by Hope Solo
Lil spoke on and on about the team, the team, the team, missing the irony in her words. If we were such a team, why weren’t my teammates willing to pick me up? I made a mistake, and I apologized. Why couldn’t they reach out a hand and say, “We’re pissed at you. You fucked up. We think you’re a terrible person. But you’re still our teammate.”
Only Carli had reached out to me. My other longtime friends were treating me as though I was dead.
At least I had my family. They came to visit me at the hotel where our team was celebrating Pearcie’s daughter Rylie’s second birthday. I was sitting with my family in the bar outside the restaurant and we could hear everyone singing “Happy Birthday.” We weren’t invited in, but Grandma Alice went in to get a piece of cake and wish Rylie a happy birthday. She wasn’t going to let them dictate how she would act. She was going to practice what she preached and still be my sweet grandma.
At some point—I can’t remember when—I called Julie Foudy, who was in China doing commentary on the games. I told Julie I was sorry. It seemed like a strange thing to do, another staged act. I would have liked a real conversation with Julie, but that didn’t seem possible.
On the day of the final World Cup games, I went for breakfast at the family hotel. In the lobby, I ran into Sunil Gulati, president of U.S. Soccer. He asked me to come up to his room to chat.
My heart sank. Sunil was the head of the federation. Was I going to be kicked off the team? Was I in for another lecture?
No, Sunil was friendly. He introduced me to his wife, Marcela. He didn’t scold me. He just wanted to check how I was doing.
I told him I was okay, but eager to get home.
“You know,” Sunil said, “if this had happened on a men’s team, I think it would be quite a different situation.” He pretended to throw a punch, implying that’s how men would deal with it. “If you need anything, let me know,” he said with a friendly smile.
The head of U.S. Soccer wasn’t ostracizing me. That was one small bit of good news.
During the matches, I was confined to my hotel. My mother and Adrian stayed with me. “If my daughter’s not allowed to be there, I won’t be there either,” my mom said. But the rest of my supporters went. My grandma wore her big billboard pin that she could program to flash different names. It usually flashed HOPE NO. 18, but now she made it read BRI NO. 1. My family wanted to show their support for Bri, to make it clear that what I said wasn’t directed at Bri.
Back at the hotel, Adrian and Mom and I watched the games on a tiny television, listening to the commentary in Chinese. My teammates easily beat Norway and then celebrated as though they had won the World Cup. Abby scored two goals and ran to the bench for team high-fives, which looked to me like a staged moment to prove that all twenty were a team. When Lilly came out in the eighty-ninth minute, there was a big show of giving Bri the captain’s armband. It all seemed like an act for the cameras; it was the sentimental send-off party they’d been planning all along.
In the final, Germany shut down Marta and easily handled Brazil.
The next morning, my team packed up and left China while I sat in my room. My family left while I stayed alone in the hotel for hours, waiting for my late-night flight. The hotel staff came around to say good-bye and were very kind. When I left for the airport, it was the first time I had been out of either the team or family hotel since arriving in Shanghai, almost ninety-six hours earlier. I had been isolated and had no idea what anyone thought about what had happened.
When I got in line to check in, I saw that I was on a flight with many U.S. team supporters and friends and boyfriends. I wanted to hide from them. But I couldn’t. “I can’t believe what happened to you,” one man said. “I don’t know how Ryan could bench one of the best goalkeepers in the world.”
I was surprised. “Thank you,” I said.
“Hang in there, Hope,” another stranger said. “It’s such a shame.”
“We’re rooting for you,” his wife said.
I boarded the plane, sank into my seat, and left China behind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Don’t Let the Devil Steal Your Joy”
Hotter.
Hotter.
Hotter.
The plumes of steam billowed up, softening the periphery of my vision. The water scalded my foot as I stepped into the tub, but I slipped under the surface, my body burning, and drifted away.
Too hot!
I woke up sweating. I climbed out of the tub, wrapped myself in a towel and curled on the floor in a fetal position, where I fell back asleep.
Too cold!
I was shivering. I turned on the hot water tap of the bathtub, as hot as I could make it. I stepped back into the tub and sunk down again into the steaming water. Everything ached. It hurt to stand. To lie in my bed. The only comfort came in the bathtub or on the tile floor. I went from one to the other and back again, alternating between temperature extremes, trying to purge the pain from my body.
I had been home for days, isolated in my little cabin in Kirkland. I barely ate. In the bathtub, I could see my hipbones jutting up beneath my skin. I ignored my ringing phone. I didn’t want to turn on my computer. The one person I wanted to talk to was gone. My father was dead, and his absence—uncoupled now from the pressure of the World Cup—overwhelmed me. I was paralyzed in a black hole of loss: Dad, Liz, the World Cup, my dreams, three years of striving toward a single goal, a lifetime of sport. I couldn’t contemplate what was next. I couldn’t envision playing soccer again. I couldn’t move any farther than the bathtub. The only sensation that registered was heat.
I lay in the hot water and thought about my grandmother and her deep abiding faith and her capacity for forgiveness. I remembered the words she had said to me over the years: snippets of scripture, Christian sayings, encouraging phrases. She often spoke of forgiveness. Of having compassion for one’s enemies. Of self-belief and remaining steadfast in your convictions. She said anger and hate were poison to the soul: “Don’t let the devil steal your joy.”
