by Tim Howard
Leslie explained that Tess’s symptoms had shown up in kindergarten. Grunting and sniffing and throat-clearing and shoulder jerks, all drawing attention in the classroom. After a while, she resisted going to school at all and there were tears every morning. By the end of her kindergarten year, the crying had turned to screaming. The boys in the class were making faces at her, Tess said. She couldn’t stand being there. Her parents were bewildered, but they could see from the pictures Tess had been drawing—sad faces with dark gray shadows—that they needed to know what was going on.
Eventually, they got a diagnosis: Tourette Syndrome.
Her symptoms had hardened since then. She spat or blew in people’s faces.
“And sometimes I poked them in the eye,” Tess suddenly blurted out. Immediately, she clammed up, looking down at the table.
Leslie reached over to rub her daughter’s back. “That’s true,” she said. “But you can’t help it.”
“I know,” Tess said. “But I wish I could.”
My mom reached over to me then and touched my forearm almost unconsciously.
Tess’s next symptom, Leslie said, was muttering curses under her breath.
Tim Kowalski flashed a warm smile at his daughter. “I thought, oh boy,” he said. “What’s coming next?”
Tess didn’t seem to be ashamed by the conversation; she didn’t mind her parents’ comments. These were simply the facts of Kowalski family life. They talked about the trials of TS matter-of-factly, as other families might talk about hiring a math tutor. Their openness and ease seemed really healthy to me.
Tess found a way to mask the curses, sort of. She’d figured out that if she mumbled her words and strung them together as fast as she could—shittybitchfuck—people might not understand what she was saying. If she added the word pie to the end of a string of curses—shittybitchfuckPIE—it obscured the curses even further.
My mom and I were impressed.
“That’s pretty smart, Tess,” Mom said.
Paige had been diagnosed with TS more recently. So far, the disorder manifested as grunting, whistling, and throwing her shoulder so far forward that she often dislocated it. Her symptoms weren’t as severe as her sister’s, but I remembered how I felt when my mom labeled my own symptoms “mild.”
When you’re living inside TS, there’s no such thing as mild. Whatever your symptoms, it’s damn hard to cope.
I told the Kowalskis about my own experience, especially the battle to suppress my tics, and being unable to focus on anything going on in the classroom.
“I don’t try to hide them anymore,” I said. “I just let them pass through me. As you get older, you stop worrying as much about hiding it, you know?”
“And it seems like it’s never held you back,” said Leslie.
“Right,” I responded. “The only thing that ever held me back was attempting to hide it.” And that, I knew now, was the truth.
The Kowalskis came to Goodison Park the next day, watching as Everton beat Wolverhampton 2–1. I met them after the game and introduced them around. This is Marouane Fellaini. Leighton Baines. Phil Jagielka. We snapped some photos of the family as they posed with players.
The four of them returned to New Jersey, and to navigating their lives with TS, a process that few people understood. I couldn’t stop thinking about them after they left, remembering what Faith Rice had told me the first time we met. These kids are going to have to stand up for themselves every day of their lives.
A few months later, I got a package from the Kowalskis. Each of the girls had written a thank-you note, and there was a hand-knitted scarf, perfect for the bitter Manchester winters, from Leslie, who also included a card of her own:
Tim—
Tess recently decided to give a presentation to 100 people at our temple about TS. She explained what TS was, and what it felt like to have it. She used you as a model of someone who lives successfully with TS.
I don’t know that she would have done that if she hadn’t met you. I wish every child with TS could have the chance to sit with someone who understands them.
Leslie
Funny. I’d spent the last few months wishing that every child with TS could have a family like the Kowalskis surrounding them.
CHANGING THE SCOREBOARD
Here is what it’s like to arrive at the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City.
You’re wheezing, first of all. The Azteca is 7,349 feet above sea level. But it’s hard to tell what makes it harder to breathe: the altitude, or the city’s blanket of smog. Forget about playing a game: simply walking up a flight of stairs makes you feel like you’ve just climbed Kilimanjaro.
