by Hope Solo
During this crazy, hectic period, my relationship with Adrian was growing stronger every week. He came down from Seattle every Sunday and stayed until Thursday. He shopped and cooked for us and bolstered my confidence. I realized that for so many years, we had been performing our own strange dance—back and forth, pushing away and pulling back. But we finally seemed to be in synch.
In the middle of all this insanity, the ESPN Body issue came out, which meant a round of publicity and a trip to New York for the preview party. I brought Maks with me. I was happy with the cover but upset that the hose photo was included inside. There wasn’t much we could do about it but ask that they refuse to release it to news outlets as a publicity shot.
Every week, I thought I would be eliminated from DWTS, because we were often in the bottom two of the results. I was frustrated, but then I started to hear from some of the more veteran DWTS crew, who told me that being among the last couples to find out our results didn’t necessarily mean we were in the bottom two of voting. They even say before the announcement, “While not necessarily the bottom two, one of these couples will be eliminated.” I was told I kept being placed there because I was good for ratings. The producers were dragging out the drama.
The lack of transparency on the show was frustrating. I started out thinking I was in a competition, but the longer I lasted, the more I realized that it wasn’t really a competition—it was an orchestrated reality show with a preconceived plot line. Maks wasn’t my coach or teammate—he and I were just characters on a television show. But I wasn’t sticking to the script—I said what I thought and showed my emotions on camera. I was in tears several times, frustrated and tired.
It was obvious that Maks and I were put together so that we would butt heads. Right from the start, the casting producer wanted to see me hold my own against Maks, thinking that would make a good storyline. As the weeks wore on, the compilation footage of our rehearsals that was shown on the show grew more and more negative. Everything we did was on film, and the producers had hours and hours of footage every week—much of it with us laughing and getting along—but they chose to only show us bickering. In the footage, Maks looked like an arrogant ass; I looked like a drama queen. I guess it made for good TV. But there were some things even DWTS wouldn’t show.
VI.
The week we did our rumba, Maks argued with the judges, who hadn’t liked our performance. When one judge, Len Goodman, said he’d been in this business for fifty years, Maks snapped, “Maybe it’s time to get out.”
Another judge, Carrie Ann Inaba, scolded Maks. “Don’t be disrespectful.”
When it was time for our scores that week, Maks made things worse by declaring on camera, “This is my show.” I didn’t know what to say. I was caught in some ongoing DWTS feud that had started long before I signed on.
Maks later told me that he had argued with the judges because he had been told we were going to be eliminated, that there was some secret memo going around that said who would be ousted each week. He explained that he wanted to cause some drama on the live portion of the show so that they wouldn’t be able to resist keeping us around, hoping for more fireworks. It seems to have worked—we weren’t eliminated that week.
Maks was hard on me in many ways, and our contentious relationship wasn’t just a producer’s idea of good TV. He was often nasty, swearing at me and being harshly critical, telling me that I looked like a dude and walked as though I had balls between my legs. I didn’t like being treated like that, but I could take it.
He manhandled me in rehearsals from the start, pushing me, whacking my stomach, bending my arms roughly. I thought that was just how it went—how dancers worked with each other. I was tough; I could take it.
But it kept getting worse. One day, Maks was trying to put me in a certain position and hit my stomach so hard with his open palm that I had a red handprint there for the rest of the day. When I told Adrian, he was livid. Adrian had seen his mother abused when he was a child, and men being physically violent with women was something he couldn’t tolerate. But I felt so reliant on Maks that I defended him and minimized his behavior. I viewed him as my coach, and I’d had asshole coaches before. I could tough it out.
The day after Maks’s outburst supposedly saved us for another week, we had a team rehearsal: there were six couples left, and we were split into two teams. Maks and I were teamed with Ricki Lake and Derek Hough and Rob Kardashian and Cheryl Burke. In rehearsal, Maks was rough and mean with me, flinging and pushing me around. I could see the shocked looks on the faces of the other dancers. So maybe this isn’t normal behavior, I thought. Maks could also see their concern—he stormed out, while I tried to hold it together. Derek stepped in and worked with me the rest of the day.
