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

’99ers was gone, at least for the immediate future. I was happy Lil was moving on with her life; a major hurdle had just been moved out of my path. I felt the shadow beginning to fade.

But even without Lil, the veterans were still trying to control our new coach. I found out through the grapevine that several veterans—even ones who were no longer on the team—had told Pia I wasn’t ready to play, that I needed to learn how to sit on the bench and be a team player. But I was learning to trust my new coach. Pia seemed like someone who made her own decisions. She was looking at the big picture, thinking about who she would need in Beijing in August. She named me to the Four Nations roster, and in China I started two out of three games: Bri got the other game. Even though I didn’t feel I had earned the starts, I played well enough. I kept to myself, sharing a room with Carli. I took my friend Stacey’s advice: “Fake it ’til you make it.” I smiled. I gave a few high-fives. I yelled, “Good job,” from the bench to my teammates. Faking anything went against my basic philosophy of life, but I could genuinely applaud a good play or appreciate a skillful move. I concentrated on moving forward.

Pia started bringing in new young players like Tobin Heath and Lauren Cheney. They didn’t share our recent tortured history; they had fresh eyes and fresh attitudes. Pearcie had taken over the captain’s armband from Lil. She was a confident, thoughtful leader; I remembered that in the hotel room in Shanghai, she had been the only veteran to try to move forward, and that on the celebration tour she had been the only veteran to stop and speak to me. She didn’t just talk about leadership; she showed it.

A few weeks after we won the Four Nations, we headed to Portugal for the Algarve Cup. Bri was left off the roster—Barnie and I split the four games. We played well, and for the first time in almost a year, I felt relaxed and happy with my team. Maybe it was the mild Portuguese weather and the beautiful surroundings. Maybe it was because the veterans’ circle had shrunk in size and power. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. After we won, we all—Pia included—went dancing.

The calendar between the World Cup and the Olympics was condensed and intense. We were a different team than we had been just a few months ago, with a different coach, who wanted to play a different style. There wasn’t time to dwell on hurt feelings. The schedule was full: after Portugal we headed to Mexico to qualify for the Olympics, which we did with three wins and a tie.

While in Southern California for training camp, I was getting closer to Jesse, our equipment manager. I still stayed in touch with Adrian all the time, but he was busy with his own life. Jesse worked for U.S. Soccer and had had his own run-ins with Greg Ryan; he knew so much about the politics of my situation that I could turn to him for advice and support. He made me feel special and loved, something I needed at that low point. I still was feeling that my life was in flux. When I went home, I missed my father terribly. When I looked in the mirror, I felt I needed a change.

“I’m going to dye my hair brown,” I told one of my Nike reps.

“We’ve already shot our Olympic campaigns,” she said. “We want you to be recognizable. You’re going to be one of the faces of the team.”

So I stayed blond.

After our trip to Mexico, we had a handful of friendly games in the United States: two with Australia, in North Carolina and Alabama, and another with Canada in Washington, D.C. At those games, I took some abuse from Scurry fans. I heard boos behind the goal, and heckling.

“You’re no Scurry.”

“You’ll never be as good as Bri. You suck, Solo.”

“Get off the field.”

I pretended that I didn’t hear them.

As we edged closer to the Olympics, the press started to pay more attention to the team. How, reporters wondered, could this broken team heal? They started asking hard questions, ripping off the Band-Aid and seeing what was underneath. In Washington, D.C., Grant Wahl from Sports Illustrated sat down with both Bri and me separately and asked us to revisit the details of 2007.

“I guess Sports Illustrated is doing a story,” I said to Bri later.

“Yeah,” she said.

We decided we should talk. For eight months, I’d been dreading this conversation, but at a café near our hotel, Bri and I talked for more than two hours. There was no anger. I apologized again, and she said she forgave me. We spoke of our fathers. Bri told me she had always thought I was a good kid before the World Cup. “I still think you’re a good kid,” she said.

We hugged. The scar was always going to be there, on both our careers. But the wound seemed to have finally healed.

IV.

When the Olympic roster was named in June, Barnie and I were the goalkeepers. Bri was the alternate. It was the first time she wasn’t on the roster for a world championship since the 1991 World Cup. An era had ended, and I felt it was time to mark the start of a new one. I had worn number 18 since college, when I still hoped to be a field player. But that was so long ago—I was a goalkeeper now, one of the best in the world. Goalkeepers traditionally wear number 1. Even though Bri had been a backup for most of the past three years, she had retained the number 1 jersey—she had that right as our most senior player. I knew that requesting the number 1 jersey now could be portrayed—once again—as me stabbing Bri in the