scared the wits out of me.
