by Hope Solo
III.
I came home that summer with nowhere to live. Even though we dated other people, Adrian and I continued to see each other—our friendship was too deep to abandon completely—but it was awkward, even painful. We just couldn’t stay away from each other. Our families and friends didn’t understand the nature of our relationship; some, like Cheryl, thought Adrian was a jerk. But other friends loved him. We were confusing everyone, including ourselves. Meanwhile, I was back on Malia’s couch.
I had made enough money from my first three professional contracts that I felt I should buy an investment property. But I didn’t have enough for a down payment. Adrian lent me the money. I wanted to draw up a contract and make monthly payments to him.
“Forget it,” he said. “Pay me back when you sell it.”
I didn’t know when that would ever be, but I bought a tiny house in Kirkland, not far from where my sister, Terry, lived. It appealed to me because it was like a little cabin in the woods. It reminded me of how my father had lived for so many years, though he hadn’t had walls around him. I intended to rent it out. Instead, I ended up living there for years—and Adrian kept refusing to let me pay him back.
In 2005, the U.S. team continued its transition. One of Greg’s first acts as head coach was to tell Brandi Chastain that her services were no longer needed. Brandi hadn’t retired after Athens, and she wanted the chance to try out and see if she could make the team. Greg refused to give it to her, causing an uproar in the press—the heroine of the 1999 World Cup had been fired!—and sending a clear message that this was a new era. I doubted Brandi was still good enough to play, but I felt she deserved the chance to try out. Briana Scurry hadn’t officially retired, but the word around the team was that she was thinking about it. I took that with a grain of salt. Bri often needed time off after big tournaments, and I assumed she’d be back. But meanwhile, the starting job was mine.
We had a revolving door of goalkeeper coaches. Greg brought in several different coaches whose main experience had been on youth teams. They were telling us things like, “Make your hands in a W shape to catch the ball.” I felt embarrassed: here we were playing at the highest level, and the coaches were instructing us as if we were in high school. Finally Ian Feuer came in—an accomplished English goalkeeper and coach. I loved working with Ian, but I didn’t expect him to be around for long: he had a family and he could make a lot more money working somewhere else.
Even though the majority of the players in the pool had arrived post-1999, there was still a veteran cabal that controlled things. The key movers and shakers of the past were gone, so players like Kate Markgraf and Abby—who acted like a veteran—stepped into the void, taking over decision-making responsibilities for the team. There was definitely a divide on the team between “veterans” and “new players.”
Truthfully, I didn’t do much to try to win over the veteran group. The longer I was on the national team, the more I realized that my personality was different from many of my teammates. I wasn’t outgoing and bubbly; I struggled socially in big groups. I didn’t want to go to movies or to dinner in huge throngs that involved endless planning and negotiations and waiting around. I found it exhausting to be with twenty other women all the time—at training, on the bus, at every meal. I had a difficult time being social twenty-four hours a day. Other girls easily shared their innermost thoughts about boyfriends and family and personal issues, while I liked to keep my private business private. I felt the same as I had in high school: unwilling and unable to play the “social girl” game. But I knew that when I said “No thanks” to an invitation and closed my hotel room door so I could read or talk to my dad on the phone and recharge my energy supply, people thought I was being unfriendly.
“People just don’t feel like they know you, Hope,” Aly once told me. I knew that was true. It had been the same in high school and college. My lack of comfort in group situations made me feel as if I was dysfunctional, missing one of my X chromosomes.
Around this time, I read a magazine article about introverts. The article was like reading a master’s thesis on my personality. Did I enjoy spending time alone or with just one or two friends? Check. While some people drew energy from others, thriving in big groups, was I exhausted and drained by too much social contact? Check. The article noted that, for introverts, trust was a major issue causing discomfort in groups and that those trust issues usually dated back to childhood. According to the article, introverts found it hard to feel comfortable and secure in large groups. While the loudest were usually viewed as leaders—Abby came quickly to mind—introverts could also lead. I was often called outspoken, because I was honest to the point of making others uncomfortable, but I wasn’t loud or assertive. I had to find a way to lead in my own way. Now I had a name for why I felt as I did, why I preferred to be by myself. I was an introvert. I didn’t know that made me a black sheep.
