Solo, Hope Solo [best non fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

believing in me. Washington, and all it had to offer, really set me straight!!! You guys are the best, and forever in my heart and mind! I love you. Hope.

A few days later my mother arrived in Sweden on her first trip overseas. We were excited to be having an adventure together—it felt like a new chapter in our relationship. We drove my maroon Volvo north to Stockholm, over to Norway, up into the beautiful fjords. Like the locals—all of us weary of the long, dark winter—I was eager to take advantage of the beautiful Scandinavian summer, the long days and mild weather and outdoor lifestyle. We basked in the sun on the rocks outside Stockholm. We camped and swam in icy lakes. It reminded me of when I had been a little girl, camping on the beach in Happy Camp, Oregon. One night a little red fox came near our campfire, and my mother coaxed him closer with food. We nicknamed him Foxxy and viewed him as a good-luck symbol of our renewed connection.

I saw a different side of my mother in Scandinavia. She had been sober for a couple of years now and was clearheaded, strong, adventurous, funny, and fun—I saw a glimpse of the girl she must have been in the late 1970s, when she met my father. On a whim, we went into a store in Stockholm and both got our noses pierced. I had never thought of my mom as a girlfriend, someone fun to hang out with, but now we laughed and confided in each other. I had a new friend.

After my mother left, Adrian arrived, and we flew to Italy. I’d heard too much about it all my life to think it could live up to its reputation, but it was wonderful. We walked from town to town on Cinque Terre. We rented a boat and explored caves along the Italian Riviera. We ate pasta and drank red wine out of jugs and danced in the public squares of tiny villages. I sent my dad postcards from his ancestral land. I tried to find Solo family connections but didn’t have much luck. Oh well. I told myself that “Solo” might not even be my dad’s real name.

In early August, I had to meet the national team on Crete for training, while Adrian went off to travel in Turkey. I was always with the team on the field, but because I was an alternate, I was completely segregated the rest of the time. I couldn’t even get into the team meals. Once again, I felt like an outsider. When the competition started and the team played in other parts of Greece, I went to Athens to wait and see if my services would be needed. I couldn’t stay in the athlete’s village, so I got housing through the U.S. Olympic Committee at a local university. There was a suite with two bedrooms. I shared a room with Pia Sundhage, who was scouting for our team; Paul Ellis, the head scout, was in the other room. We couldn’t find any hotel rooms, so our massage therapist lent Adrian his credential so that he could stay on our couch.

I trained in the morning. Sometimes we played two on two, with Adrian, Paul, and Pia. But after that, I was free to do as I pleased. Nike helped me get tickets to Olympic events. We ate dinner late like the Athens locals, drinking wine in rooftop restaurants on warm nights, the Parthenon glowing in the distance.

I wasn’t getting paid much more than a per diem. I had no perks as an Olympic athlete. I was isolated from my team. But in Athens I fell in love with the Olympics. As a fan, I saw the Olympic spirit, the pride of the Greeks, the enthusiasm in the stands, the enormity of the event. The Olympics were different from other sporting events; their meaning hadn’t been damaged by all the modern commercialism and hype. Maybe being in Greece, the birthplace of the Games, helped me understand that there was something profound about this colossal gathering of the world’s countries. I was determined to be a full participant the next time around.

My teammates rode a wave of emotion into the final. The gold-medal game against Brazil was the last competition for the core of the ’99 team. Mia Hamm, Julie Foudy, and Joy Fawcett had announced that they would retire after the Games. No one was sure what the future held for Brandi Chastain or Kristine Lilly or Bri. They didn’t say they were retiring, but an era was definitely ending.

For much of the gold-medal game, there was a sense that the world of soccer was undergoing a changing of the guard. Brazil—led by its skilled forward Marta—completely outplayed our team. I sat in the stands with Adrian, watching nervously. Brazil had scoring chance after scoring chance, hitting the post twice with potential game winners late in regulation. After ninety minutes, the game was tied 1–1. But in the twenty-second minute of overtime, Abby headed a corner kick in for the winning goal. Our team was able to kill the clock and finally celebrate.

I went to the after-party, which lasted through the sweltering Athens night and well into the sweltering Athens dawn. The ’99ers clung together, weeping and laughing and telling tales in a code only they knew. I hung out on a back deck with my friends Cat Reddick and Aly Wagner. As the sun rose over Piraeus harbor, I knew a new era was beginning for U.S. soccer. One that would include me.

IV.

I returned to Sweden for the end of our season, and all my newfound maturity and good feelings collapsed in a whirlwind of personal drama. After our romantic summer together, Adrian was acting distant and strange, and I heard he was spending a lot of time with some girl back in Seattle. A male soccer friend from home came to visit me in Sweden