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

Carli was the only player who would sit near me. Another strategic move planned out in a meeting: Who is the one player who doesn’t hate Hope? Though the public was being told that our team had reconciled and was moving forward, no one spoke a word in my direction. When my teammates came off the field, I reached out—as everyone on the bench does—to give high-fives. A few of my teammates touched my hand, but most avoided me.

This meaningless friendly match attracted an inordinate amount of attention. That night, the Rockies and the Diamondbacks played extra innings in a National League Championship Series. As the managers ran out of bench players, one of the announcers quipped, “Looks like the only person who hasn’t played tonight is Hope Solo.”

After the game, the team signed autographs, but I was hurried onto the bus, where I sat, as planned, in the front next to Cheryl. As my teammates filed on, they avoided looking at me. Except for Christie Rampone, who paused at my seat and said, “How you doing?”

“OK, Pearcie,” I said, my eyes starting to well. Her tiny bit of kindness almost burst me open.

Back at the team hotel, everyone exited the bus and headed to the elevator. I walked onto an elevator that was already carrying several of my teammates. After I stepped through the doors, my teammates got off. “I’m not getting on with her,” one player said loudly.

As the elevator doors closed, I burst out laughing. On my ride up to my room, a dam between pain and humor broke. This had become ludicrous.

The next morning, the absurdity continued. At the airport, I went through security by myself. I sat by myself on the flight to Portland. My adult teammates were acting as though I were radioactive, but I took Cheryl’s advice to heart: one interaction at a time.

“Hi, Chups,” I said, when Lori Chalupny walked by me at training.

“Hey, Tarp,” I said as I passed Lindsay Tarpley.

I made eye contact. I smiled. And sometimes I got eye contact back. I started keeping score. Eye contact! Yay, one victory for me!

When we got to Portland, the Nike athletes were invited to go to the Niketown store for a shopping spree. They sent a Suburban for us. When I got in the car, other players got out, preferring to skip the trip than ride with me. But I wasn’t missing a chance to interact with my friends at Nike. I was worried about my livelihood, but they were supportive. Stacey Chapman, one of the company’s top marketing executives, hugged me when she saw me. She had been in China and witnessed how I had been treated, reporting back to Lesle how horrible the situation was. “Fake it ’til you make it,” she said. “Keep smiling.”

I also met with Joe Elsmore, the head of Nike’s soccer marketing branch. He told me that he had pulled a planned advertising campaign that had emphasized the importance of team. Joe told me he couldn’t approve such a campaign, in light of what was happening. So now I had another soccer power broker voicing support for me.

One night I went to dinner with goalkeeper coach Phil Wheddon, the first time we had talked since China. The disconnect with Phil was particularly painful because I had been so close to him. We drank a bottle of wine: it was the first time I had had any alcohol since April. He told me I was the best goalkeeper in the tournament. I probably would have won the award.

God, that hurt. One of my dreams was to be considered the “best goalkeeper in the world.” I had worked so hard for that and it stung to know that it had been within my grasp. Phil seemed sympathetic. He was the only one who knew what had happened between me and Greg. I wanted to hear more words of support from Phil, but I could tell he was worried about his job. I understood—it was his livelihood. Greg was his boss and was acting increasingly nasty toward him. In St. Louis I overheard Greg demand that Phil get out of his sight, and sarcastically suggest that he “go hang out with your buddy Hope” at the end of the bench. Once beside me, Phil had motioned for our massage therapist to come and sit between us. Even my longtime coach was distancing himself from me.

In Portland, there was team business to take care of: the new league was preparing to launch soon, and all of the national team players would be allocated to different WPS clubs. Though it was more than a year away, we were supposed to turn in our top three preferences. There was a meeting with the team lawyer to go over everything.

I wasn’t allowed into the meeting, so Abby came up to me. She told me she needed my top three picks. It was the first time she had talked to me outside of a team meeting since China. I had zero trust that they would honor my preferences, no confidence that the team lawyer—who I was convinced was beholden to the veterans—would keep my business private. “Abby, you’re not allowing me into the meeting, but you expect me to turn in my picks to you?” I said. “I’ll give them to my agent.”

I e-mailed Rich my preferences: 1. St. Louis, 2. St. Louis, 3. St. Louis. My chance meeting on the airplane with Jeffrey Cooper had convinced me that I wanted to play for him. But I sure as hell wasn’t telling my teammates—I was certain they would try to sabotage me.

Later that day, on the bus, I got a text. It was from Chups, who was sitting at the back of the bus. She had walked right past me. She told me she was worried about me and still considered us friends.

Wow, I thought. A breakthrough.

My mood improved dramatically in Portland. I was in my Northwest comfort zone. My family and friends