I hadn’t always paid much attention, but her words had apparently soaked into my pores.
I thought of my mother’s ability to forgive, how she smuggled cookies and cocoa to my father and painted my house with him and celebrated his life with Marcus and me, putting aside all the pain and hurt he had caused her.
I thought of how far down my father had been and how resilient he had been, not only to survive on the streets but to finally find joy in his life. I thought of how much he had ached, how he had hobbled in the woods on two canes with a smile despite the crippling blows he’d taken. Always with a word of love for my siblings and me. He was a fighter.
I stood up and got out of the tub. As I turned to leave the bathroom I saw Second Corinthians 4:9 on my back in the mirror.
Persecuted but not forsaken. Cast down but not destroyed.
II.
My phone kept ringing. All day, every day. Finally I answered it. It was my agent, Rich. He wanted me to join a conference call with the U.S. Soccer bosses, Sunil Gulati and Dan Flynn. And Greg Ryan.
The team had a “celebration tour” beginning on October 13 in St. Louis—just days away. It was supposed to be a victory tour, but we hadn’t won anything. Still, there were three games scheduled against Mexico in three different cities. “Rich, I don’t want to get on the call. I don’t want to go on this fucking tour,” I said. “I don’t have the strength or energy. I don’t want to go through all of this again.”
Rich calmly said that was fine. He said he’d support me, no matter what I decided. But he also told me I should get on the call and tell Sunil and Dan. This was about my career.
I was beginning to understand that what happened at the World Cup had been huge news on sports networks and talk radio, unheard of for women’s soccer, especially during football season. I was learning that many thought Greg’s crazy
decision and the team’s behavior were far worse than my outburst. The ostracizing of Hope Solo was discussed nationwide, on TV sports shows and late night comedy shows. It was apparent that damage control was needed.
The Monday before the tour was scheduled to start, I sat on my couch with the phone against my ear, on a conference call with Sunil and Dan and Greg. Greg talked about how important it was for me to show real contrition. He pointed out that Marion Jones had just—that day—given back her Olympic medals out of shame for doping. He suggested that I give back my tour money and my bronze medal if I wanted to show true remorse. He said that I wouldn’t be on the national team without him, that he had given me my opportunity.
“Greg, I’ve been in this program since 1999,” I said. “I’ve been the starting goalkeeper on every age-level team for this country. You are not the one who opened doors for me. I’ve been with the national team longer than you’ve been here, and I’ll remain on it longer than you do. I don’t owe my starting spot to you: I earned it.”
I felt the fire reignite inside of me. I wasn’t going to let Greg Ryan control my career.
I wanted to be on the tour. “I’m going to be part of the celebration,” I added. “Contractually it’s my right to be there.”
Greg told me that the team didn’t want me there.
“Well, it’s not up to the team anymore,” I said. “I’m going to be there. I’m going to put myself through hell by being there, but I need to start this process.”
I looked at a picture of Grandma Alice and Grandpa Pete on my refrigerator. “Refuse to remain offended,” Grandma had once told me, quoting Galatians. “We shall reap if we do not lose heart.”
“The sooner we get started, the sooner we can start healing,” I said. Greg paused. He said he needed to discuss how to handle me with the team and then got off. Sunil and Dan remained on the line. Dan praised me for expressing myself clearly and being respectful. He told me to hang in there.
But truly, I still felt like giving up. Quitting the sport to which I had devoted my life. I couldn’t imagine putting on the U.S. uniform and feeling proud, training alongside those women.
The tour began in a few days. A sympathetic teammate called me. She had been on a conference call with the team and the players’ lawyer. “Hope, they’re trying to take your money away,” she said. “The don’t want to pay you for the tour.”
Carli’s trainer, James Galanis, called me. I didn’t know him well, but I saw that he had shaped her into a fighter. I respected him. And I knew I needed help. So I listened. “Get in the car, Hope,” he said. “Drive to the field.”
It was that basic. I needed someone to tell me what to do, how to restart my life, bring me back.
I started to pack for St. Louis.
III.
I flew to St. Louis on Thursday, October 12, two days before the game with Mexico. I flew through Chicago, where I sat at my gate, waiting for my connecting flight, filled with dread.
“Are you Hope Solo?”
I looked up and saw a man with a neatly trimmed goatee looking down at me. I nodded. “I’m Jeff Cooper,” he said. “I’m the owner of the St. Louis WPS team.”
I knew that the Women’s Professional Soccer league was scheduled to start in the spring of 2009, a few months after the Beijing Olympics. Jeff was excited and full of energy and big ideas. He was also sympathetic about my situation. “Stand up for yourself, Hope,” he told me as we boarded our flight. “Let me know if I can do anything for you.”
The “Celebration Tour” roster had already been released, and my name was on it. Rich assured me that he had spoken several times with Dan Flynn, and there was a clear understanding of what would happen. We were going to move forward, put the World Cup behind us, point toward the 2008 Olympics. Dan—who lived in St. Louis—had canceled a trip to Switzerland to watch the men’s national team play in order to stick close to home and monitor what happened with me.
