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

night before the game, I went over to the family hotel. My big support group had arrived in time for the Nigeria game: my mother; Marcus and his fiancée, Debbie; Aunt Susie; Grandma Alice and Grandpa Pete; Adrian; and Cheryl’s parents, Mary and Dick. At the games, they wore black armbands to honor my father. It was comforting for me to be with my family. They were the only ones who really knew how much I missed my father and how badly I was hurting. I was painfully aware of all the time I had missed with him, rushing from one place to another, moments I could never get back. I wasn’t going to make that same mistake with the rest of my family. And we all had something to celebrate in China: Marcus and Debbie had just found out they were going to have a baby, conceived just weeks after my father’s death.

The night before the quarterfinal, I played cribbage with my grandparents and Adrian. Marcus and I talked about my dad. My mom—always the avid photographer—showed us all the pictures she had taken. It was very low-key. I got back to my room and puttered around before going to bed. As usual, I was one of the last ones to bed, battling my recurring insomnia.

Sept. 22, 2007

Hey dad. Why is today so hard? I’m scared today. Marcus is scared. I’m glad we could be together even just for a little bit—he’s very emotional. Wants us to go all the way for you. Be there beside me in that lonesome goal. We play together in this quarterfinal match against England. But I play for you, for everything that you taught me. Family first, right Dad?

England’s team hadn’t had much success at the senior level—this was the first time we had faced them in a World Cup match—but they were touted as an up-and-coming team. I considered Kelly Smith, whom I’d played with in Philadelphia, one of the top players in the world. We had a tense, scoreless first half—but our defense was strong. And then, in a ten-minute span in the second half, we scored three quick goals to put the game out of reach.

After the game, our celebration was subdued, tempered by our ambitions. We were almost to our ultimate goal. We were in the World Cup semifinals, as far as the 2003 team had advanced, but we wanted more. Our shaky start against North Korea appeared to have been a fluke. We had shown some nerves and inexperience against a good team but had rallied from adversity. I still didn’t think we were playing like the world’s number-one-ranked team. It was too much boot ball without a lot of creativity in our attack. But we hadn’t lost in regulation in fifty games. We would face Brazil, a team that had appeared disorganized and unprepared in New York just three months earlier. I had three consecutive World Cup shutouts. I was on top of my game. I was ready.

III.

On Tuesday night, two days before the semifinal, we were eating dinner at the team hotel in Hangzhou. One of my first national team starts had come in Hangzhou in January of 2001, when I had learned my father was accused of murder. That seemed so long ago. The thought of that false accusation made me ache for my father’s needless suffering. I wished so much that he could watch the upcoming semifinal . . . and trip Brazil’s incredible player Marta for me.

Phil, my goalkeeper coach, came up behind me as I was eating and tapped me on the shoulder. “Hope,” he said, bending down to speak in my ear. “Greg wants to see you in his room when dinner is over.”

I stared at him. The balloon of confidence inside of me collapsed. “Why?” I asked.

Phil just looked at me and then walked away.

I pushed away my food, suddenly afraid I might get sick. I knew what was about to happen. Maybe I’d been expecting it for two years.

As I left the dining room, I saw Greg walk in to eat. He would be there awhile, so I went up to my room and called Adrian. When I tried to speak, the tears came instead. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I finally said.

“You’re fine, Hope,” Adrian said. “Keep it together. You have to talk to him.”

While I listened to Adrian, I started to breathe deeply to calm myself down. Adrian was right; I didn’t want to be a wreck when I spoke to Greg. I hung up and my phone rang immediately. It was Phil, asking where I was.

“I’ll be right down,” I said.

I took the elevator to Greg’s floor. When I entered his room, he was sitting in a chair playing his guitar and singing to himself. “Hey, Hope, do you know this song?” He smiled and strummed.

Seriously? He was about to tell me the most devastating thing I’d experienced in my soccer career and he wanted to chat about Pink Floyd? I just looked at him. Don’t fuck with me, Greg, I thought as I sat down on the adjacent couch. I’m sure my face gave away my thoughts. When he saw my expression, Greg became a tough guy, the same asshole who had yelled at me all summer.

“Why are you late? I told you to be here at seven.”

I looked at Phil, who was sitting at the other end of the couch I was perched on. “Actually, I was told to come after dinner,” I said.

I put my hands on my knees and looked down at them, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Greg, sitting to my left, leaned forward and stuck his finger in my face. “You fucking look at me when I’m talking to you,” he snapped. “I’m tired of you disrespecting me. You show up late and now you don’t even make eye contact with me.”

I was shocked. I knew this was going to be bad, but the fury in his voice