IV.
In 2006 Bri returned. She had decided to make one more run, though she would be thirty-six by the time the China World Cup began. I wasn’t surprised to see her. Bri had always been nice to me when I was younger and wasn’t a threat at all. But now the relationship had changed. There was more tension between us.
“It’s your job to lose,” Greg told me.
It was strange having a legend behind me, though it wasn’t a bad thing: with Briana Scurry in the wings, I couldn’t have an off game. The pressure was on. But it was clear that Bri was going to have to do something extraordinary to win the job. I was far ahead of her in fitness, and the position had evolved in recent years: the kicking game was more important; footwork was emphasized more.
Without a professional league to keep us sharp, U.S. Soccer decided that residency camp was the best way to prepare for the World Cup. In 2006, we started a six-month live-in camp, which meant three weeks at a time in Southern California, training at the Home Depot Center, and one week at home. During those weeks when I got home, I tried to pack in everything: a trip to Richland to see my family, visits with my dad, local appearances, a coffee with Lesle and Amy. Adrian and I still had our weird connection. I was exhausted.
At camp, I rented an apartment by the ocean in Hermosa Beach with Christie Welsh. We lived in the same apartment complex Greg lived in. The night before camp began, Adrian and I were out at a nearby restaurant, and Greg and his new girlfriend were sitting in the bar. I was going to pretend I hadn’t seen them, but Adrian said we should go over and say hello. I halfheartedly agreed. Greg was my boss now.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Greg said.
“No, no, that’s OK,” I said, backing toward the door.
“Really, Hope, I insist,” he said.
So Adrian and I sat at the bar and had drinks with Greg and his date. It seemed very odd to see him hanging out in a bar, especially since one of my teammates, Marci Miller, told me she wanted to play for Greg because he had strong Christian values. Marci had even followed Greg when he changed jobs—from the University of Wisconsin to Southern Methodist. Yet that summer in residency camp, Greg didn’t seem to be that guy. I often saw him out with his girlfriend and in the apartment complex hot tub. He seemed to be playing the part of a stereotypical cool Californian.
I wasn’t one to judge, though. I was partying myself, heavily at times. Sometimes I would drive to Vegas with a friend, party all night, and come back to training without having slept. And I dated dozens of men, often several at the same time. I started to wonder if I was like my father, if I was never going to be able to commit to one person.
My raging social life didn’t hurt me on the field. I was always among the top players in fitness tests. Our new goalkeeping coach, Mark Dougherty, emphasized fitness, so I excelled with him. At one point, I had a streak of 1,054 minutes without giving up a goal from the run of play, an impressive stretch that ended with a goal by France in the 2006 Algarve Cup. I started every game at the Four Nations Cup in China and was named
Goalkeeper of the Tournament. That year, I started eighteen of twenty-two national-team games. There wasn’t any doubt about who was America’s new goalkeeper.
Despite that, I still didn’t feel that I had the full respect of the veterans. I sensed that the veterans didn’t like the fact that Bri had been reduced to the role of backup. Every time Bri made a save, even in practice, they cheered like crazy for her. “Fuck yeah, Bri,” Abby would scream when Bri made a routine save. Maybe it was because they’d seen Bri make a comeback before. Or maybe they had a more personal stake in her success—if Bri was being phased out, didn’t that make them all expendable?
Everyone in the soccer world had expected a drop-off for our team after most of the stars of ’99 departed, yet we still dominated. Under Greg, we hadn’t lost a game (we lost the 2006 Algarve Cup final on penalty kicks to Germany, but it still counted as a tie). Though we didn’t have the big names, we were still a team that could make America proud.