We kept rehearsing our solo dance for the Halloween show: the samba to Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Maks had injured his toe and was in pain, so another pro, Teddy, came in to work with me. We had fun together, and I enjoyed working with someone who kept things light; but our playfulness seemed to irritate Maks. By the end of the week, he was able to dance, but his mood hadn’t improved. Late on a Friday night, he was getting angrier and angrier about one particular move that I was struggling with.
He wanted my head in a specific position. To achieve that, he slapped me across the face. Hard. My huge dangling earring whipped into my face. I knew the camera was rolling, so I checked my impulse to fight back: I knew if I stood up for myself, it would end up on the show, making me look like a villain again, yelling at “poor Maks.” I walked out of the room, away from the camera, and took off my mike. Maks followed me and took his mike off.
“Don’t you ever fucking put your hand on me again,” I said.
He was extremely apologetic. I didn’t care. My ear was ringing as I walked out, shaking. I had just been hit, and I had been worried about how I would come off looking on television. This was a twisted world. I just wanted to get through the damn show. I didn’t want any more drama. I didn’t want to be the villain on a hugely popular TV show. I didn’t want to get hit by my partner. I had just wanted to learn to dance.
That Sunday, I was called into a meeting with the executive producer and some other ABC officials. They told me they wouldn’t stand for violence and I could get a new partner and Maks would be off the show. I felt the way I felt back when Greg Ryan had asked me about goalkeeper coaches—I was being asked to make a decision that would affect someone else’s livelihood. I didn’t want to end Maks’s career. And I knew that if I asked for a change, it would be spun in the tabloids and on the show that I was a prima donna. It was another lose-lose situation.
I decided that I was in this with Maks—we’d come this far together despite his obnoxious behavior. I told the producers I didn’t want to change.
The next night, before the show, Maks was shown the video of him hitting me. We then met in my trailer and talked and decided to move on and put the incident behind us. (Later, when Whitney asked to see the video, she was told it didn’t exist.) That night, after the show, one of the producers brought an envelope to my trailer. Inside was a letter from the producers on BBC Worldwide Productions letterhead, detailing our meeting and copying in their legal counsel.
The letter noted that “following our review of the recorded training sessions” the producers had come to me to let me know that BBCWP didn’t approve of “Maks’ physically aggressive training methods.” They let me know that BBCWP had told Maks to stop any “unnecessarily forceful contact.” They noted that they offered me the option of changing partners and that I told them I preferred to remain with Maks. They wanted me to let them know if I had any further concerns.
It was all in writing. The show had covered its collective butt, and I was with Maks the rest of the way.
VII.
Maks knew he’d almost been fired, and he backed off. The next week, we did the quickstep and a jive, and everyone, from the jud
ges to the other dancers, talked about the “kinder and gentler” Maks. We made it through to week nine. I was in the final four—something I never expected when I signed the contract. I felt really good about my accomplishment. The competitive athlete in me wanted to win, but I knew that wasn’t realistic. The script seemed to have been written: J. R. Martinez, the Iraq veteran who was a very good dancer, was going to win. Ricki Lake—who was dancing with Derek, the most popular pro—was going to be close to the top. And Rob Kardashian kept improving—plus, he brought half the cast from his family’s reality show to the audience every week. The producers gushed all over Kris Kardashian and Bruce Jenner during every commercial break. I was just an athlete, and I was paired with Maks—a dancer who had never been paired with a winner and who riled the producers and judges despite the ratings he brought to the show.
On that last Monday night, the audience fluffer had them all up out of their seats giving Rob a standing ovation before he’d even danced. We had to perform three dances that night. One was a difficult Argentine tango—it was physically taxing and full of lifts. We were the only dancers athletic enough to perform such a demanding routine. We knew it was one of our best. Of course, the judges were critical and sounded as though they were saying good-bye. “I really admired you for coming this far,” Carrie Ann said.
