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

the team started a victory tour, beginning with three games against Ireland. This time I wasn’t dreading being reunited with my teammates. Our first stop was Philadelphia, where our players’ attorney, John Langel, was based. One of our first priorities was a team meeting with John to decide how to split our victory-tour money and gold-medal bonus. We were paid during the year by the national team, but the pool of money that came with the victory tour was our real payday.

When we got to Langel’s office, I was surprised when I heard the plans for allocating the money. Bri was scheduled to receive a huge share, far more than our other alternates would receive. When I had been an alternate in Athens, I hadn’t received any of the celebration tour money. I had a feeling I was witnessing a World Cup–type scenario all over again: a decision had been made for sentimental reasons, as a personal sendoff, rather than based on agreed-upon rules.

I took a deep breath. Bri was in the room. I knew that if I spoke up, it was going to be viewed as Hope versus Bri all over again. But I felt strongly that it was time for some consistency in how we treated people and some honest discussion. There couldn’t be two sets of rules: one for the old veterans and one for everyone else. As Pia had said with her song, times had changed. We proved it on the field in Beijing. Now it was time to prove it off the field.

“I’m wondering,” I said, my voice quavering, “why we’re paying Bri so much? And if we pay Bri that much, why aren’t we paying the other alternates the same amount?”

The few remaining veterans spoke up. “Well,” I was told, “they didn’t travel. Bri traveled to China.”

“Yeah, but they were still training back home in case someone got hurt,” I said. “They were still fulfilling their obligation as alternates. It wasn’t their choice not to travel. Why aren’t all the alternates paid the same?”

I saw some people’s eyes roll. Here we go, I could see them thinking.

“I also don’t think—since we have to make the decision—that we should be discussing this in front of the alternates,” I said.

I didn’t want to be disrespectful, but I thought we needed to have a fair discussion. Bri was sent out of the room. “I just want to understand the reasoning,” I said to our lawyer.

“This is the way we’ve always done it,” I was told. “This is the precedent that was set in 2000 and 2004.”

I was silent. I looked at him. I’m sure my teammates were thinking, Well, that shut her up. “Maybe you’ve forgotten,” I said, “but I was your alternate in 2004, and I didn’t get paid anything. So are we following a precedent that was set, or does every separate team decide what it wants to do with their bonus money?”

I was told that must have been a mistake—that I should have been paid.

“Whether it was a mistake or not, I didn’t get paid,” I said. “I traveled to Greece. I missed part of my season in Sweden.”

All of a sudden there was discussion in the room. A few veterans were adamant that Bri should be treated differently, but other players started to ask questions. The right questions: they asked about precedents, about the rationale behind decisions, about what was fair. I was a bit shocked as I looked around the room—it was the first time I had ever seen the entire team participating in a decision-making process.

We took a silent vote. I didn’t care how the voting went. I was just proud that our team was participating in the decision without feeling intimidated. We decided that all alternates would get paid the same, whether or not they had traveled. The majority prevailed against the position taken by the old guard. It wasn’t about money or what happened to me in 2004. It was about taking ownership of the team. We had finally escaped the shadow.

IV.

The coach of the women’s soccer team at Arizona State was a good friend of Jesse’s. He asked if I would make an appearance at one of their games, bring my gold medal, and sign some autographs. No problem. I had a free day after the last tour game against Ireland.

One problem: ASU was playing Michigan. Where Greg Ryan was now coaching. I hadn’t seen Greg since Albuquerque, when he had tossed me my bronze World Cup medal and then gone downstairs to be fired. While I signed autographs and took pictures with ASU fans—who all wanted to touch my medal—I kept wondering if I was going to run into Greg. After the game, I went out on the field to meet the ASU team, and I saw Greg on the sideline. It felt as though everyone from both teams was staring at us. I had the gold medal, I was back on the team, I had a new coach—I could afford to be gracious. I walked up to Greg—it would have been awkward to avoid him.

“Hi Greg,” I said reaching out to shake his hand. “It looks like things are going well for you. You remember Jesse, right?”

It seemed like a dumb question. Jesse worked for U.S. Soccer and had told me of his own conflicts with Greg.

Jesse stuck out his hand. “Hi Greg,” he said.

Greg just glared at us and rudely told Jesse to keep his hand.

Holy shit. That was way more hostile than I expected. Greg must have forgotten the note he sent me: To forgive is divine. I turned to walk away, and then changed my mind. I turned back. “You know, Greg, we’re both adults, and I thought we could be mature enough to get over what happened a year ago,” I said. “But I guess not.”

I lifted my gold medal up into his line of vision and—as he had instructed me once—looked him dead in the eye. And then I