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

goal. You should have an opinion. But if you don’t, if you don’t think it even matters at all, how can you go and lobby for Bri?”

When I said that, I thought I saw a flutter of doubt cross her eyes. Had she made a mistake? “I’m your starting goalkeeper for a reason,” I went on. “Because I beat out the others. You should want the best players on the field. It’s so arrogant to say that it doesn’t matter who’s in goal.” I wasn’t yelling. I was calm. “I’ve lost every ounce of respect I’ve had for you,” I said.

I walked away. I went farther down the hall to find Abby and I told her exactly what I had told Lil. I felt even more betrayed by Abby—she and I were in the same generation of players.

“How could you turn your back on me?” I said.

At least Abby had an answer. “Hope, I think Bri is the better goalkeeper.”

That shut me up. I didn’t think it was true, and I didn’t think Abby knew much about goalkeeping. But at least she had an opinion. At least she owned up to her part in the matter. I had to respect that.

I went back to my room and lay on the bed and called my mother. “I’m not playing against Brazil, Mom,” I said, crying.

“Liar,” my mother said with a laugh.

I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t having a bad dream. I rolled over and wept.

V.

The next day, we practiced at the stadium. I was dying inside, but I held my head high. There wasn’t a huge American media contingent in China—it was an expensive trip, and most outlets were saving their funds to cover the Beijing Olympics the following year. But the reporters who were there got word of the goalkeeping change, and the topic dominated post-practice interviews. Greg rationalized his decision to the press by saying that he liked Bri’s form in training and her history against Brazil. When asked if my confidence was shaken, Greg said that wasn’t his concern, that the team was there to win the World Cup.

Lil stuck to her theory that such a monumental change didn’t much matter. “It’s not a huge deal from our team’s perspective,” she told reporters.

THE ESPN REPORTERS tracked me down. “I’m not happy with it, not one bit,” I said. “But it is the coach’s decision and I have to deal with it. And I have to be there for my team. They’re going to need me. They’re going to need all twenty-one players.”

Sept. 27, 2007

Best in the world, Dad? I’m not so sure the world will see that. Can you believe this—semifinal game and I’ll be on the bench. I need you there with me too, Dad. He’s a coward like we always thought. What’s going to happen, Dad? Has my career ended with the game against England? Dad, it’s tough. My fight has been crushed. Please help me and Marcus get through this, Dad. I still play for you. With all my love—Baby Hope

On Thursday, September 27, the news that I had lost my starting job was beginning to reverberate back home, on blogs and sports shows. ESPN’s commentators—Julie Foudy and former U.S. coach Tony DiCicco—expressed amazement at Greg’s decision. Why would someone make such a radical change when things were going so well? “It makes a negative impact when you want to only be focusing on positive things,” Julie said. “I think it’s the wrong decision.”

DiCicco agreed. “If there isn’t a goalkeeper controversy, why make one?”

“This is the type of decision that keeps you employed or quickly gets you unemployed,” ESPN commentator Rob Stone offered.

Because of the time difference, our games were airing at dawn in the United States. Back in Seattle, where it was still dark, Lesle Gallimore turned on the television and read the crawl across the screen. “Hope Solo replaced in goal by Briana Scurry.” She fumbled for her phone to call Amy. “Is Hope hurt? What’s going on?”

I didn’t carry any ashes with me onto the field in Hangzhou. My dad wouldn’t be beside me on the bench. And then the game started.

The worst World Cup game in U.S. history. In the 4–0 loss to Brazil, my team played like a group that had been blindsided.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Stepping into Liquid

When the carnage had ended and Brazil had danced off, I made my way across the field.

Abby stopped me. “Hope, I was wrong,” she told me.

I nodded, but I was on a mission to find my family, to thank them for supporting me. I crossed the field to them, and Marcus leaned over the railing toward me, the pain showing on his face. In his hands he held tight his container of my father’s ashes.

“This was supposed to be for Dad,” he said, his voice quivering on the edge of tears.

That broke me open. I wanted so much to be strong for my family, to honor our father. I ached to make them proud. And now there was only more hurt. But I did draw strength just being near my family. And from Adrian, who, at the end of game, had run around the stadium to the stands above the tunnel where Greg Ryan was exiting the field, to yell at him, telling him what an idiot he was. Adrian had my back and didn’t care who heard him.

As the stadium emptied, I reached up to squeeze my family’s hands and say thank you. Finally, a security guard came to get me. I was the last player left behind. I said my good-byes and walked to the tunnel that led to the locker room. Adrian was still in the stands there, waiting for me. “Be strong, Hope,” he said. “Be confident. Be honest. Don’t be afraid to tell that asshole what you think.”

Reporters were waiting for us in the bowels of the stadium, pressed up against the metal barricades, eager to capture our words on this historic defeat. Our press