by Hope Solo
I gathered my composure but was still under tremendous pressure. The North Korean players played kickball with each other while our team struggled for possession. After Carli was called for a foul, North Korea sent a free kick wide of the goal and then passed the ball among six different players. A shot heading toward the right post was deflected by Shannon Boxx directly in front of me; I was moving right, then tracked left with the deflection. But Kim Yong Ae pounced on the ball and shot it over my outstretched right hand.
Another goal. We were down 2–1. We had never lost a game in group play in World Cup history. I could see the alarm in my teammates’ eyes. Greg seemed paralyzed on the sideline, doing nothing to stop North Korea’s momentum. Finally, after ten long minutes and two North Korean goals, Abby came sprinting out on the field with eleven stitches in her head. Back at full strength, we calmed down. In the sixty-ninth minute, Heather O’Reilly buried a shot in the upper right corner of the net. We were even, 2–2, but North Korea continued to push forward. In stoppage time, they thought they had the winner on a hard shot, but I fully extended to my right to push the ball out of danger. Just seconds later, another North Korean player took a long shot directly at goal that I dove at and smothered. I was keeping us alive. Finally the whistle blew. We finished with a draw and a critical point in the group standings.
I wasn’t happy about the goals—particularly the first one that had slipped off my gloves—but I was still proud. I had made a fistful of spectacular saves that kept our team in the game. I learned a rough lesson about trying to catch a slippery ball, a mistake I wouldn’t make again. We came away with a point on a day when no one—not me, our field players, our coach—was at their best. Coming up big in the final seconds of the game only bolstered my confidence.
After the whistle, Greg came up to me on the field. He had a huge grin on his face. “Thank you for those saves,” he said, giving me a hug. Then he pointed to the sky. “Somebody’s watching out over you from up there,” he said.
I stiffened. It was the first time since I’d returned from my father’s memorial service—almost three months earlier—that Greg had openly acknowledged my loss. In those final weeks of training in the United States, he had never reached out to me or asked me how I was doing. But now that I had come up big in a World Cup game, he was going to use my dad as a motivating factor? That offended me. But I didn’t say anything. I just let him hug me while I seethed.
II.
The ashes were in a small container the size of my thumb that I placed in my locker before every game. Though I normally wouldn’t wear my goalkeeper gloves out to the field, I did in China. I placed a tiny bit of ash in my left glove in the locker room. Out on the field, I put my right hand over my heart for the national anthem and held my left glove carefully by my side. When I walked into the goal, I made the sign of the cross, kissed my closed fist, then opened my glove and let the ashes drop, saying a little prayer to myself. I had meant what I had said at his memorial: my dad would always be in goal with me.
After the North Korea game, we stayed in gray Chengdu—a city famous for its lack of sunshine—for another few days to play Sweden, the third-ranked team in the world.
Sept 14, 2007
Game Two—so nervous, Dad. Please be with me. Help me know that I have nothing to prove after last game. Help me to live in the moment. Right through the fingers, Dad, but I played so well. I just want to play relaxed, play in the moment, enjoy every minute. Let’s have fun, Dad.
Our game against Sweden was a much better outing for our team, with none of the tension and dramatics of the North Korea game. Abby scored twice, the first goal coming on a penalty kick, and our defense played much better. I saw my old friend Lotta Schelin—the rising star of the Swedish team—but she couldn’t beat me. I had my first World Cup victory and shutout. I whispered a word of thanks to my dad.
We left Chengdu and headed to Shanghai, getting into the city just days before Typhoon Wipha. We played Nigeria—with the chance to win our group—in a steady downpour. Lori Chalupny scored just fifty-three seconds into the match, and Nigeria was on its heels the rest of the day. Still, late in the game, I was forced to make some saves to preserve the victory, another shutout.