When I heard that, I knew the next night would be our last.
Before the show started I was in the audience with Tina, Whitney, and Adrian. Before every show the audience is invited on stage to dance. But the cast doesn’t usually join in. That night, however, I jumped in with my support group—nearby dancers circled around me as I cut loose. I’d come a long way. I had nothing to lose.
It was a rough evening. The producers had put together a compilation of footage from the night before that painted us in the worst light: when we got our scores, I had said, “Kiss my booty” and “Give us your little eights.” I was tired of the game. Backstage before the tango, Maks had given me a pep talk telling me, “Fuck the judges. Dance for yourself; be proud—no matter what—of this tango. No other dancers can do what we’re about to do.” He had already told me that the judges would crush us. I mimicked him in a kind of joking pregame get-fired-up chant “Fuck ’em.” But the producers edited it to look as though we’d said “Fuck the judges” as soon as we finished dancing. We went out as the villains.
When we were eliminated, the show didn’t play a montage of my highlights, as they had for other contestants. I was told I wasn’t going to New York for The View—a trip the eliminated celebrity contestant normally makes—or to the Jimmy Kimmel show that night. I went through the press line alone—ABC told Maks he wasn’t allowed to do press this time. I did one interview with Tony Dovolani, who was one of the dancers on the show, working for Extra. He had become my friend, and he said some beautiful things to me when I came over for an interview: that I was his role model and he wanted his daughters to be like me. It hit me right then how far I had come—I had just wanted a challenge and to give women’s soccer some exposure, yet I had made it to the final four on Dancing with the Stars. I got very emotional when I answered his questions. Because of that, my PR person thought it was best if I didn’t do any more interviews.
The next day, all the gossip rags claimed that I was a sore loser who refused to talk to the press. DWTS never disputed those reports, which made me feel they were fine with having me portrayed as a bad sport.
My time as Cinderella was over. My trailer was turning into a pumpkin. We packed up, and the next day I flew home to Seattle, wearing my Nikes and my real eyelashes.
VIII.
Grandpa Pete passed away in December, and my family gathered in Richland to say good-bye. He was our patriarch, the one who had moved us to eastern Washington and set my family on its journey. He had been my staunchest supporter, traveling the world to see me play and always encouraging me to be the best I could be. He could always make me laugh; when things got too serious or scary in my life, Grandpa Pete would crack a joke.
After the funeral, we released doves into the cold wind blowing off the Columbia River. I looked around at my family: my grandma Alice, her faith calming her grief; my mother, who was dealing with her husband’s serious illness but remained strong; and my brother Marcus, the abandoned son who was now a loving father to Johnny.
I LOOKED AT Adrian. I had always thought my grandpa might walk me down the aisle. He wouldn’t be there to do that now, but I felt I had finally found the person I was going to make my life with; the person who had been right there for so many years.
Two weeks later, Glenn had to be admitted to the hospital on New Year’s Eve. It was my mother’s birthday; she was worried about her husband, exhausted from trying to care for him while he’d been at home. Adrian and I told her to go home; we’d sit by Glenn’s bedside. As we sat there, Glenn drifted off to sleep. At about eleven thirty, my phone rang. It was Grandma Alice. “This is the first time in my entire eighty-four years that I’ve rung in the New Year by myself,” she said.
When I told Adrian what she’d said, he jumped up. “Come on,” he said.
We rushed to the house on Hoxie and gathered up Marcus, Johnny, Mom, and the ice cream pie I had gotten for her birthday; then we hurried the four blocks to Grandma’s house. We stepped over the doormat that read GRANDCHILDREN WELCOME, and found Grandma in the bedroom she had shared for so many years with Grandpa Pete. There was only a minute to spare in the old year. We sang “Happy Birthday” to my mother, and then with Champagne, Clamato, and ice cream pie, we toasted another new year.
