by Hope Solo
But I liked Dan. Sure, he disrespected people and did some crazy things, but he called bullshit on just about everything the league did. He was a rich guy who bought the team because he liked soccer, had a daughter who played, and he was looking for unique ways to promote his business. He was innovative and different—our version of Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban. And it wasn’t as though the league had been successful and highly professional before he arrived.
I made my first start for the MagicJack on May 1. I’d told them I was ready in late April, but I wasn’t—that way, that idiotic one-game suspension for my Twitter comments about the officiating was served while I was still rehabbing. I was happy to be playing in the WPS this time; it was good to get some more games under my belt, considering how few opportunities were left to play for the national team. A bunch of my national-team teammates, including Abby and Pearcie, were playing for the MagicJack.
But the experience was bizarre. The MagicJack coach quit after the team won its first three games, so our team was coached by Pearcie and Dan. It was strange but really not all that much of a departure from the screwball behavior that had marked the league’s entire existence. And I was too focused on my shoulder and the World Cup to worry about anything that happened in the WPS. I was trying to prioritize everything in my life. I broke up with Jesse that spring. He wanted a commitment that I had never been able to give him. When I was back in Seattle rehabilitating, I was—of course—spending time with Adrian; we couldn’t stay away from each other. I knew I wasn’t being fair to Jesse but even though I was twenty-nine now, I was scared of settling down. My inability to commit made me wonder yet again if I was like my father—unable to have a grown-up, functioning relationship.
On May 14, I finally got my first national-team start in Columbus against Japan. Mentally I was ready, but my arm felt terrible. At least I was tested—I had a good tip-over save and some tough balls on set pieces. We beat Japan 2–0 that day and by the same score four days later in North Carolina.
VI.
As we counted down the days to the World Cup, I got a call from my dad’s old friend Mark Sakura. “Hope, did you know the murder of Mike Emert has been solved?” he said. “Did you know your father was no longer a suspect?”
And then he proceeded to tell me a story straight out of CSI. In the fall of 2010, Mike Emert’s widow, Mary Beth, was told there was a DNA match—they had found her husband’s killer. But the killer was now dead. A retired Seattle cop named Gary Krueger had been involved in a home invasion in March, 2010. Krueger tried to force his way into the upscale home of an orthopedic surgeon; when the police were called, Krueger fled, stole a boat in Lake Washington, and capsized it. His body wasn’t pulled out of the lake until September. At that time, his DNA was put into a database and came up as a solid match for DNA found at the Emert crime scene: skin under Emert’s fingernails and blood in his stolen SUV.
I was stunned. We had never even been told there was any DNA at the scene that could have cleared my father. But that wasn’t the end of the story. Krueger had been a rogue cop in the late 1970s. After he retired in 1980, he turned to criminal schemes and was a suspect in a couple of murders, including Emert’s. Krueger was finally convicted for a series of bank robberies and went to prison, where his DNA should have been collected and entered into the database. But it wasn’t collected until he was released on parole in 2007, and then it was never entered into the database. There was no explanation about the cause of the three-and-a-half-year delay. Marcus had made some phone calls. One of his sources in the police department told him that it was clear that my father had been framed. Krueger had intentionally dressed like him, adopted a New York accent and a limp, and arranged to meet Emert at a place where my dad hung out.
In addition, there was another cop, John Powers, who had been fired several years earlier for a number of offenses, including improperly using a department computer to get information on individuals and sharing his findings with people outside of the department. One of the individuals he gathered information on was my dad. Powers ran my father’s criminal history, printed it out, and gave it to a pawnshop owner named Rob Chandler, who was Mike Emert’s brother-in-law. That was how so many people involved in the case knew so many private things about my father—a fact that had always confused him. Despite our best efforts, we couldn’t unravel the connections between Krueger and Powers—the rogue cops had worked for Seattle PD in different eras. But it was apparent that my father had somehow been the victim of corruption, and it seemed to me that the department was eager to sweep the connections under the rug because the crooked police officers were two of their own.