Despite our difficult draw, we had won our group and were now in the quarterfinals against England. The game was in Tianjin, in northern China, a long trek from Shanghai. All our family members made the journey. The night before the game, I went over to the family hotel. My big support group had arrived in time for the Nigeria game: my mother; Marcus and his fiancée, Debbie; Aunt Susie; Grandma Alice and Grandpa Pete; Adrian; and Cheryl’s parents, Mary and Dick. At the games, they wore black armbands to honor my father. It was comforting for me to be with my family. They were the only ones who really knew how much I missed my father and how badly I was hurting. I was painfully aware of all the time I had missed with him, rushing from one place to another, moments I could never get back. I wasn’t going to make that same mistake with the rest of my family. And we all had something to celebrate in China: Marcus and Debbie had just found out they were going to have a baby, conceived just weeks after my father’s death.
The night before the quarterfinal, I played cribbage with my grandparents and Adrian. Marcus and I talked about my dad. My mom—always the avid photographer—showed us all the pictures she had taken. It was very low-key. I got back to my room and puttered around before going to bed. As usual, I was one of the last ones to bed, battling my recurring insomnia.
Sept. 22, 2007
Hey dad. Why is today so hard? I’m scared today. Marcus is scared. I’m glad we could be together even just for a little bit—he’s very emotional. Wants us to go all the way for you. Be there beside me in that lonesome goal. We play together in this quarterfinal match against England. But I play for you, for everything that you taught me. Family first, right Dad?
England’s team hadn’t had much success at the senior level—this was the first time we had faced them in a World Cup match—but they were touted as an up-and-coming team. I considered Kelly Smith, whom I’d played with in Philadelphia, one of the top players in the world. We had a tense, scoreless first half—but our defense was strong. And then, in a ten-minute span in the second half, we scored three quick goals to put the game out of reach.
After the game, our celebration was subdued, tempered by our ambitions. We were almost to our ultimate goal. We were in the World Cup semifinals, as far as the 2003 team had advanced, but we wanted more. Our shaky start against North Korea appeared to have been a fluke. We had shown some nerves and inexperience against a good team but had rallied from adversity. I still didn’t think we were playing like the world’s number-one-ranked team. It was too much boot ball without a lot of creativity in our attack. But we hadn’t lost in regulation in fifty games. We would face Brazil, a team that had appeared disorganized and unprepared in New York just three months earlier. I had three consecutive World Cup shutouts. I was on top of my game. I was ready.
III.
On Tuesday night, two days before the semifinal, we were eating dinner at the team hotel in Hangzhou. One of my first national team starts had come in Hangzhou in January of 2001, when I had learned my father was accused of murder. That seemed so long ago. The thought of that false accusation made me ache for my father’s needless suffering. I wished so much that he could watch the upcoming semifinal . . . and trip Brazil’s incredible player Marta for me.
Phil, my goalkeeper coach, came up behind me as I was eating and tapped me on the shoulder. “Hope,” he said, bending down to speak in my ear. “Greg wants to see you in his room when dinner is over.”
I stared at him. The balloon of confidence inside of me collapsed. “Why?” I asked.
Phil just looked at me and then walked away.
I pushed away my food, suddenly afraid I might get sick. I knew what was about to happen. Maybe I’d been expecting it for two years.
<
br /> As I left the dining room, I saw Greg walk in to eat. He would be there awhile, so I went up to my room and called Adrian. When I tried to speak, the tears came instead. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I finally said.
“You’re fine, Hope,” Adrian said. “Keep it together. You have to talk to him.”
While I listened to Adrian, I started to breathe deeply to calm myself down. Adrian was right; I didn’t want to be a wreck when I spoke to Greg. I hung up and my phone rang immediately. It was Phil, asking where I was.
“I’ll be right down,” I said.
I took the elevator to Greg’s floor. When I entered his room, he was sitting in a chair playing his guitar and singing to himself. “Hey, Hope, do you know this song?” He smiled and strummed.
