by Hope Solo
Another scrapbook was filled with newspaper clippings, photos, and computer printouts detailing my entire soccer career, from Richland High to UW to the WUSA and all of my time with the national team. Everything was arranged in chronological order and carefully annotated. There was a Christmas card from Sofia, to “Mr. Italy,” as she called my dad. There was an e-mail from me scolding him about watching his diet. I turned to the last page of the scrapbook. At the top, in my father’s blocky handwriting, he had written: HOPE: WORLD CUP, 2007.
The page was blank.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Shadows
The ashes sifted through my fingers and floated on the still water of the lake in Central Park. We had found a quiet leafy corner, protected from the honking horns and human crush of Manhattan. The pilgrimage had taken place after all. Marcus, my mom, and I had brought our father home.
In my father’s papers, we had found his military discharge from the navy. We found two different Social Security numbers. We found bits and pieces of the puzzle, but we couldn’t find any documentation or history covering twenty years of my father’s life. Those missing years probably took place somewhere in this vast city. But any answers were lost, now just ashes on my fingertips.
Some street artists were working nearby. “Let’s get a portrait made,” I said. “A family portrait.” And so we spent part of the muggy afternoon sitting in Central Park, as the artists sketched us and then drew my father in from a photo of him that we carried with us. It was a true family portrait: the four of us. The family team, just as my father had envisioned. I was the goalkeeper, Marcus and my dad were strikers, and my mom was a defender—she knew how to protect me.
We took the carriage ride in the park that we had promised my father. We went to the Bronx, three country misfits out of place in the big city, and tracked down a couple of my father’s old addresses, both not far from Yankee Stadium. We walked around the outside of the old ballpark and imagined my dad as a young boy, trying to bum a ticket.
GREG REFUSED TO budge about my playing against Brazil. My teammates—even Bri, who would get the start instead of me—thought he was being unreasonable. I knew that, given the chance, I would play with strength and inspiration; I thought of how NFL quarterback Brett Favre had played just a day after his own father had died. I had faith that I could play well through my emotions and sadness. I always had before.
But Greg insisted that I was mentally unprepared, so I decided I would play the part he had assigned me. I would grieve, and sit in the stands with my mom and Marcus, who had made the trip to support me. On June 23, I watched my team play Brazil. My teammates wore black armbands for my dad. Bri again kept his initials on her goalie gloves. We quickly went up 2–0. Both goals were scored on free kicks, one by Kristine Lilly and another that Cat took and Abby headed in. Brazil was an immensely talented team. They had Marta, the reigning FIFA Player of the Year, but they didn’t have strong support from their federation between major tournaments. In fact, the team hadn’t really played together since the ’04 Olympics, when they had outplayed us but lost in the gold-medal match. They looked disorganized and ineffective. Bri was barely threatened as our team rolled to victory.
II.
“Hope!” Greg barked. “What the fuck are you doing?”
We were in Connecticut, training for our next game. We would leave for China in less than eight weeks. And Greg was riding my ass every day. I felt I had become the target for all his frustrations and fears. My grief was near the surface. On the bus on the way to training, I sat by myself, staring out the window and listening to music. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I didn’t talk much to anyone; I felt as though every time I opened my mouth I might cry. I would pause and collect myself while the bus cleared and then get off. But when I leaned over to lace up my cleats, the tears would start again.
But the tears dried up on the field. My eyes were clear while I zeroed in on shots. I was so focused that the pain went away. Soccer training was what it had been when I was young: a chance to block out everything bad in my life for the few hours I was on the field.
After I rejoined the team, Greg never said anything to me about my father. He never asked how I was doing. Instead his demeanor toward me seemed hostile. It seemed clear to me that he doubted whether I was emotionally ready for the World Cup; it felt like he was trying to break me, provoking me relentlessly through our training sessions. I tried to ignore him. I worked with Phil, my goalkeeper coach. If Greg thought yelling at me was a good motivational tactic, he clearly knew nothing about me. I’d just lost my father. I didn’t give a shit what Greg Ryan thought about me. But his antipathy for me became so noticeable that my teammates commented on it. “Why is Greg being such an asshole to you?” they asked me.
I’m pretty sure I know why. My theory is that he was a rookie coach heading into his first major tournament. I was a young goalkeeper about to play in my first major tournament. He was probably freaking out about whether I could handle the pressure and my grief. He was likely feeling the pressure that comes with coaching the favored American team, doubting himself and doubting me. Yelling at me every day in practice probably made him feel better.
One day, we had another team-building exercise: we all taped sheets of paper to our backs and then went from teammate to teammate writing what we like about that person. The comments were anonymous. At the end of the exercise, we took off the paper and saw the things our teammates said. My paper was filled with positive messages.
“You are such a force. We believe in you so much.”
“Your communication on and off the field and all the great advice you’ve given me, plus how strong you are.”
“Always striving for more and pushing this team to be its best.”
“Hopers—you are always the one I can talk to. You are one of my best friends.”
