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

came to the game. On the field, I juggled the ball and goofed around; after the game, I defied the rules prohibiting me from signing autographs and went into the stands and embraced fans who had offered their support. I went out with my grandparents and Malia and her brothers after the game, and then Malia and I stayed out drinking and talking. Malia stayed in my isolation room with me. It felt so good to have someone to laugh with and confide in. The next morning, I missed the team bus to the airport. I texted Cheryl Bailey and said I’d just meet them there.

“What are they going to do?” I laughed to Malia as she drove me to the airport. “Kick me off the team?”

By the time we got to Albuquerque, I was feeling better, but the team was cracking at the seams. Carli told me that Abby had cornered her and berated her for talking to me, telling her she had jeopardized her position on the team. Carli said Abby accused her of being like me—antisocial and always in her own room.

Carli went to Greg and asked what the hell that was all about. Greg assured her that Abby’s views didn’t come from him.

In Albuquerque I went for coffee with our assistant coach, Brett. Brett was a tough guy, a demanding coach, but he had a forgiving heart. He told me that I was in a shitty situation but I could learn from it. He said he thought hard times could mold greatness. “If you have to go through this, at least get something out of it,” he said.

In the lobby of the hotel, Dan Flynn made a point of talking to me, as he had at other stops, to see how I was doing and buy me coffee. Everyone on the team could see that one of the main bosses of U.S. Soccer was behind me. By phone, Rich kept encouraging me to hold on and be patient. He was talking to Dan regularly. He seemed to think something dramatic was about to happen. On the final day of the tour, I heard that Greg and Phil had a bitter argument.

In the finale of the “celebration tour,” we tied Mexico 1–1. Natasha replaced Abby in the second half, which meant that Abby was on the bench. She loudly picked apart Carli’s play from her seat near me. It was uncomfortable—finally Aly leaned over and told Abby to relax. After the game, I stood out on the field for a long time, watching my team sign autographs.

Aly came up to me on the field. “Hope, I miss my friend,” she said.

I knew I’d talk to Aly at some point. But something had broken forever between us.

After the game, Greg asked me to meet him on the second floor of the hotel outside the conference rooms. He sat at one end of the long table. I sat down at the other. He slid something across the table toward me.

I caught it just before it dropped off the end of the table. It was my World Cup bronze medal, in a tiny Ziploc bag. This was my medal ceremony.

He formally shook my hand. Then Greg turned and went down the escalator, to where Sunil and Dan were waiting for him. I watched him descend.

It was over. The tour, the season, the year. This team would never be the same.

The next morning on the bus, everyone was hugging each other good-bye. Hugging everyone but me. I was alone, a player without a team. At the airport, I ate some breakfast. A group of my teammates sat at a table close by but didn’t say a word to me, not even Tina. I knew she would soon be calling me, her bubbly and friendly self. But at that table, with Abby, she couldn’t even acknowledge me. The journey that had started with such hope and promise three years earlier was ending in bitterness and loss.

I flew home. When I landed in Seattle and turned on my phone, I had a message from Cheryl Bailey. “Hope,” she said, “I wanted you to know that Greg has been fired.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The New #1

Greg Ryan was gone, but that didn’t mean my problems were over. Three years earlier, I hadn’t thought a head coaching change was a big deal. I believed talent won out. I was much wiser now.

Would U.S. Soccer choose a coach beholden to the veterans? The search committee was Mia Hamm, Dan Flynn, and Sunil Gulati. I figured Mia would look for a coach who would support the veterans, one who would take the side of Lil and Abby. Could any candidate possibly have an open mind about me? I wasn’t sure of anything these days. As I waited in my cabin in Seattle to find out who would be named coach, I read through the mail and e-mail that had piled up since the World Cup. I was noticing trends. Men seemed to be more understanding and forgiving of what happened in China than women were. Men seemed to think what I’d said was no big deal—that it was nothing worse than what male athletes routinely say. They also noted that if men don’t like each other, they fight it out and then forget about it the next day.

In my mail, I found a small card with a Colorado postmark. It was from Greg Ryan. He wrote that to err is human and to forgive is divine. He added that we all make mistakes and need to forgive and that he hoped that would happen with me and my teammates.

It seemed to be an odd time to say I needed to receive forgiveness. I had to wonder if his words were a plea for himself.

My mailboxes also contained a dark, frightening chunk of mail. I was accused of racism, of having tried to take a job away from a hardworking African-American woman. I was called hateful