By the time I reached the team hotel, it was late on Thursday night. I touched base with our general manager, Cheryl Bailey. She told me there would be a team meeting in the morning and gave me some words of advice. “One smile at a time,” she said. “One hello at a time. You put your hand out and even if no one takes it, you keep on trying.”
I checked into my room. I was rooming with Tina, who had volunteered to stay with me. I couldn’t help but remember that she had never spoken up for me in China. But I could tell she wanted to make things better between us. “Hope,” she said. “Guess what? I’m pregnant.”
Tina and Brad had gotten married about a year earlier. I was so proud of how they had made it through the challenges of being teen parents and now they were adding to their family. That was her gift to me, her olive branch—I was one of the first people that she shared her news with. I hugged her.
The next morning Tina and Cat insisted I pray with them. We clasped hands and said a prayer of forgiveness. It felt phony. I went downstairs to a conference room. The chairs were arranged in a circle and my teammates were already seated. There was an open chair next to Carli. I sat down. I was so nervous that I was shaking. I didn’t want to see any of these women—all I could think of was the hell I had gone through in Shanghai. I wanted to be back in my bathtub. Carli reached over and patted me on the leg. Everyone saw her do it.
Greg spoke first. He said that he knew it took courage for me to be here.
Well, I thought, that’s a good start. But the start was also the end of “good.” No more sympathy. Greg recited a laundry list of my transgressions: he said the goal in North Korea was one of the worst mistakes he had ever seen in a World Cup, yet he had stood by me. He accused me of breaking team policies by staying out too late the night before the England game. “I don’t know how you could do this to your team,” he said. “It takes a certain type of person to be able to do what you did. Something serious must have happened to you in your childhood.”
His words lashed at me. Damn right something happened when I was a kid, I thought. I learned how to fight for myself.
I stared at him. Where was the part where we talked a bout moving forward and winning the Olympics in 2008? I fought my instinct to flee the room.
Greg said we couldn’t move forward until everyone had expressed their feelings. So then the onslaught began.
Lil, the captain, started. She accused me of throwing the team under the bus. The accusations rushed in.
“We don’t think you should be here. We think you should go home.”
“You’re a bad friend.”
Each person who spoke stood up, as though we were in some sort of twelve-step meeting. “You’re a terrible teammate.”
“You threw us all under the bus.”
“You just kept using your dad’s death for sympathy.”
That last jab was from Cat, my good friend. That hurt more than anything anyone else said. So much for forgiveness.
When it looked like they were done, I started to speak. “I . . .”
“Are you even sorry? You’ve never once been sincere.”
“I can’t stand this,” Carli said under her breath and left the room. I put my head down as I was accused of planning my statement to the press. While it was true that I had told the back of the bus group that I had no problem commenting on Greg’s decision if asked, it sounded as though I had concocted an elaborate plan for speaking to the press.
My close friends on the team remained silent, but had cold looks in their eyes. Tina looked miserable but didn’t say anything.
I started rocking back and forth in my chair as the players went around the circle. I fought back tears. Carli came back in the room and sat back down beside me. “Stay strong, Hope,” she whispered to me, and patted my leg. “Stay strong.”
One of Greg’s assistant coaches, Brett Hall, who had coached with Greg for years, finally spoke up. “Look, we all make mistakes
,” he said. “You have to pick that person up and move on as a team. You can’t continue to make it worse; you want to forgive and move on.”
His words hung heavily in the air. Greg shot him an angry look.
Finally, the meeting was adjourned. The message was clear: my teammates wished I had never shown up, and now they wanted me to go home, to make them look and feel better. Somewhere in the past few weeks, it must have registered with them that the image of the U.S. women’s team had taken an enormous hit. The once beloved team was being called Mean Girls, its tactics likened to sorority hazing. Now everyone was in damage control but no one wanted to take any responsibility—for the disaster in China or for their behavior. But if I took the fall and left, they could go on pretending to be best friends and great teammates who would all have two fillings for each other.
The meeting had gone on so long that the team was late for training. Apparently heaping abuse on me was more important than game preparation. I stayed behind at the hotel and took notes on what had happened, something James Galanis had suggested I do for self-preservation.
Greg told reporters that he had “excused” my absence that day, as though it had been my choice to skip the workout.
At three p.m. I met with our general manager Cheryl Bailey and Dan Flynn. Dan was not happy when he learned what had happened. He told me to stay strong and not go home. He gave me a pep talk, saying I was the future of the team and that I was going to prove everyone wrong and be the best goalkeeper in the game. He told me to stay patient.
I had been in the hotel all day. It felt like prison, just like that hotel in Shanghai. Cheryl said she was worried about my health—she thought I looked as though I’d lost weight since China. She was right—I had lost ten pounds and looked diminished. She insisted that we walk down to T.G.I. Friday’s for dinner. I ordered French onion soup and raspberry lemonade; Cheryl urged me to also have ice cream for dessert. It felt good to be out of the hotel, walking on the street, getting smiles and eye-contact from friendly Midwesterners.