“You are courageous. I am confident with you behind me.”
“You are strong and courageous and you have made me a better person.”
“You have pushed me to be better. Just know your dad is always watching.”
III.
I was back in goal for our next game against Norway, on July 14 in Connecticut. Marcus and I had each taken a small container of our father’s ashes, and kept them with us all the time. Marcus took my dad fishing. I carried my dad with me into the locker room. After all, he had always joked that he was helping me out in goal while he watched my games on television. “I’m going to trip those forwards for you,” he would say gleefully.
I needed him to be right beside me, tripping forwards. We shut out Norway, 1–0.
I missed talking to him. He was the one who could comfort me, who could put all the pressure in perspective and make me laugh. He understood sports and knew what to say. Unable to call him as the biggest tournament of my life approached, I started writing to him in a journal.
July 15, 2007
Here I am sitting aboard a flight coming back home to Seattle. Seattle doesn’t feel like home without you there. No longer do I have a place to go to just talk, laugh, cry, eat or nap. This year, Dad—my first World Cup—I dedicate to you. You’re coming to China with me and you’re going to help me tend that goal. It was good to get back on the field after taking three weeks off. We shut out Norway together didn’t we? I’ve never felt so at ease in the net. I didn’t have a care in the world. I want to make your legacy live on.
I want to possess your “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. Greg’s a worm, Dad! A heartless soulless illogical man. Politics, right Dad? Fuck him. Not a word to me my first week back, not one word. In fact, he didn’t even give me a day to get my feet wet again before he felt the need to ride me. . . .
You are so right that any time I feel lonely I can pull a memory out and then lock it back up for the next time I need it. Nobody can take my memories away. You’ve taught me so well, Dad. You have prepared me for life. You have tau
ght me how to fight, how to love deeply, how not to get bullied, how to reach out to others, how not to judge, how to enjoy life, how to be happy no matter where I walk. You have taught me to be me, and you are such a part of me. I will carry your spirit inside me no matter where I go.
I wish I told you how much I loved you Dad. I wish I called you more. I wish I brought you over more. I wish I didn’t act so fucking busy or like it was ever a burden to take you anywhere. I am truly sorry if I ever made you feel that way. There was never a moment I didn’t enjoy with you, never, Dad. I was always so proud of the man you were. We all make mistakes, Dad, but your heart was truly pure. I love you, Dad.
IV.
On my twenty-sixth birthday, Adrian took me to dinner at the restaurant on top of the Space Needle. We looked out over Seattle as the restaurant revolved—east to the Cascades and my past, west toward China and my immediate future. I looked down on the streets where my father had lived for so many years. Eighteen years earlier, he had brought Marcus and me to this same spot, in a gesture of love that crippled our relationship for years.
The only birthday present I opened that day was from my father. When he cleaned out his apartment, Marcus found carefully wrapped and labeled birthday and Christmas presents for both of us. My father had missed so many birthdays and holidays that he was determined to be a good father and make up for lost time. Inside the box was a gold bracelet with Swarovski crystals. For years he joked that he only bought me “sporty” gifts and wanted to make sure I knew that he thought I was a beautiful young lady. And here was a ladylike gift for me.
Everything that happened reminded me of my father. I wanted to tell him about Barry Bonds breaking the career home-run record and my upcoming ESPN interview about him with Julie Foudy. I wanted to share every experience with him.
Aug. 9, 2007
I miss you an incredible amount. It’s like I’m on a mission now. I’ve never felt so focused before. I’m not sure what I’d do if the World Cup wasn’t around the corner, giving me something and somewhere to focus my energy. Once in a while I wonder if you sacrificed for me, Dad. It seems so strange to think. We’ve talked and waited for this day for years—for me to finally be part of a World Cup. Now it’s here, it’s all happening, Dad, and it’s just not fair not to be able to go through it together, to talk about it all, to laugh at the commercials. I can’t find words to explain how strange it all is. Why now, Dad? Why, when I’m finally getting the reward for all the years of sacrifice, of being away, of never finding time to spend with loved ones, it’s tainted. The one single person I want to share all the glory with, as opposed to the years of heartache, is gone. Dad, I don’t understand, unless you wanted to give me a reason to fight, to focus, to not get rattled. God knows, Dad, that I realize the many senseless things in life, and getting nervous in a soccer match seems so petty and very, very senseless.
I love you, Daddy. I hate to tell you but Barry Bonds finally did it. I’m sorry, Dad, but Hank Aaron will always be a hero. He’ll never be caught. Barry, sports are changing and my dad never liked the showboats. I love you, Dad! Who will I go to, to pick out my college basketball brackets? Tomorrow I’ll tell your story, Dad. I will tell it loud and proud and people all around the world will know my dad. Thanks for leaving me a story to tell.
V.
I had worked all my life for this moment, to make my father and the rest of my family proud, to fulfill my destiny. I was ready. I was in the best shape of my life, and I was proving it every day in practice. I felt confident in directing the defense, barking out orders.