Residency camp was a revolving door. New players came and went as Greg constantly evaluated new talent. My old UW teammate Tina Frimpong became a regular in the pool. Another was Carli Lloyd, a blunt-spoken girl from New Jersey who—I later found out—thought I was incredibly intimidating.
In spite of his success, I saw signs of insecurity beginning to show in Greg as the year progressed. Instead of the laid-back guy he had tried to be early on, I saw him get upset about the smallest things: if the balls weren’t pumped up right, if the goal was moved. I saw him arguing with his staff—the equipment managers and trainers. He didn’t seem confident in his own decision-making capabilities.
One day he asked me to have coffee. As we sat at a local Starbucks, Greg peppered me with questions about our goalkeeping coach. Was I happy with Mark Dougherty? He said he wanted my opinion because I was the number one goalkeeper.
I liked Mark, but I had some reservations. My fitness was solid, but I believed my technique needed improvement. I felt awkward. “I have incredible respect for Mark,” I said. “I think we have a great relationship.”
Greg kept prodding, saying I needed to be honest.
I finally conceded that Phil Wheddon was one of the best goalkeeper coaches I had worked with. Phil had coached the men’s team through the 2006 World Cup in Germany that summer but was now available. I was betraying Mark, but I needed to be honest.
The day after our meeting, Greg fired Mark. I heard later through the grapevine that Greg told Mark that I had come to him saying I wanted Phil back. If true, that was the craziest thing I’d ever heard: the head coach was putting such an important decision on me, a twenty-five-year-old goalkeeper. Mark never spoke to me again—and I don’t blame him. But I was happy to be reunited with Phil. He had helped mold me in my early years with the national team and had supported me every step of the way, from my adventures in Europe to my role as alternate in Athens. He knew what I was capable of achieving.
I stuck close to Phil at training and tried to keep away from Greg and his mood swings. The World Cup was less than a year away, and I needed to make sure I had the goalkeeping job on lockdown.
I had a legend behind me, which kept me on edge.
IV.
Go!
I sprinted 800 meters, staying near the front with Aly. A minute rest.
Go!
Another 800.
Go!
And another . . .
I was the only goalkeeper doing all the 800s. In fact, I was one of the few players doing them—most viewed 800s as punishment for players who needed extra fitness work. But I wanted to do them. I hated that goalkeepers were often last in fitness. I wanted to be one of the fittest players on our team.
We did cone drills—sprint, turn, back—to five yards, ten yards, up to twenty-five yards out. Turn, stop, start, again. It was great work for strengthening our legs, ten sets. Up and down. Up and down. I dove for ball after ball, landing on my shoulder, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred times.
V.
New Year’s Day, 2007. The Women’s World Cup was in September, and I was the team’s starting goalkeeper. This was going to be my year. We won the Four Nations tournament in January in China, which felt like a World Cup preview, and we won the Algarve Cup again in March. I was already the second-most-capped goalkeeper in U.S. history.
In early April, we started another training camp in Southern California, one that would count us down to our departure for China. Because we would be traveling so much for our “send-off tour,” there was no need to rent an apartment. I stayed at the Residence Inn in Torrance.
On Sunday morning, April 22, hours before the sun rose in California, the World Cup draw took place in Wuhan, China. We were placed in the most difficult group of the four, along with Sweden, Nigeria, and North Korea. The inclusion of North Korea seemed to upset Greg. He had just seen them play China in a pre-draw match, and their talent was undeniable. The draw appeared to be a political move to keep the North Koreans away from host China. That benefited China but hurt us: we would open against one of the best yet least transparent teams in women’s soccer. North Korea was hard to scout. The only time we had ever played North Korea was in the previous two World Cups.
But that Sunday morning, the politics of the World Cup draw was the last thing on my mind. I was alone in my room at the Residence Inn when my phone rang. “Hope,” my mother said. “I have some terrible news about Liz.”
My dear friend from high school, Liz Duncan, had been out for her usual Saturday run near her apartment in Seattle. She stopped on the median of a busy street, waiting for the light to change. A sixteen-year-old girl in a Pontiac Grand Am lost control of the car, jumped the curb, and hit Liz. She died at the scene.
