by Hope Solo
Back at the hotel, it was time for another meeting, this time with Lil and Cheryl. Lil insisted that I have a flight booked to go home if it came to that. “Is having Hope leave what’s best for the image of the team?” Cheryl asked. “What can Hope do to help the team?”
Lil thought. Her solution? She suggested I carry the team equipment at practice.
I wanted to laugh but it wasn’t funny. Did they want me to polish their boots too?
They decided I would sit on the bench in street clothes and that I wouldn’t be on the field for the national anthem. By now it was late. I had a flight booked at 6:20 in the morning, but Cheryl told me not to take it. She said I needed to meet with Greg again in the morning before anything was decided.
I was on autopilot, dead inside, pushed from one meeting to the next.
On Saturday morning, I met with Greg. I had a sense he had been told by U.S. Soccer that he couldn’t send me home. But he seemed determined to make me miserable, telling me that the team didn’t want me on their bench.
“Well, I want to be here,” I said. “I’m going to sit on the bench.”
We had another team meeting, and the parameters of my punishment were laid out. I wasn’t allowed to suit up. I wasn’t allowed to be on the field for the national anthem. I wasn’t allowed to eat with the team. I certainly wasn’t allowed to interact with fans or sign autographs. One more condition: I had to offer a formal apology. This time, in writing.
Aaron Heifetz, our press officer, met with me—he had written a draft and wanted me to rubber-stamp his words. I was appalled by some of the language in the draft. Heifetz said that I wasn’t suiting up, “because I need to earn the right to wear the national team uniform.” He wrote, “What I did violates what this team is about and that is a reflection on me and me alone,” and “My teammates have acted professionally and appropriately through this and they do not deserve what I have brought on this team.”
“I’m not approving this,” I said and pulled out my phone to call Rich. But it was Saturday morning in California and he was at his kids’ soccer games. I called Lesle—who wrote her own version of an apology and e-mailed it to me. But there wasn’t time, Heifetz insisted, for long edits. This had to be released before game time. He was furious when I took out my pen and started crossing out phrases. He seemed as angry as one of the players. I thought he might burst into tears.
I headed into another meeting with Greg and Cheryl to go over the logistics of my involvement. I didn’t realize banishment required so much strategic planning. I was to sit in the front of the bus next to Cheryl. I was not allowed in the team locker room or the team huddle. During team warm-ups, I was to remain on the sideline, away from the team. I was not allowed into team meals. I was going to be moved out of Tina’s room right away, back to isolation.
A few hours before the game in St. Louis, the official apology was released:
I would like to apologize to my teammates, coaches and everyone else adversely affected by my comments at the Women’s World Cup. This public apology comes later than it should have, but I hope that does not diminish the fact that I am truly sorry. I made a mistake and I take full responsibility for my actions. I let my teammates down and have lost their trust.
I would like to especially apologize to Greg Ryan and Briana Scurry. There is no excuse for insulting a coach or a teammate. My focus now is solely on reconciliation with the team. I am here to support the team for these games, but after apologizing in person to all my teammates and the coaches, I have made the choice not to suit up for these games since I believe this is the first step in the healing process.
As I work to regain the team’s trust, I will not be making any more public comments at this time. The healing process has started, but I understand that I have a lot of work to do with my teammates and that is my focus moving forward.
It wasn’t long before I got an e-mail from my Aunt Susie. “Did you really make that statement,” she wrote, “or is someone putting words in your mouth?”
V.
While the team warmed up for its first game, I stood on the field awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Our general manager Cheryl talked to me. So did our assistant coach Brett. I was wearing jeans and tennis shoes, which seemed weird. I waited inside the tunnel while the anthems were played and the teams shook hands. After the pregame ceremony was finished, I walked back into the stadium, and cheers went up around me. Some fans shouted jeers at Greg Ryan. Signs were held aloft in the stands: FREE HOPE SOLO and HOPE APOLOGIZED, THE TEAM OSTRACIZED. I heard some people chanting my name. The plan to make me invisible had backfired.
