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

the USA,” as a tribute to all the Americans in the crowd. We were having fun. The 3–0 final assured us of a spot in the quarterfinals, even though we had one more game of group play—against our toughest opponent, Sweden.

The tournament was getting rave reviews. The stadiums were packed, the crowds were electric, and many of the games were thrillingly close. The competition was far more evenly matched than it had ever been before. It was stunning how much women’s soccer had progressed around the globe. I could see it starting to happen when I had been playing overseas. Now, teams that had never made an impact before, like France and Japan, were serious threats.

We flew to Wolfsburg, where it was raining. I could tell that Pia, though happy we had advanced, really wanted to beat Sweden, the team she had starred for as a player. But we had bad luck, and Sweden played smart and physical. In the first half, Amy LePeilbet took down my old buddy Lotta Schelin in the penalty box and was given a yellow card. I read the penalty kick correctly and was fully extended, but the ball slipped just past my fingertips. Twenty minutes later, a free kick ricocheted past me into the goal. We were down 2–0.

We had our chances but didn’t score until Abby got us on the board in the second half. The 2–1 loss was our first ever in group play and meant we finished second in the group.

I wasn’t stressed about that. We had lost in group play in the Olympics to Norway and won the gold medal. We had advanced. That was all I cared about. But we were taking a difficult path. Our quarterfinal opponent was Brazil.

III.

The match felt epic from the start. The stadium was sold out and the air crackled with the kind of electricity that only comes in big sporting events. The German crowd—disappointed that their team had been stunned the day before by Japan—was rooting for Brazil. Brazil almost always had the crowd on their side: their fans are fun, their soccer is pretty, and Marta was the most famous female soccer player in the world.

A lot was made of the fact that we were playing on the twelfth anniversary of the 1999 World Cup final. Many of the ’99ers were in Germany working for ESPN: Brandi, Bri, Mia, and Julie, as well as Tony DiCicco. Those comparisons continued, as did some of the animosity. I heard from friends at home that Bri had criticized me on air for being a bad teammate after the North Korea game. I was so weary of the shadow. What was left unsaid was how much the game had improved in twelve years and how much more skilled our team was. It’s simply the evolution of sport.

Lesle and her son Zac, Amy and her husband and their two boys, had all been in Germany for the entire tournament. The rest of my support group arrived in time for the Brazil match: my mom, Marcus and Debbie and little Johnny, my sister Terry, Aunt Susie and her sons and Uncle Frank. Adrian was there too—I wouldn’t have to call him in the middle of the night from this tournament. As the national anthem played, I spotted my loved ones in the stands. Unfortunately, my grandma and grandpa weren’t there; Grandpa Pete had been diagnosed with dementia, and his health was declining. Grandma Alice didn’t want to leave him.

We got on the board almost instantly. Brazilian defender Daiane scored an own goal trying to clear a ball Boxxy had sent in. It was the opposite of what had happened to us in 2007. It was a nice start, but we knew we were in for a long day. We clung to the 1–0 lead at halftime.

In the sixty-fifth minute, Marta came streaking toward me with Rachel Buehler chasing. Rachel made a slide tackle, taking Marta down in the penalty box—a player like Marta is always going to get that call. Rachel was shown a red card and, completely distraught, left the field. Once again we were going to be playing shorthanded against Brazil. Even worse, Cristiane was lining up against me to take the penalty kick. As I made my way into the goal, I was swinging my arms to loosen up my shoulder. The referee—Jacqui Melksham from Australia—pointed at me to get on my line. I jumped up and down, raising my arms a few times, just to let Cristiane know I was there, and then I was set.

Cristiane shot to her right. I read correctly, diving to my left and batting the ball away. I was so fired up—saving a penalty kick takes both luck and skill and can be a huge momentum shifter. I jumped to my feet clapping, and Carli and Boxxy ran up to hug me. But then mass confusion broke out—Melksham had waved off the save, and was awarding Brazil a do-over. She told me I had moved off my line—I was sure I hadn’t, I never believed in moving off the line because I didn’t feel it gave me any advantage on the save. Melksham showed me a yellow card as I raised my hands in protest. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I shouted, trying to keep my mounting anger in check. That call is still a total mystery to me. On the field, Melksham told me I had moved. But afterward she changed her call to encroachment on Pearcie—she said our captain had moved a step forward before the ball was kicked. It was a ticky-tack call in a critical game. The crowd started to turn right then, booing the referee and booing Brazil for getting an unfair advantage. As boos and whistles rained down on her, Marta stepped up to retake the shot Cristiane had missed. Of course, she made it this time. The game was tied 1–1 and we were shorthanded. Our team gathered to talk about