The Keeper: A Life of Saving Goals and Achieving Them (25 page)

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.

O
n 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!”

W
e 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.

N
ear 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.

Later that week, I learned I had two broken vertebrae. I was in the training room with Danny when the results came back. I heard his side of the conversation only.

“Okay, two vertebrae . . . fractured . . . right . . . and how much time should he . . . four to six . . .”

That’s when I panicked.
Four to six months?

I couldn’t afford to be out for that long. I’d miss important World Cup qualifiers. I’d miss the end of the season. I’d miss so much training. I’d miss, I felt sure, next year’s World Cup.

I was 34 years old; if I missed this one, would I ever get another shot?

For a few moments, I wondered if this was the beginning of the end.

Danny hung up the phone. “Okay, Tim,” he said. “You’re going to need to stay off it for four to six weeks.”

Weeks.
Not months. Relief suddenly flooded over me. Weeks I could do.

D
addy, daddy, pick me up.” Ali’s arms stretched toward me. She was six years old, missing two of her front teeth, and with her untamed curls she looked every bit the wild child.

“He can’t pick you up,” said Laura, retrieving Ali’s stuffed animals off the floor. “Remember? He’s hurt.”

I’d come home to Memphis to recover. Laura let me spend much of that time lying on the sofa of what was now her house. She served me food and beverages, and when I was well enough, she let me rummage through the refrigerator on my own.

I admired Laura. Even during the worst of our divorce, Laura had made sure that our kids saw only goodness and warmth within their family. Even at her angriest, she never stopped welcoming me into the house.

“Please, Daddy?” asked Ali. “Just for a minute?”

Jacob looked up from his book. “He
can’t
.”

“Come on, Ali,” said Laura, trying to distract her. “Help me feed Clayton.” Clayton, an old man now, lifted his head and staggered to his feet at the sound of food in his bowl.

It was nice to be there. We were a different kind of family than we’d once been, but we were still a family.

“Hey, Tim,” Laura said. “My mom’s coming over tonight to watch the kids. You’re welcome to hang around while she’s here.”

“Cool,” I said. “Where are you going?”

Laura lifted an eyebrow. It had been nearly three years since we’d broken up.

“Out,” she said. I noticed she had a twinkle in her eye.

W
hen I returned to the field, I played my 300th game for Everton. We drew 0–0, and that shutout just happened to be my 100th clean sheet.

After that long month of not playing, it felt terrific to be back.

Thank God that injury wasn’t worse
, I thought.
Thank God I can keep doing this for a while longer.

A
few weeks after I came back, Sir Alex Ferguson announced that he’d be leaving Manchester United after 27 years at the helm. You can imagine how nuts the media went with that news. In the time he’d been with Man U, Ferguson had won 13 league titles, five FA Cups, four League Cups, and two Champions League crowns. The man was an institution.

Manchester United is a publicly traded company. Stockholders hate uncertainty. While some Premier League teams might drag out a search, interviewing multiple candidates, Manchester United didn’t have that luxury. They needed a replacement, and fast.

The English bookmakers placed their odds on David Moyes.

That week, David called me and five other senior Everton players—Phil Jagielka, Leighton Baines, Tony Hibbert, Leon Osman, and Phil Neville—to a secret meeting in a Liverpool hotel. It could be about only one thing.

I almost dreaded walking through that door. I knew that when I walked out, everything was going to be different.

“I’ve taken a job,” David told us. “I’ve accepted the manager’s position at Manchester United. Saturday will be my final game.”

Hearing the news, I was at once devastated and happy. We were losing one hell of a manager, but I was thrilled for David. As I knew from experience, playing or coaching at United was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and David possessed the qualities that I believed would make him a good fit. He had a history of nurturing young, talented players. He had a fierce work ethic. He had a progressive, analytical approach to the game. He was a tough son of a gun, another fiery Scot. Everton didn’t have the glittering record that Man U did but neither did it have its vast resources. If David had done this well with Everton’s kitty, who knew what he could accomplish with United’s?