As I sat on the bench, Carli was the only player who would sit near me. Another strategic move planned out in a meeting: Who is the one player who doesn’t hate Hope? Though the public was being told that our team had reconciled and was moving forward, no one spoke a word in my direction. When my teammates came off the field, I reached out—as everyone on the bench does—to give high-fives. A few of my teammates touched my hand, but most avoided me.
This meaningless friendly match attracted an inordinate amount of attention. That night, the Rockies and the Diamondbacks played extra innings in a National League Championship Series. As the managers ran out of bench players, one of the announcers quipped, “Looks like the only person who hasn’t played tonight is Hope Solo.”
After the game, the team signed autographs, but I was hurried onto the bus, where I sat, as planned, in the front next to Cheryl. As my teammates filed on, they avoided looking at me. Except for Christie Rampone, who paused at my seat and said, “How you doing?”
“OK, Pearcie,” I said, my eyes starting to well. Her tiny bit of kindness almost burst me open.
Back at the team hotel, everyone exited the bus and headed to the elevator. I walked onto an elevator that was already carrying several of my teammates. After I stepped through the doors, my teammates got off. “I’m not getting on with her,” one player said loudly.
As the elevator doors closed, I burst out laughing. On my ride up to my room, a dam between pain and humor broke. This had become ludicrous.
The next morning, the absurdity continued. At the airport, I went through security by myself. I sat by myself on the flight to Portland. My adult teammates were acting as though I were radioactive, but I took Cheryl’s advice to heart: one interaction at a time.
“Hi, Chups,” I said, when Lori Chalupny walked by me at training.
“Hey, Tarp,” I said as I passed Lindsay Tarpley.
I made eye contact. I smiled. And sometimes I got eye contact back. I started keeping score. Eye contact! Yay, one victory for me!
When we got to Portland, the Nike athletes were invited to go to the Niketown store for a shopping spree. They sent a Suburban for us. When I got in the car, other players got out, preferring to skip the trip than ride with me. But I wasn’t missing a chance to interact with my friends at Nike. I was worried about my livelihood, but they were supportive. Stacey Chapman, one of the company’s top marketing executives, hugged me when she saw me. She had been in China and witnessed how I had been treated, reporting back to Lesle how horrible the situation was. “Fake it ’til you make it,” she said. “Keep smiling.”
I also met with Joe Elsmore, the head of Nike’s soccer marketing branch. He told me that he had pulled a planned advertising campaign that had emphasized the importance of team. Joe told me he couldn’t approve such a campaign, in light of what was happening. So now I had another soccer power broker voicing support for me.
One night I went to dinner with goalkeeper coach Phil Wheddon, the first time we had talked since China. The disconnect with Phil was particularly painful because I had been so close to him. We drank a bottle of wine: it was the first time I had had any alcohol since April. He told me I was the best goalkeeper in the tournament. I probably would have won the award.
God, that hurt. One of my dreams wa
s to be considered the “best goalkeeper in the world.” I had worked so hard for that and it stung to know that it had been within my grasp. Phil seemed sympathetic. He was the only one who knew what had happened between me and Greg. I wanted to hear more words of support from Phil, but I could tell he was worried about his job. I understood—it was his livelihood. Greg was his boss and was acting increasingly nasty toward him. In St. Louis I overheard Greg demand that Phil get out of his sight, and sarcastically suggest that he “go hang out with your buddy Hope” at the end of the bench. Once beside me, Phil had motioned for our massage therapist to come and sit between us. Even my longtime coach was distancing himself from me.
In Portland, there was team business to take care of: the new league was preparing to launch soon, and all of the national team players would be allocated to different WPS clubs. Though it was more than a year away, we were supposed to turn in our top three preferences. There was a meeting with the team lawyer to go over everything.