Our last game in the States was a 4–0 victory over Finland at the Home Depot Center. We still hadn’t lost a game in regulation since Greg had taken over as coach. We’d played forty-six games under Greg, and I had started thirty-six of them. We were issued gold World Cup uniforms. The message was clear: nothing less than a gold medal was acceptable.
Despite our record and gold shorts, we were leaving for China with little fanfare. Nike’s ad campaign for the World Cup was “The Greatest Team You’ve Never Heard Of,” which was an accurate description. While the American public could still name Mia Hamm and Brandi Chastain, we were strangers. We were still in the shadow of the ’99ers. We were determined to change that—we were going to make our own history. On August 27, we boarded a plane in Los Angeles headed for Shanghai. My heart was heavy but my resolve had never been stronger.
This was my moment. Nothing was going to get in the way.
PHOTOGRAPHS
One of the last times I saw my dad—when we painted my little cabin in the woods.
Marcus, Mom, and me outside Yankee Stadium on our pilgrimage to honor my dad. My dad’s ashes are contained in Marcus’s bracelet, and I am holding his cross.
The first thing I did after we won the gold medal was call Marcus back home in Washington.
During the World Cup, my name launched almost as many marriage
proposals as bad puns. (Sideline Sports Photography, LLC - 2012)
Grandma Alice and Grandpa Pete were my rocks: they traveled the world to cheer me on.
Making a save against Brazil in the 2011 World Cup—the game
felt epic from the start. (Sideline Sports Photography, LLC - 2012)
The first person I found to celebrate the Brazil victory with was Abby—our problems from four years earlier were a distant memory. (Marcio Jose Sanchez/Associated Press)
I wouldn’t have been able to make it through the World Cup without my medical staff; here I’m celebrating with Bruce Snell. (Scott Heavey/Getty Images)
During the penalty shootout against Brazil, I could see my UW coaches Amy Griffin (right) and Lesle Gallimore (left) mouthing words of encouragement. They had supported me since high school, and now I was having a private moment with them in front of millions of people worldwide.
Adrian and I could never stay apart for long.
We share the same sense of adventure and fun—here we are on vacation in Thailand.
Back home in Washington with my dog, Leo, and my nephew, Johnny, who was named for my dad.
I was out of my comfort zone on Dancing with the Stars—my contentious relationship with my partner, Maksim Chmerkovskiy, didn’t help. (Disney/ABC Television Group/Getty)
I’m not afraid of taking risks. (Luis Sanchis)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You Can’t Go by a Gut Feeling”
You’re fucking fine! You’re fine!”
I could hear Kate Markgraf screaming at me. The wet ball had just slipped off my fingertips and over my head, into the net.
A goal. In the very first game of the World Cup. I threw up my hands and shouted in frustration. We were tied 1–1 with North Korea in the second period on a wet slippery field in Chengdu.
“OK, OK,” I told myself. “Come on, Hope.” I was more pissed than rattled. Our opening game wasn’t going well. This was why Greg Ryan had been tense ever since scouting North Korea. Their team was aggressive and skilled and was outplaying us. I was challenged immediately, with a hard shot just twelve seconds into the game. North Korea dominated possession. We were left chasing the ball.
That morning I had written in my journal.
Dad,
Game day, not sure how I feel. A little queasy but been that way for days. Trying to take a nap, but my eyes are twitching and I feel my heart beating against the mattress. I miss you Dad. I need you Dad. Help me live the moment. Dad, I love you so much. Wearing your armband. Got you with me. Picture in locker, bracelet and necklace on, ashes in goal, me and my dad in goal together. Time to show the world what these Solos are made of.
I felt strong and alive and focused in my first major tournament. We played a scoreless first half; I had a breakaway save and came out to stop through balls, cutting off their relentless attack. Soon after halftime, Abby put us on the board, hammering a pass from Kristine Lilly that skipped off the North K
orean goalkeeper’s gloves and into the net. It was glaring evidence of what I already knew: the conditions were rough for goalkeepers. The field was soaked, the ball was heavy and the slippery new commemorative design on the ball’s surface only made it harder to handle.
Minutes after giving us the lead, Abby collided with a North Korean player and fell to the ground, blood gushing from a gash in her head. She went off for stitches as play continued but Greg didn’t replace her. We kept glancing to the sideline to see if a sub was coming on, but continued to play a man down. North Korea—already far too comfortable—was clearly energized by Greg’s decision to let us play shorthanded until Abby could return and stepped up the pressure. The North Koreans passed the ball with ease in front of our goal, eventually sending a pass wide to Kil Son Hui at the top of the penalty box. She lashed the ball toward me. I thought I could catch it. Instead the hard shot slipped through my wet gloves and into the goal. That made it 1–1.
Abby had been out for three minutes, and we were tied and struggling. Yet Greg still continued to let us play shorthanded. The message he was sending was pretty clear: Without Abby we’re doomed. Our subs are no good.