It’s the greatest home-field advantage I’ve ever encountered.
The moment the bus pulls off the highway, you can see Azteca in the distance. It’s huge—114,000 seats in steep risers—and it looms like a concrete Colosseum rising over the City of Hope. You have police escorts, sirens flashing all around your bus, because of course, you’re American. On game day, you need those escorts. But for the moment, all you can do is look at that stadium in the distance. There’s standstill traffic everywhere, in all directions. Nobody’s going anywhere for a while.
You inch toward it. With each passing minute, the stadium grows bigger and bigger.
When you do finally get there, you head downstairs. Far downstairs; the visitors’ locker room is so deep inside the stadium it might as well be a dungeon. You change into your warm-up gear and walk through dingy corridors looking for a stairwell. It’s poorly lit down there, dank and cold. And since you’re the away team, your locker room is at the far end of the tunnel. Those corridors go on forever, and you don’t have any idea where you are, or how much distance remains before you get to the stadium entrance.
By the time you jog out to the field to warm up, you’re already out of breath. All around you are stands that climb straight toward the sky.
They’re filled with people who hate you. They hiss and boo and jeer.
All this, and you haven’t even touched the ball yet.
It’s daunting. It’s intimidating. And the more times you go down there without winning, the more ingrained that feeling becomes. After nine games and zero wins in that stadium, you begin to believe you can’t possibly win. Not there.
On August 15, 2012, when we arrived at Azteca, our record there was 0–8–1. We were 0–23–1 in all games against Mexico on their soil.
We’d gone down for a “friendly”—a misnomer if I’ve ever heard one. We’re talking about a rivalry so toxic that Mexican fans launch missiles—entire beers, bags of urine, rocks—down onto the field in the middle of the game. In 2004 fans chanted, “Osama! Osama!” at U.S. players. At Azteca, the “away” fans sit protected by barbed wire fences and police in riot gear. Even reporters and commentators require armed escorts to leave the stadium safely.
Jürgen had made me captain for this game. Down in that locker room, in the bowels of the Azteca, I moved from one player to the next, reminding them of their responsibilities. I watched as Landon laced up his cleats. He looked like he was a gladiator, about to face the lion. I slid on my captain’s armband.
Then the locker room bell rang, signaling that it was time to head up to the tunnel, start lining up.
I held up my hand to the team. “No,” I said. “Hold up.”
No one moved.
I delayed to make the Mexico players wait. I wanted them to stand there, not sure where we were, and not see us coming. I wanted them to have to turn around to look at us.
We waited just long enough to be confident they would have lined up already. Then I led our team out into the hallway, that long, dark walk beneath the stadium, and up the concrete ramp to where the Mexican players stood.
Our voices in those corridors were deep and loud.
Come on, boys!
This is our night!
We lined up next to El Tri, stared straight ahead.
I held my chin high. Tightened my jaw. Behind me,
I knew all the other guys were doing the same.
If any of us felt fear, we weren’t going to show it.
The first half was like a tennis match; we sent the ball back and forth, back and forth. Neither side accomplished much. Mexico created some good chances, forced us on our heels a couple of times, but our back line held steady.
At halftime, it was 0–0.
Mexico came on strong in the second half. They attacked in waves and Geoff Cameron had to bail us out time and again.
Then in the 80th minute, three of our second-half substitutes—Brek Shea, Terrence Boyd, and Michael Orozco Fiscal—changed the game. Kyle Beckerman passed to Brek, who hit a low cross to the top of the six-yard box. Terrence got in front of his marker and back heeled the ball toward the right post.
Michael Orozco Fiscal—in only his fifth appearance for the national team—slotted it home.
Holy shit, I thought. We’re winning.
We needed to hold that 1–0 lead for ten more minutes.
Those final minutes were as tough as any I’ve ever faced. The back line fought hard and I had to make a sprawling save in the 84th minute. Five minutes later, I had to make another diving save.