I wasn’t allowed into the meeting, so Abby came up to me. She told me she needed my top three picks. It was the first time she had talked to me outside of a team meeting since China. I had zero trust that they would honor my preferences, no confidence that the team lawyer—who I was convinced was beholden to the veterans—would keep my business private. “Abby, you’re not allowing me into the meeting, but you expect me to turn in my picks to you?” I said. “I’ll give them to my agent.”
I e-mailed Rich my preferences: 1. St. Louis, 2. St. Louis, 3. St. Louis. My chance meeting on the airplane with Jeffrey Cooper had convinced me that I wanted to play for him. But I sure as hell wasn’t telling my teammates—I was certain they would try to sabotage me.
Later that day, on the bus, I got a text. It was from Chups, who was sitting at the back of the bus. She had walked right past me. She told me she was worried about me and still considered us friends.
Wow, I thought. A breakthrough.
My mood improved dramatically in Portland. I was in my Northwest comfort zone. My family and friends came to the game. On the field, I juggled the ball and goofed around; after the game, I defied the rules prohibiting me from signing autographs and went into the stands and embraced fans who had offered their support. I went out with my grandparents and Malia and her brothers after the game, and then Malia and I stayed out drinking and talking. Malia stayed in my isolation room with me. It felt so good to have someone to laugh with and confide in. The next morning, I missed the team bus to the airport. I texted Cheryl Bailey and said I’d just meet them there.
“What are they going to do?” I laughed to Malia as she drove me to the airport. “Kick me off the team?”
By the time we got to Albuquerque, I was feeling better, but the team was cracking at the seams. Carli told me that Abby had cornered her and berated her for talking to me, telling her she had jeopardized her position on the team. Carli said Abby accused her of being like me—antisocial and always in her own room.
Carli went to Greg and asked what the hell that was all about. Greg assured her that Abby’s views didn’t come from him.
In Albuquerque I went for coffee with our assistant coach, Brett. Brett was a tough guy, a demanding coach, but he had a forgiving heart. He told me that I was in a shitty situation but I could learn from it. He said he thought hard times could mold greatness. “If you have to go through this, at least get something out of it,” he said.
In the lobby of the hotel, Dan Flynn made a point of talking to me, as he had at other stops, to see how I was doing and buy me coffee. Everyone on the team could see that one of the main bosses of U.S. Soccer was behind me. By phone, Rich kept encouraging me to hold on and be patient. He was talking to Dan regularly. He seemed to think something dramatic was about to happen. On the final day of the tour, I heard that Greg and Phil had a bitter argument.
In the finale of the “celebration tour,” we tied Mexico 1–1. Natasha replaced Abby in the second half, which meant that Abby was on the bench. She loudly picked apart Carli’s play from her seat near me. It was uncomfortable—finally Aly leaned over and told Abby to relax. After the game, I stood out on the field for a long time, watching my team sign autographs.
Aly came up to me on the field. “Hope, I miss my friend,” she said.
I knew I’d talk to Aly at some point. But something had broken forever between us.
After the game, Greg asked me to meet him on the second floor of the hotel outside the conference rooms. He sat at one end of the long table. I sat down at the other. He slid something across the table toward me.
I caught it just before it dropped off the end of the table. It was my World Cup bronze medal, in a tiny Ziploc bag. This was my medal ceremony.
He formally shook my hand. Then Greg turned and went down the escalator, to where Sunil and Dan were waiting for him. I watched him descend.
It was over. The tour, the season, the year. This team would never be the same.
The next morning on the bus, everyone was hugging each other good-bye. Hugging everyone but me. I was alone, a player without a team. At the airport, I ate some breakfast. A group of my teammates sat at a table close by but didn’t say a word to me, not even Tina. I knew she would soon be calling me, her bubbly and friendly self. But at that table, with Abby, she couldn’t even acknowledge me. The journey that had started with such hope and promise three years earlier was ending in bitterness and loss.