THE MORE WE learned, the angrier I became. My dad was officially cleared now that the murder was solved, but that should have happened years earlier, while he was alive. My father died with that accusation still haunting him. He had been the victim of the Seattle police. I guess he’d been right to never trust authorities to do the right thing. No one from the police department ever called to apologize or explain why they had harassed the wrong man for almost seven years.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It Just Takes One
The granite Alps sliced the cobalt sky behind us, a stark symbol of the heights our team was trying to reach. We were on a practice field near our hotel in Leogang, Austria. For ten days, we stayed at a high-end spa, getting acclimated to the time change and focusing on the weeks ahead. We hiked and practiced yoga and took gondola rides to the snowy tops of the mountains. Pia played guitar in meetings and seemed more relaxed now that we were isolated. We felt strong. We played a closed-door game against Norway and lost, but I wasn’t bothered by that—I thought it was probably a good thing to get some mistakes out of the way.
I tried not to think about the 2007 World Cup. That experience taught me how unpredictable life is. The lesson was to enjoy every moment and opportunity. I vowed to lock in every memory so that I could have it for the rest of my life—the way my father had taught me. I also reflected on how far the team had come in four years, how much we enjoyed each other’s company, and how well we functioned as a unit. There wasn’t the segregation between young players and veterans or the cliques that had existed in 2007. No one expected us all to be best friends. It wasn’t perceived as an affront to team camaraderie if I took my book and went off to read, or if I shut the door to my room. If a young player raised her hand and asked a question, no one viewed it as an impertinent challenge to authority. No one was worried about the small stuff: we were all focused on the task at hand.
One day Carli and I talked about 2007. Her theory was that if Greg hadn’t fucked up and I hadn’t spoken out, nothing might have changed on the team. The bad dynamic might have continued. Out of all that struggle and pain, Carli said, we ended up having a better team. “You helped change that,” Carli said.
I didn’t know if I had changed it, but things were clearly different now. Nothing underscored that transformation more dramatically than my relationship with Abby. We not only tolerated each other now; we liked each other. Abby had reached out to me with her letter during the Olympics, and that started the healing process. She seemed humbled by her injury and by missing the Olympics. Abby and I were often together on photo shoots or at Nike events, away from the rest of team. We would hang out and have cocktails in the airport bar while we traveled. When we were in a foreign hotel, Abby and I were always first at breakfast, sitting together and reading the paper while drinking four or five cups of coffee. We quietly built our relationship with every camp and every game.
“You know, Hope, we’re really pretty much alike,” Abby once said.
“We are,” I agreed, then laughed, “but we’re also pretty different.”
We were both crazily competitive and honest. We both demanded excellence and professionalism and would do anything to win. We both liked to party. And I knew I could rely on her. We needed each other. We didn’t have to be best friends to
be great teammates, and if we were going to win the World Cup, we both had to excel.
II.
After ten days, we left our beautiful alpine spa and boarded a charter flight for Dresden, the site of our first game, against North Korea. At the airport, we saw the World Cup banners and the mood immediately changed. This was it.
The atmosphere in Germany was exhilarating. A few hours before the game on June 28, I got—as I had for all my other games—a huge shot of Toradol in my ass. I knew what was going to happen next. My arm was going to feel like Gumby—bendable with more range of motion. And after the game, I was going to be in agony from moving my shoulder in ways I shouldn’t have been able to. My shoulder was now my source of inspiration. Athletes have to keep finding new forms of motivation. In 2007, I was motivated to play for my father’s memory. In 2008, I was playing not only for myself, with a kind of “fuck you” attitude to the world, but also for my mom and Marcus, Grandma and Grandpa, Adrian and Glenn, Lesle and Amy, aunts and uncles—my lifelong team. In 2011 my motivation was the constant pain in my shoulder. I wanted to prove the doubters wrong, to show that I could come back from a devastating injury. And I wanted to earn the right to be called the best goalkeeper in the world.