But we held them.
When the final whistle blew, the crowd was stunned into almost complete silence. The U.S. had beaten Mexico at Azteca—something that had never happened in decades of competing against them.
Coming off the field, Chris Woods gave me the traditional handshake and pat on the back. This time, though, it was accompanied by an enormous grin. Chris may have been English, and new to the USA-Mexico matchup, but he knew all about massive rivalries. And whatever he didn’t know before today, the atmosphere at Azteca made clear.
We’d lost both the 2009 and 2011 Gold Cup finals to Mexico. In 2009, we’d been embarrassed 5–0. Then in 2011, I’d caused a bit of a controversy. I’d been frustrated that even in California, the pro-Mexico crowd had blared air horns during our national anthem. I’d been infuriated that we’d blown a two-goal lead and ended up losing 4–2. The last of those goals—a brilliant piece of improvisation by Giovanni dos Santos—had been especially maddening. Then, when the postgame ceremony was conducted almost entirely in Spanish, I’d lost my cool. After the match I told the media that it was a “fucking disgrace” that even in Pasadena, California, I’d felt like a visitor in my own country—I’d later release a statement apologizing for my language.
Now, in Azteca, those Gold Cup losses made this victory feel even sweeter. Our locker room was as celebratory as I’ve ever seen it. Even though this was a technically a “friendly,” the victory felt as important as any we’d ever had—as big as Spain. Or Algeria.
I remember looking across the room at Landon. He had this huge, wide smile plastered across his face, but there was something about his eyes. He looked almost bewildered in his joy, as if some part of him was still wondering, Is this even real? Did this really happen?
Landon caught my eye then, and for a long, great moment we grinned at each other.
Yeah, it’s real. It happened.
On the way out of the stadium, there’s a long ramp toward where the bus—and all those police escorts, more important now than ever—sat waiting. Each team that’s ever played in Azteca has a plaque with their record in the stadium. We found ours, and we stared at it for a little while. In the wins column was a zero.
They were going to have to change it, as a result of what we’d done here today.
I took a picture of myself with that sign, then I looked around. “Hey, does somebody have a Sharpie?”
Nobody did; if they had, I swear I would have changed it then and there.
On the bus ride home, a text popped up from Mulch: WAY TO REPRESENT THE 732.
I laughed. But I didn’t reply to him right away. Instead, as we rolled slowly through Mexico City, I dialed a Memphis number.
“Hi, Tim,” Laura said when she picked up.
We’d come through the divorce intact. We’d moved forward. We hadn’t been able to do it until the ink was dry on that stupid contract. But once we’d signed it, we’d started seeing each other as teammates again, instead of opponents. We were on the same side, trying to raise good, strong, loving children in this world.
Even as we were living separate lives, we were still managing to be a family.
“Hey,” I said. “Guess what? We beat Mexico. At the Azteca.”
She gasped.
“Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed.
Then I heard her calling out into the house, “Jacob! Ali! Come to the phone! Your daddy just made history!”
We would meet Mexico again. We’d draw 0–0 with them at Azteca in March 2013, and six months later, we’d beat them 2–0 at a World Cup qualifier in Columbus, Ohio.
Actually, in that game, we would do more than beat them; we would break them. I saw it in their eyes that day; by the end of the match, those El Tri players looked empty, scooped out. We had crushed their spirit.
BROKEN
Near the end of the 2012–2013 Premier League season, Everton played Oldham Athletic in the FA Cup. Actually, it was a replay; we’d drawn with Oldham 2–2 the week before. We should never have tied them—Oldham plays two full divisions below us, but that, of course, is the beauty of the FA Cup: you never know what plucky upstart will ambush one of the big dogs.
