Solo Hope Solo (online e book reading .TXT) 📖

III.

In February of my junior year, the U-21 national team was in Chihuahua, Mexico, playing against Mexico’s senior team. Their star, Maribel Dominguez, took a free kick with ten minutes to play in a scoreless game. She sailed the ball toward the far post, and as I dove to block it, I hit the post and felt myself get caught on something. As the ball went into the net, my body lurched in a circle, still attached to the pole, and I thudded to the ground.

My teammates were shouting, “Get up, Hope! Get up!” They were running into the goal to get the ball—eager to tie the game—while I lay motionless, unable to move. Something was terribly wrong. I looked down to make sure my arm was still there because I couldn’t feel it—was it still dangling from the post? The arm was there and I didn’t see anything wrong. There wasn’t any blood. There was no tear in the jersey. When I lifted up my jersey sleeve I gasped. A hole gaped in my forearm; the muscle and tendons were hanging out. I could see the yellow of the fat, the white of my bone, the maroon rippled texture of the muscle. My forearm had gotten caught on a hook on the inside of the goalpost and had been ripped wide open. I panicked, fearing that the insides of my arm were going to fall out. I took my filthy goalkeeper glove and covered the hole and sprinted off the field, with my defender, Natalie Spilger, running along beside me, screaming. On the sideline, my goalkeeper coach took one look at my arm and had to sit down. I turned paper white and went into shock.

Our team doctor went with me to a nearby hospital, where she made sure everything was disinfected and safe, then stitched up the jagged gash. It was hideous—my arm looked like a Frankenstein body part, connected to the rest of me by giant stitches.

That night in my hotel room, I couldn’t sleep. My forearm was throbbing with pain, the sutures oozing. I couldn’t feel my fingers and remembered the medical staff’s concern about nerve damage. Would I ever be able to use my arm again? I started to panic. It was hard to breathe. What if my career was over? What would I do with my life? Could a rusty hook on a Mexican goalpost end all that? If I couldn’t play, who was I?

I needed to escape the weight I felt on my chest, so I slid out of bed, down to the floor, as I had when I was a little girl saying my prayers for Grandma Alice. And down there on the cool tile floor in Mexico, I felt a sense of calm come over me. My inner confidence, the flame that I could always turn up on the soccer field, flared inside me. There was more to me than just being a soccer player. I had made myself into a great player. I could make myself into something else if I needed to. I had other talents. Even without soccer, I could make my way in the world.

I breathed in the earthy smell of the clay tile. “Hope,” I said loud enough to wake up my roommate, “you’re going to be OK.”

IV.

My dad’s new home at Hilltop was conveniently located near downtown Seattle, so I started to use it as my crash pad. In 2002, during my last full year at UW, I juggled international trips to Portugal for the Algarve Cup and to Iceland for another Nordic Cup championship. My arm healed and, aside from a nasty purple scar, was as good as new. I crammed through my classes to make sure I would graduate on time. And I earned money by coaching youth goalkeepers. Sleep was at a premium, so whenever I could, I went to see my dad. He’d make me some instant ramen noodles or fried rice and let me nap.

Free from the worry of whether he had enough to eat or where he was sleeping, my father was becoming the devoted father Marcus and I had always longed for. He now wanted to make sure we had enough to eat. Mark took him shopping and taught him how to pick good produce. My dad learned how to stretch what money he had—for example, by making sure a box of Satsuma oranges had some oranges he had “borrowed” from another box. He wrote letters and called to tell us how much he loved us. Marcus had season tickets to the Seattle Seahawks, and when he went to games, Dad would babysit Marcus’s golden retriever, Henry. He loved that dog—they would go to a park, and Henry would try to chase the squirrels, pulling my dad on the leash. “Just ignore them, Henry,” my dad would plead, talking to the dog the way he once talked to squirrels he lived with in the woods.

My father delighted in my accomplishments.

May 10, 2002

Well, Baby Hope, you threw out the first pitch at the Seattle Mariners and Boston Red Sox game, on this Friday night, a packed house.

You got your sign from the catcher, Ben Davis, and you shook him off. You wanted to throw your fastball, catcher laughed, you laughed, the crowd was going wild as you shook him off.

Now you are ready and you wind up and throw your fastball, it bounces up to the plate. Crowd goes ooooh and you put both hands up to wave to the crowd. They love you, Baby Hope.

So many memories and joy you have given your family. Thanks, you are the greatest. Love you,

Dad

V.

Lesle tried to schedule spring games in players’ hometowns when possible. That was exciting when a team member was from California or Hawaii. But nobody wanted to go to Richland, except Cheryl and me. In March of my junior year, I got to go home. It was windy