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

in Central Park. We had found a quiet leafy corner, protected from the honking horns and human crush of Manhattan. The pilgrimage had taken place after all. Marcus, my mom, and I had brought our father home.

In my father’s papers, we had found his military discharge from the navy. We found two different Social Security numbers. We found bits and pieces of the puzzle, but we couldn’t find any documentation or history covering twenty years of my father’s life. Those missing years probably took place somewhere in this vast city. But any answers were lost, now just ashes on my fingertips.

Some street artists were working nearby. “Let’s get a portrait made,” I said. “A family portrait.” And so we spent part of the muggy afternoon sitting in Central Park, as the artists sketched us and then drew my father in from a photo of him that we carried with us. It was a true family portrait: the four of us. The family team, just as my father had envisioned. I was the goalkeeper, Marcus and my dad were strikers, and my mom was a defender—she knew how to protect me.

We took the carriage ride in the park that we had promised my father. We went to the Bronx, three country misfits out of place in the big city, and tracked down a couple of my father’s old addresses, both not far from Yankee Stadium. We walked around the outside of the old ballpark and imagined my dad as a young boy, trying to bum a ticket.

GREG REFUSED TO budge about my playing against Brazil. My teammates—even Bri, who would get the start instead of me—thought he was being unreasonable. I knew that, given the chance, I would play with strength and inspiration; I thought of how NFL quarterback Brett Favre had played just a day after his own father had died. I had faith that I could play well through my emotions and sadness. I always had before.

But Greg insisted that I was mentally unprepared, so I decided I would play the part he had assigned me. I would grieve, and sit in the stands with my mom and Marcus, who had made the trip to support me. On June 23, I watched my team play Brazil. My teammates wore black armbands for my dad. Bri again kept his initials on her goalie gloves. We quickly went up 2–0. Both goals were scored on free kicks, one by Kristine Lilly and another that Cat took and Abby headed in. Brazil was an immensely talented team. They had Marta, the reigning FIFA Player of the Year, but they didn’t have strong support from their federation between major tournaments. In fact, the team hadn’t really played together since the ’04 Olympics, when they had outplayed us but lost in the gold-medal match. They looked disorganized and ineffective. Bri was barely threatened as our team rolled to victory.

II.

“Hope!” Greg barked. “What the fuck are you doing?”

We were in Connecticut, training for our next game. We would leave for China in less than eight weeks. And Greg was riding my ass every day. I felt I had become the target for all his frustrations and fears. My grief was near the surface. On the bus on the way to training, I sat by myself, staring out the window and listening to music. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I didn’t talk much to anyone; I felt as though every time I opened my mouth I might cry. I would pause and collect myself while the bus cleared and then get off. But when I leaned over to lace up my cleats, the tears would start again.

But the tears dried up on the field. My eyes were clear while I zeroed in on shots. I was so focused that the pain went away. Soccer training was what it had been when I was young: a chance to block out everything bad in my life for the few hours I was on the field.

After I rejoined the team, Greg never said anything to me about my father. He never asked how I was doing. Instead his demeanor toward me seemed hostile. It seemed clear to me that he doubted whether I was emotionally ready for the World Cup; it felt like he was trying to break me, provoking me relentlessly through our training sessions. I tried to ignore him. I worked with Phil, my goalkeeper coach. If Greg thought yelling at me was a good motivational tactic, he clearly knew nothing about me. I’d just lost my father. I didn’t give a shit what Greg Ryan thought about me. But his antipathy for me became so noticeable that my teammates commented on it. “Why is Greg being such an asshole to you?” they asked me.

I’m pretty sure I know why. My theory is that he was a rookie coach heading into his first major tournament. I was a young goalkeeper about to play in my first major tournament. He was probably freaking out about whether I could handle the pressure and my grief. He was likely feeling the pressure that comes with coaching the favored American team, doubting himself and doubting me. Yelling at me every day in practice probably made him feel better.

One day, we had another team-building exercise: we all taped sheets of paper to our backs and then went from teammate to teammate writing what we like about that person. The comments were anonymous. At the end of the exercise, we took off the paper and saw the things our teammates said. My paper was filled with positive messages.

“You are such a force. We believe in you so much.”

“Your communication on and off the field and all the great advice you’ve given me, plus how strong you are.”

“Always striving for more and pushing this team to be its best.”

“Hopers—you are always the one I can talk to. You are one of my best friends.”

“You are courageous. I am confident with you behind me.”

“You