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Authors: Tim Howard
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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.”
S ome other things were happening that season, too. I was playing well, but I became aware of a new sort of pressure. I wasbeginning 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 leadit, 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
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.”
S ome other things were happening that season, too. I was playing well, but I became aware of a new sort of pressure. I wasbeginning 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 leadit, 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
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