I flew home. When I landed in Seattle and turned on my phone, I had a message from Cheryl Bailey. “Hope,” she said, “I wanted you to know that Greg has been fired.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The New #1
Greg Ryan was gone, but that didn’t mean my problems were over. Three years earlier, I hadn’t thought a head coaching change was a big deal. I believed talent won out. I was much wiser now.
Would U.S. Soccer choose a coach beholden to the veterans? The search committee was Mia Hamm, Dan Flynn, and Sunil Gulati. I figured Mia would look for a coach who would support the veterans, one who would take the side of Lil and Abby. Could any candidate possibly have an open mind about me? I wasn’t sure of anything these days. As I waited in my cabin in Seattle to find out who would be named coach, I read through the mail and e-mail that had piled up since the World Cup. I was noticing trends. Men seemed to be more understanding and forgiving of what happened in China than women were. Men seemed to think what I’d said was no big deal—that it was nothing worse than what male athletes routinely say. They also noted that if men don’t like each other, they fight it out and then forget about it the next day.
In my mail, I found a small card with a Colorado postmark. It was from Greg Ryan. He wrote that to err is human and to forgive is divine. He added that we all make mistakes and need to forgive and that he hoped that would happen with me and my teammates.
It seemed to be an odd time to say I needed to receive forgiveness. I had to wonder if his words were a plea for himself.
My mailboxes also contained a dark, frightening chunk of mail. I was accused of racism, of having tried to take a job away from a hardworking African-American woman. I was called hateful names, and I received death threats. I had a stalker who wrote to me about my father, and called me a slut. I gave the worst letters and e-mails to the police. I didn’t know how some of the mail had made it to my home address—if envelopes got to my house, that meant these crazy people could get there too. I was scared.
My step-dad Glenn took me to a friend of his in the Tri-Cities who was a self-defense expert. He gave me a self-defense course and helped me install a security system in my house. That year, my Christmas present from Glenn was a Sig Sauer 9 mm pistol—he took me out to the target range and taught me how to shoot it. Glenn wanted to give me the tools to protect myself. He was worried—a dad concerned about his daughter. We had come a long way together.
Marcus was also worried. He and my dad had never liked my living
alone. Late one night, he startled me by knocking on my front door. I looked through my peephole and all I saw was Marcus, but when I opened the door, there on the doorstep was a wriggling, wagging, bundle of affection—a golden retriever puppy. Leo was the son of Marcus’s dog Blue. I had desperately missed having a dog, but I didn’t know how I would take care of one with all my travel. “We’ll all help take care of him,” Marcus said. “I don’t want you to be here alone.”
From that moment on, the first thing I did whenever I got back to Seattle was pick up my Leo from whoever was watching him for me.
II.
On November 13, our general manager, Cheryl Bailey, called me with the big news. The new coach of the national team was Pia Sundhage. Pia was a pioneer of the women’s game. For two decades, she had played in Sweden, leading her country to World Cups in 1991 and 1995. After coaching in Sweden, she came to the WUSA as an assistant in Philadelphia—I had heard a lot of good things about her, but by the time I was drafted by Philadelphia, she had become Boston’s head coach. Both Lil and Kate Markgraf played for her with the Breakers, and Pia had been the veterans’ first choice to take over after April was fired. Those were red flags for me, but I had gotten to know Pia in Athens, where we shared housing and trained and even went out and drank beer together. I liked her—I thought she was funny and interesting, and I was told she was a great coach.
Cheryl Bailey sent me the schedule of the upcoming training camp. She told me that Pia had been told in detail about the past two months of turmoil. Two weeks before Christmas, we gathered in Southern California for a four-day camp to meet Pia. Bri was there, so was Barnie. I didn’t know where I fit in—or if I fit in anywhere. I had no desire to be there or see my teammates. I was still exhausted from everything that had happened in the past eight months.
I walked into the hotel and saw my teammates embracing each other, excited to be reunited, squealing and laughing. But they got quiet as I walked down the hall to my room. No one greeted or hugged me. I kept my head down and went to the equipment room to get my gear.