Seriously? He was about to tell me the most devastating thing I’d experienced in my soccer career and he wanted to chat about Pink Floyd? I just looked at him. Don’t fuck with me, Greg, I thought as I sat down on the adjacent couch. I’m sure my face gave away my thoughts. When he saw my expression, Greg became a tough guy, the same asshole who had yelled at me all summer.
“Why are you late? I told you to be here at seven.”
I looked at Phil, who was sitting at the other end of the couch I was perched on. “Actually, I was told to come after dinner,” I said.
I put my hands on my knees and looked down at them, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Greg, sitting to my left, leaned forward and stuck his finger in my face. “You fucking look at me when I’m talking to you,” he snapped. “I’m tired of you disrespecting me. You show up late and now you don’t even make eye contact with me.”
I was shocked. I knew this was going to be bad, but the fury in his voice stunned me. OK, I thought to myself, you want me to look at you, asshole? I looked down again, gathered myself and slowly turned my head to stare at him, never breaking eye contact as he derailed my career.
I wasn’t ready for a major tournament, Greg said. He’d suspected it all along. And he could tell that in the first game when the ball went off my hands. He should have benched me after that soft goal. Bri had a winning record against Brazil, Greg said. She matched up better with Brazil’s style. She singlehandedly won the gold medal in the 2004 Olympics against Brazil. And she had just played Brazil in New York.
I watched his mouth move. I heard the words coming out of it. I could see how they’d be printed in the newspapers, replayed on ESPN, crafted into headlines and sound bites. Briana Scurry, one of the heroes of the 1999 World Cup, wins back her spot in goal.
I was numb. Greg was waiting for a response. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of weeping or raging. I worked hard to channel my fury into clear, precise words. “Greg, I have to respect your decision because you’re my coach,” I said. “But I disagree with you. It doesn’t matter what Bri did three years ago. She hasn’t played a game for more than three months, she hasn’t been your number one for three years, and I’m playing the best I’ve ever played. I will never agree with your decision. And if anyone asks me, I will tell them that this is the wrong decision.”
Greg smiled. He was back to being the cool guy. “That’s why I love you, Hope,” he said. “I expect my athletes to want to be on the field. To be angry if they don’t play. I’ve given you four World Cup games. I’ve gotten you this far.”
“I’ve gotten myself this far,” I snapped. “Plenty of people—well before you came along—have believed in me along the way.”
Greg wasn’t finished. He told me that Lil and Abby had lobbied for Bri to get the start. “I agree with the captains,” he said. “It’s a gut feeling.”
There had been a meeting behind my back? A decision based on whom they liked better? I looked at Greg and shook my head with disgust. He was a weak leader. He was ditching responsibility. Greg didn’t have the balls to stand up for his decisions. He was passing the buck to the players.
“You can’t go by a gut feeling, Greg,” I said. “I’ve been your starting goalkeeper for three years. And now, in the biggest game of the tournament, you’re pulling me because your gut tells you to?”
Greg didn’t seem to like my tone. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t folding. I wasn’t making it easy. Instead, I was fighting back with words and logic, keeping my emotions tacked down. So he tried to provoke me, just as he had on the field all summer. He criticized my training session, saying Bri had been much sharper.
He could make up whatever reasons he wanted, but he couldn’t attack my work ethic. He had told all the starters to take it easy in practice after the England game. We’d had four draining games in eleven days in the muggy monsoons of China. We had been specifically told to rest our bodies. I wasn’t the only one holding back. Bri, on the other hand, hadn’t played in three months—of course she was going all out.
I LOOKED OVER at Phil. I didn’t know what to say. Logic was out the window. Greg was all over the place, his reasons for benching me shifting every time he opened his mouth. There was clearly no use arguing. He was panicking. And I was paying the price.
We were both silent. I had nothing left to say so I stood up to leave. Greg leaned over and pushed me back down on the couch. Hard. “You fucking leave when I say you can leave,” he said.