I reminded myself to lock in every memory. I tried to soak in every moment—standing apart from my team during warm-ups to look at the faces in the crowd, to study my opponents, the vibrant colors in the stadium. Not every athlete gets to experience such a grand event.
Once again—as we had in the previous World Cup—we opened with North Korea. Though the game lacked the dramatics of 2007, it was far from easy. I had to make two difficult saves in a ten-minute span in the first half. There was no score at halftime, but early in the second half, Lauren Cheney headed in a perfect service from Abby. Twenty minutes later, Rachel Buehler gathered up a deflection on a corner and scored. We won 2–0.
WE FLEW TO Frankfurt and then took a bus to Heidelberg, where we practiced in front of a group of American military personnel and their families. I felt so proud to be wearing a USA jersey in that environment. It was thrilling to get that kind of hometown support in a foreign country.
The sold-out crowd at Rhein-Neckar Arena two days later was full of American flags and red-white-and-blue painted fans. We dominated the Colombian team. Heather O’Reilly scored in the first half, and we all ran to one sideline and saluted the fans. (It was the first time I had ever celebrated a goal on the field and I was honored to recognize the service men and women who were in attendance.) In the second half, Megan Rapinoe and Carli added goals. When Megan scored, she ran to the oversize microphone in the corner of the field, picked it up and sang “Born in the USA,” as a tribute to all the Americans in the crowd. We were having fun. The 3–0 final assured us of a spot in the quarterfinals, even though we had one more game of group play—against our toughest opponent, Sweden.
The tournament was getting rave reviews. The stadiums were packed, the crowds were electric, and many of the games were thrillingly close. The competition was far more evenly matched than it had ever been before. It was stunning how much women’s soccer had progressed around the globe. I could see it starting to happen when I had been playing overseas. Now, teams that had never made an impact before, like France and Japan, were serious threats.
We flew to Wolfsburg, where it was raining. I could tell that Pia, though happy we had advanced, really wanted to beat Sweden, the team she had starred for as a player. But we had bad luck, and Sweden played smart and physical. In the first half, Amy LePeilbet took down my old buddy Lotta Schelin in the penalty box and was given a yellow card. I read the penalty kick correctly and was fully extended, but the ball slipped just past my fingertips. Twenty minutes later, a free kick ricocheted past me into the goal. We were down 2–0.
We had our chances but didn’t score until Abby got us on the board in the second half. The 2–1 loss was our first ever in group play and meant we finished second in the group.
I wasn’t stressed about that. We had lost in group play in the Olympics to Norway and won the gold medal. We had advanced. That was all I cared about. But we were taking a difficult path. Our quarterfinal opponent was Brazil.
III.
The match felt epic from the start. The stadium was sold out and the air crackled with the kind of electricity that only comes in big sporting events. The German crowd—disappointed that their team had been stunned the day before by Japan—was rooting for Brazil. Brazil almost always had the crowd on their side: their fans are fun, their soccer is pretty, and Marta was the most famous female soccer player in the world.
A lot was made of the fact that we were playing on the twelfth anniversary of the 1999 World Cup final. Many of the ’99ers were in Germany working for ESPN: Brandi, Bri, Mia, and Julie, as well as Tony DiCicco. Those comparisons continued, as did some of the animosity. I heard from friends at home that Bri had criticized me on air for being a bad teammate after the North Korea game. I was so weary of the shadow. What was left unsaid was how much the game had improved in twelve years and how much more skilled our team was. It’s simply the evolution of sport.
Lesle and her son Zac, Amy and her husband and their two boys, had all been in Germany for the entire tournament. The rest of my support group arrived in time for the Brazil match: my mom, Marcus and Debbie and little Johnny, my sister Terry, Aunt Susie and her sons and Uncle Frank. Adrian was there too—I wouldn’t have to call him in the middle of the night from this tournament. As the national anthem played, I spotted my loved ones in the stands. Unfortunately, my grandma and grandpa weren’t there; Grandpa Pete had been diagnosed with dementia, and his health was declining. Grandma Alice didn’t want to leave him.
