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

“It’s your job to lose,” Greg told me.

It was strange having a legend behind me, though it wasn’t a bad thing: with Briana Scurry in the wings, I couldn’t have an off game. The pressure was on. But it was clear that Bri was going to have to do something extraordinary to win the job. I was far ahead of her in fitness, and the position had evolved in recent years: the kicking game was more important; footwork was emphasized more.

Without a professional league to keep us sharp, U.S. Soccer decided that residency camp was the best way to prepare for the World Cup. In 2006, we started a six-month live-in camp, which meant three weeks at a time in Southern California, training at the Home Depot Center, and one week at home. During those weeks when I got home, I tried to pack in everything: a trip to Richland to see my family, visits with my dad, local appearances, a coffee with Lesle and Amy. Adrian and I still had our weird connection. I was exhausted.

At camp, I rented an apartment by the ocean in Hermosa Beach with Christie Welsh. We lived in the same apartment complex Greg lived in. The night before camp began, Adrian and I were out at a nearby restaurant, and Greg and his new girlfriend were sitting in the bar. I was going to pretend I hadn’t seen them, but Adrian said we should go over and say hello. I halfheartedly agreed. Greg was my boss now.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Greg said.

“No, no, that’s OK,” I said, backing toward the door.

“Really, Hope, I insist,” he said.

So Adrian and I sat at the bar and had drinks with Greg and his date. It seemed very odd to see him hanging out in a bar, especially since one of my teammates, Marci Miller, told me she wanted to play for Greg because he had strong Christian values. Marci had even followed Greg when he changed jobs—from the University of Wisconsin to Southern Methodist. Yet that summer in residency camp, Greg didn’t seem to be that guy. I often saw him out with his girlfriend and in the apartment complex hot tub. He seemed to be playing the part of a stereotypical cool Californian.

I wasn’t one to judge, though. I was partying myself, heavily at times. Sometimes I would drive to Vegas with a friend, party all night, and come back to training without having slept. And I dated dozens of men, often several at the same time. I started to wonder if I was like my father, if I was never going to be able to commit to one person.

My raging social life didn’t hurt me on the field. I was always among the top players in fitness tests. Our new goalkeeping coach, Mark Dougherty, emphasized fitness, so I excelled with him. At one point, I had a streak of 1,054 minutes without giving up a goal from the run of play, an impressive stretch that ended with a goal by France in the 2006 Algarve Cup. I started every game at the Four Nations Cup in China and was named Goalkeeper of the Tournament. That year, I started eighteen of twenty-two national-team games. There wasn’t any doubt about who was America’s new goalkeeper.

Despite that, I still didn’t feel that I had the full respect of the veterans. I sensed that the veterans didn’t like the fact that Bri had been reduced to the role of backup. Every time Bri made a save, even in practice, they cheered like crazy for her. “Fuck yeah, Bri,” Abby would scream when Bri made a routine save. Maybe it was because they’d seen Bri make a comeback before. Or maybe they had a more personal stake in her success—if Bri was being phased out, didn’t that make them all expendable?

Everyone in the soccer world had expected a drop-off for our team after most of the stars of ’99 departed, yet we still dominated. Under Greg, we hadn’t lost a game (we lost the 2006 Algarve Cup final on penalty kicks to Germany, but it still counted as a tie). Though we didn’t have the big names, we were still a team that could make America proud.

Residency camp was a revolving door. New players came and went as Greg constantly evaluated new talent. My old UW teammate Tina Frimpong became a regular in the pool. Another was Carli Lloyd, a blunt-spoken girl from New Jersey who—I later found out—thought I was incredibly intimidating.

In spite of his success, I saw signs of insecurity beginning to show in Greg as the year progressed. Instead of the laid-back guy he had tried to be early on, I saw him get upset about the smallest things: if the balls weren’t pumped up right, if the goal was moved. I saw him arguing with his staff—the equipment managers and trainers. He didn’t seem confident in his own decision-making capabilities.

One day he asked me to have coffee. As we sat at a local Starbucks, Greg peppered me with questions about our goalkeeping coach. Was I happy with Mark Dougherty? He said he wanted my opinion because I was the number one goalkeeper.

I liked Mark, but I had some reservations. My fitness was solid, but I believed my technique needed improvement. I felt awkward. “I have incredible respect for Mark,” I said. “I think we have a great relationship.”

Greg kept prodding, saying I needed to be honest.

I finally conceded that Phil Wheddon was one of the best goalkeeper coaches I had worked with. Phil had coached the men’s team through the 2006 World Cup in Germany that summer but was now available. I was betraying Mark, but I needed to be honest.

The day after our meeting, Greg fired Mark. I heard later through the grapevine that Greg told Mark that I had come to him saying I wanted Phil back. If true, that was the craziest thing I’d ever