We stayed in Grandma’s warm home playing Cranium until two a.m., Adrian and Marcus against me and Grandma, who kept trying to cheat. My mother held Johnny, asleep in her arms, and laughed at our crazy antics. Outside the wind blew off the Columbia, the river that flowed through our lives, its waters rushing past us and out into the sea.
Grandma Alice looked out the window into the dark night.
“God’s second paradise,” she said with a smile.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing an honest book means that family secrets and private moments are exposed for the world to see. So first and foremost I want to thank my family, who have been unconditionally loving and supportive through both the good times and the rough spots. The process of bringing my story to print required unearthing some painful memories, but I share them here in the hope that something constructive might come from them. My family’s courage and faith know no bounds, and I thank them for providing the foundation for my own path to happiness. Reality has tested us, but love has saved us. Here’s to our beautiful struggle—Judy and Glenn Burnett; Marcus and Debbie Solo and their son, Johnny; David Solo; Terry and Christian Obert; Grandma Alice and my late Grandpa Pete.
And to my dad, who taught me to never give up.
Life has blessed me with many teachers and guiding influences who have, in their own ways, each contributed to the writing of this book.
To my family and friends, who have enriched my life in more ways than I can express: Mary and Dick Gies, Cheryl Hirss, Liz and Nan Duncan. Aunt Susie, Uncle Frank, and all of my cousins. Anita and Bob Galaviz, Uncle Raul, Jeff Obert, Carli Lloyd, Sofia Palmqvist, James Galanis, Tina, Mya, and MacKenzie Ellertson. My St. Louis family—the Owenses, Tim Owens, Tony Hubert and Jeff Cooper. Malia Arrant. Lesle Gallimore and Amy Griffin. And to other friends who I may have failed to mention here by name but who I hold in my heart with continued love, gratitude, and respect.
To my soccer family: my youth coaches Tim Atencio and Carl Wheeler. Pia Sundhage, Cheryl Bailey, Paul Rogers, April Heinrichs, Phil Wheddon, Sunil Gulati, Dan Flynn, and my teammates past and present.
Without the help of an unbelievable medical team, I couldn’t have gotten back on the field to experience the fulfillment of a World Cup and the thrill of another Olympic Games. Thanks to Dr. James Andrews and his medical team (Butch Buchanan, Luke Miller, and Harris
on Reich) led by Kevin Wilke.
And to my rock Bruce Snell, Dave “Supe” Andrews, Ivan Pierra, and, of course, Hughie O’Malley.
To all my sponsors who have helped me in immeasurable ways, and, in particular, to Joe Elsmore and all my friends at Nike for their continued support.
To Richard Motzkin, for his longtime guidance and support, and to the indefatigable Whitney Unruh, for her friendship and for always knowing how to get the best out of me. She read me as closely as she read this book and was my rock solid. Rich and Whitney’s dedication and hard work go beyond the call of duty, and I owe them a special debt of gratitude.
Completing the book is a testament to the talents and involvement of a great many people. This book would not exist without the unwavering support and enthusiasm of my editor, David Hirshey, who understands the importance of both soccer and women’s sports and does his part in building the game by writing about it for ESPN and coaching his HC team to one championship after another (as well as one pitcher of beer after another!). Thank you, David, for challenging me to dig deep and trust my voice. Thanks also to associate editor Barry Harbaugh, for his grace under pressure in the home stretch, and to all the staff at HarperCollins, for their support and patience.
Thank you to Ann Killion for helping me tell my story and never being judgmental about the more fragile parts of my life. In essence, you became the counselor I always fought against having. Your dedication, reliability, intelligence, and efficiency will never be forgotten. You have the rare talent to see through the glitz and glamour of women’s sports and write about them in an honest and enlightening way.
To Adrian, a blessing in my life. Thank you for strengthening my confidence in myself and for encouraging me to remain true to who I am at all costs. You have believed in me in ways that nobody else ever has. Our love is a love that builds a deep and unbreakable bond, no matter what challenges and heartache come our way. Some things were never possible without you by my side. We can do anything together. I love you.