We got on the board almost instantly. Brazilian defender Daiane scored an own goal trying to clear a ball Boxxy had sent in. It was the opposite of what had happened to us in 2007. It was a nice start, but we knew we were in for a long day. We clung to the 1–0 lead at halftime.
In the sixty-fifth minute, Marta came streaking toward me with Rachel Buehler chasing. Rachel made a slide tackle, taking Marta down in the penalty box—a player like Marta is always going to get that call. Rachel was shown a red card and, completely distraught, left the field. Once again we were going to be playing shorthanded against Brazil. Even worse, Cristiane was lining up against me to take the penalty kick. As I made my way into the goal, I was swinging my arms to loosen up my shoulder. The referee—Jacqui Melksham from Australia—pointed at me to get on my line. I jumped up and down, raising my arms a few times, just to let Cristiane know I was there, and then I was set.
Cristiane shot to her right. I read correctly, diving to my left and batting the ball away. I was so fired up—saving a penalty kick takes both luck and skill and can be a huge momentum shifter. I jumped to my feet clapping, and Carli and Boxxy ran up to hug me. But then mass confusion broke out—Melksham had waved off the save, and was awarding Brazil a do-over. She told me I had moved off my line—I was sure I hadn’t, I never believed in moving off the line because I didn’t feel it gave me any advantage on the save. Melksham showed me a yellow card as I raised my hands in protest. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I shouted, trying to keep my mounting anger in check. That call is still a total mystery to me. On the field, Melksham told me I had moved. But afterward she changed her call to encroachment on Pearcie—she said our captain had moved a step forward before the ball was kicked. It was a ticky-tack call in a critical game. The crowd started to turn right then, booing the referee and booing Brazil for getting an unfair advantage. As boos and whistles rained down on her, Marta stepped up to retake the shot Cristiane had missed. Of course, she made it this time. The game was tied 1–1 and we were shorthanded. Our team gathered to talk about setting the defense without Rachel. Boxxy was going to move back, taking on more defensive responsibilities. I was still in shock over the bad call. As I went back to my line, I raised my hand again in disbelief. The crowd took
it as a cue and began to chant “USA! USA!” Brazil had tied the score but lost the home field advantage.
Regulation ended in a tie: we would play two fifteen-minute overtime periods, shorthanded.
Two minutes into overtime, Marta got her left foot on a cross that I thought had come from a player who was offside. Boxxy raised her hand to signal offside but no call was made. Marta lofted the ball toward the far post and into the net. Brazil was ahead 2–1 and had a man advantage. I didn’t lose hope, but as the minutes passed and our shots flew wide or high, things were looking grim. I started to worry. As the seconds ticked down, Brazil was stalling, which further incited the crowd. Erika faked an injury and was carried off on a stretcher and then—as soon as she was off the field—she jumped up, suddenly fine. She was given a yellow card for stalling, and two minutes of extra time was added on. The crowd was angry at Brazil’s tactics and applauding our gutsy effort. It felt like Rocky IV, when everyone came to the fight hostile to the United States but ended up cheering for Rocky by the end. But a happy ending today seemed less and less likely. We were in the 122nd minute of the game. At my end of the field, Pearcie passed the ball to Ali Krieger. Krieger passed to Carli in the defensive end, who then beat two players and passed wide to Megan Rapinoe. She brought the ball down toward Brazil’s goal and sent a hopeful thirty-yard cross off her left foot, perfectly placed toward the net. Abby launched herself toward the ball, hit it squarely with her forehead and sent it screaming into the back of the net.
We all went crazy. Abby ran toward the sideline and then slid on her knees; she was instantly dog-piled by our teammates. The fans exploded in a roar of amazement, and I was jumping up and down and wheeling my arms around, alone on my side of the field. I looked into the stands and spotted Adrian beaming with pride.