I was distraught. Liz and I had been basketball and soccer teammates; we played hard and laughed hard. During college, we were friendly rivals: Liz played soccer for Washington State, and I loved seeing her on the field, trying to score against me. When we were both home from college, she would push me to go on training runs with her, mile after mile in the cold along the Columbia River. She had been a track star at Richland High, and she helped me get in the best shape of my life.
That morning Liz had been doing what she loved best: she ran every single day. I could envision her in a mesh running cap and black running tights, her ponytail swinging behind her. She had just registered for the Chicago Marathon. Her motto was “Life’s short. Run long.” She was days away from her twenty-seventh birthday.
I had never had anyone close to me die. I wasn’t sure what to do. My mother stayed on the phone until I calmed down. Then I called Phil and asked if we could meet for coffee. I started to cross the street toward Starbucks, but I froze in the middle of the crosswalk—there were so many cars going in so many directions, lights blinking, loud noises. I rushed back to where I had started. A car had killed Liz on a street like this. How could life be so easily snuffed out? I broke down in tears.
“Phil, I think I need to go home,” I said.
I felt tentative, unsure. Could I leave while we were preparing for a World Cup? Was it OK to attend the funeral of one of my best friends? Would my spot be in danger? Would I be letting down my team? “Hope, if you need to go, go,” Phil said.
I did. Some things are more important than soccer. I spent a week in Richland. I wept over Liz’s casket at the viewing. I mourned at her funeral. I spent time with her grieving mother. I came back to the team feeling fragile and cracked, as though one hard hit would break me open.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Only a Daughter Cries Like That”
Another hotel room. Another city. Another phone ringing.
I rolled out of bed and saw that I had missed a call. I had to stop and think for a moment. What day was it? What city was I in? Why was I here?
Friday, June 15. Cleveland. Tomorrow we had a game against China, the first in our “send-off” series leading to the World Cup. Our
pregame meeting was in a few hours. I had been back training with the team for more than a month. After I returned from Liz’s funeral, I was reserved, with a singular focus on my training. I wanted to draw inspiration from my strong athletic friend and honor her memory with my effort. I stopped drinking any alcohol, even on off days. I was all business.
Things were getting weird around the team. Greg was back from scouting North Korea and seemed uptight and angry. All anyone was talking about at team meals or on the bus was “What’s wrong with Greg?” We still hadn’t lost a game, but the World Cup was bearing down on us, and the pressure was clearly getting to him. Our sports psychologist came in to work on team-building. We had to do relay races balancing an egg on a spoon, passing the egg to a teammate without dropping it. A lot of people dropped the eggs. “Did you feel like you let down your teammates when you dropped the egg?” she asked with a straight face.
I sat in the back and cringed. The exercise seemed absurd. I’d just lost one of my best friends, and we were talking about eggs. I wasn’t sure how passing eggs around on spoons was going to help us win soccer games in China.
I was going to be late for breakfast. I picked up my phone and saw I had a message. I had missed a call from a 206 area code. That wasn’t a good sign. Who would be calling me at five a.m. Seattle time?
“Hello, Miss Hope Solo?” a businesslike female voice said on the message. “Could you please call us back regarding Jeffrey John Solo?”
Oh God. What had happened? Had someone falsely accused my father again? I had talked to him just a few hours earlier, on Thursday evening, as I was walking back to our hotel from Game Four of the NBA Finals. My dad—who liked old-school athletes—was a huge Tim Duncan fan, so he was rooting for San Antonio; I was rooting for LeBron James and the Cavaliers. Dad was thrilled that I had a chance to go to the game and had bought him a championship hat, and he ribbed me after the Spurs completed the sweep of LeBron’s team. I told him that he would have to wear this hat instead of keeping it wrapped in plastic like the others that I bought for him. He was his usual self—happy and joking and delighted to talk to me.