I was stunned that he had touched me. I wanted to lash back, to hit him harder than I had hit Marcus or punched the cheerleader at the carnival or anyone else in my life. For a split second I really thought I would—I felt my hand move forward. But I wasn’t going to let him provoke me. I restrained myself and glanced over at Phil, glad to have a witness. “Are we done?” I said icily.
I went back to my room shaking with anger.
For our short stay in Hangzhou, I was rooming with another goalkeeper, Nicole Barnhart, which was awkward. Usually goalkeepers don’t room with each other. I preferred not to share my space with someone competing for my spot. I didn’t want to confide in Barnie but she was in the room when I called Marcus. All the feelings I’d held in for the past half an hour came tumbling out. I cried and railed against Greg. I didn’t make any attempt to hide my emotions.
Marcus was hurt too, but he told me that he loved me and how proud he was of me. That gave me strength. There was still something I needed to do.
III.
I walked out of my room and down the hallway to find Kristine Lilly. Lil was playing in her fifth World Cup. She was the last of the veterans from the first World Cup in 1991. We had never been close, but I respected her ability. But I wasn’t intimidated by her résumé. She needed to hear me out.
“Lil, I’ve been your starting goalkeeper for three years,” I said. “How can you decide—in the semifinals of the World Cup—that you want another goalkeeper?”
Lil looked shocked by my question, as though she never expected Greg to reveal their private conversation. She certainly didn’t seem prepared for a confrontation. She stammered and told me she didn’t think it mattered who was in goal.
“Lil, you’re our captain,” I said. “It should matter to you who’s in goal. You should have an opinion. But if you don’t, if you don’t think it even matters at all, how can you go and lobby for Bri?”
When I said that, I thought I saw a flutter of doubt cross her eyes. Had she made a mistake? “I’m your starting goalkeeper for a reason,” I went on. “Because I beat out the others. You should want the best players on the field. It’s so arrogant to say that it doesn’t matter who’s in goal.” I wasn’t yelling. I was calm. “I’ve lost every ounce of respect I’ve had for you,” I said.
I walked away. I went farther down the hall to find Abby and I told her exactly what I had told Lil. I felt even more betrayed by Abby—she and I were in the same generation of players.
“How could you turn your back on me?” I said.
At least Abby had an answer. “Hope, I think Bri is the better goalkeeper.”
That shut me up. I didn�
�t think it was true, and I didn’t think Abby knew much about goalkeeping. But at least she had an opinion. At least she owned up to her part in the matter. I had to respect that.
I went back to my room and lay on the bed and called my mother. “I’m not playing against Brazil, Mom,” I said, crying.
“Liar,” my mother said with a laugh.
I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t having a bad dream. I rolled over and wept.
V.
The next day, we practiced at the stadium. I was dying inside, but I held my head high. There wasn’t a huge American media contingent in China—it was an expensive trip, and most outlets were saving their funds to cover the Beijing Olympics the following year. But the reporters who were there got word of the goalkeeping change, and the topic dominated post-practice interviews. Greg rationalized his decision to the press by saying that he liked Bri’s form in training and her history against Brazil. When asked if my confidence was shaken, Greg said that wasn’t his concern, that the team was there to win the World Cup.
Lil stuck to her theory that such a monumental change didn’t much matter. “It’s not a huge deal from our team’s perspective,” she told reporters.
THE ESPN REPORTERS tracked me down. “I’m not happy with it, not one bit,” I said. “But it is the coach’s decision and I have to deal with it. And I have to be there for my team. They’re going to need me. They’re going to need all twenty-one players.”
Sept. 27, 2007
Best in the world, Dad? I’m not so sure the world will see that. Can you believe this—semifinal game and I’ll be on the bench. I need you there with me too, Dad. He’s a coward like we always thought. What’s going to happen, Dad? Has my career ended with the game against England? Dad, it’s tough. My fight has been crushed. Please help me and Marcus get through this, Dad. I still play for you. With all my love—Baby Hope