In this game, we were winning comfortably 3–1. Toward the end, Oldham brought on a substitute whom I’ll call Bonehead. From the moment Bonehead came on, he ran around that field, making stupid, rash challenges and kicking people. He was the worst sort of idiot . . . the dangerous kind. It was as if he’d decided, “This a Premier League team, so I’m going to make a name for myself.” I wanted to shout at him, “That isn’t how it’s done in the top tier, mate!”
We might be rough-and-tumble, but the game is played fairly.
At one point, the ball came toward me, swerving in the air to the left-hand side of the box. It was a nothing play: jump, catch it, come down.
But while I was up in the air—the ball was high over my head—Bonehead barged straight into me. He had no intent to play the ball.
When Bonehead and I collided, he swept my legs out from underneath me. Ordinarily, I’d try to land on my side, shoulder, hip, or stomach. But because of my positioning, and his, I couldn’t. My back and tailbone hit the ground first.
I’ve had plenty of injuries in my career. I’ve been bumped and bruised and kicked and elbowed and knocked down again and again. This was different. I tried to roll over, but I kept getting a sharp, shooting pain.
Everton’s head of medicine, Danny Donachie, rushed onto the field.
I lay flat, looking at the sky. “Danny,” I said. Oh, God. That pain. “I’m really hurt, I’m really hurt. It’s my back. Danny, I’m not okay.”
He asked if I could get up, and I tried. I couldn’t step too hard on my left side; if I did, I doubled over, put my hands on my knees.
“Can you play?” Danny asked.
No, I can’t.
“Maybe,” I said.
I should have limped off the field and gone straight to the training room. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I wasn’t finished. I hadn’t seen this game out yet.
The adrenaline, I rationalized. Surely that adrenaline will numb this.
The ref had called a foul, awarding us a free kick from deep in our end. It would normally be mine to take, but I was thinking, I don’t actually know if I can even kick.
When the referee blew his whistle, I hobbled backwards. I took a few very ginger steps toward the ball, planted my left foot.
Suddenly, I felt this searing pain up the left side of my back.
I kicked anyway.
In that moment, I thought of Bill Kenwright, Everton’s owner. He’s a good, honorable man, an Evertonian to the core. Every 30 days, Bill signs my checks. If I were in his position, if I were signing all those checks, I wouldn’t want to hear about a nagging hip injury, or an elbow bruise. I wouldn’t
want to hear about a ruptured back.
I try to remember that this game is a gift, and Bill Kenwright is the one who gives it to me. For his sake, and for the sake of the team and our incredible fans, I’m always going to choose to play. I play when I’m sick, I play when I’m hurt.
The next morning, I couldn’t get out of bed. It took me five full minutes to go from my back to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
On Saturday, we were scheduled to play Reading. But by Friday, I couldn’t bend down. I caught a couple of balls standing still, and that’s about it.
The game’s not for twenty-four hours, I said to myself. Twenty-four hours is enough time to heal.
It wasn’t. Before the game, I went out to the field with Chris Woods and Danny and some other members of the medical team. I jogged across the box. I tried to stretch. I caught a couple of balls.
It hurt like hell.
“Want to try some diving?” Chris asked. He didn’t look optimistic. When I tried, I was wild with pain.
“Let me warm up some more.” The process went on longer than it should have. Chris and Danny were going to let me decide. The decision—and any consequence of that decision—would be my own.
Everything in my body screamed Don’t play! Don’t play! Everything in my mind screamed Play!
But how could I protect Everton’s goal if I couldn’t dive?
Finally, I took off my gloves and set them down.
Later, I’d learn that I’d been just two games shy of breaking Neville Southall’s record of the most number of consecutive games played for Everton. Neville was a club legend, and it killed me to have come so close to his record, and then not make it.
I tried to watch the game in the stands that day. I tried. But I couldn’t stand seeing all the action and not being able to control any of it. I lasted maybe 15 minutes before heading inside, down below the stands.
I watched the rest of the match on television with Jimmy. Amid the pain of my back and the frustration of not playing, Jimmy’s grousing was a welcome balm.
