by Carli Lloyd
Bri has been around a lot longer than I have. Her point makes complete sense to me. I call James.
“I’ve been thinking it over, and I am not sure I want to go with Rich after all,” I tell him. “I’m just not comfortable with it.” I share about my conversation with Bri. I bring up my concern about what could happen to my mother’s job if things don’t go well. Most of all, I think it’s important to have someone who has experience in the soccer world and knows the fine points of endorsement deals.
Nothing against Rich, but this is not his area of expertise. James knows Rich well and likes him as much as I do. He has coached Rich’s son for years. James agrees that my points are valid.
“What are you going to do?” James asks.
“I’m going to tell Rich that I’ve been reconsidering things and I think I am going to explore other options,” I tell him.
I reach out to Rich and explain my thinking. I tell him that I feel badly about changing my mind, but my gut tells me this is the right decision.
Rich is totally classy about it.
“I understand completely,” Rich says. “You have to go with what makes the most sense and makes you most comfortable.”
I am hugely relieved, but my parents are incensed. It’s the first, completely independent decision I’ve made in my life and my parents think I’ve blown it big-time.
“I just don’t want you to lose your job in case something breaks down,” I try to explain to my mother. “At the end of the day I just think it’s risky to mix family and business. I am just not comfortable with the entire thing.”
Nothing I am saying is registering. None of us are very good at handling anger and other strong emotions. Like a lot of families, we wind up getting our backs up and our egos involved, and then listening stops and accusations start flying like shrapnel. I am as guilty as anybody.
I collect some stuff and storm out of the house and go to stay at Brian’s. There’s no way I want to sleep under this roof with all this hostility swirling around.
The situation isn’t good, and James is concerned that if things fester, it will not only be terrible for the family but could also mess up my head and affect my performance. James has always had a very good relationship with my parents, dating to the rainy night three years earlier when my father approached him in the parking lot about working with me. For years, my father has praised James effusively and told me how fortunate we are to have a trainer of his caliber. That he has never charged us a nickel makes us that much more fortunate. James thinks it’s important for me to sit down with my parents and try to explain things again and see if we can smooth over some of the anger and hurt.
“That’s fine, but I’d like you to be there, because I don’t think I’ll be able to get my points across if you are not,” I say.
James agrees, and we arrange for the four of us to get together for dinner at a place called Prospectors, a Western-themed steakhouse and dance hall on Ark Road, just down the road from James’s training fields. Prospectors has photos of cowboys on the walls and a lineup of saddles along a saloon wall, and you almost expect Wyatt Earp to come barging through the door. It is a Monday night, at six thirty. The place is empty, but we get an out-of-the-way table anyway, just to ensure our privacy. I am trying to be positive, but the truth is I am dreading this because of how hard my mother came at me in our first conversation.
My parents and James are sitting at the table when I arrive. James says, “I don’t enjoy being in the middle of a family issue, but Carli invited me and I want you to know I’m just here to help. I know you guys are upset about what’s happened with Rich.”
My father says to me, “I think what you did to Rich is wrong, but honestly that’s not what we really care about. Our biggest concern is the way you disrespect your mother and me. It’s almost like you’re not the same daughter we raised and supported all these years.” He gives a quick rundown of the times I’ve mouthed off, not answered calls or emails, kept them at a distance. I try to offer my side of things. My father keeps going, talking right over me.
My frustration is building by the second. Suddenly, I snap. I push back my chair and stand up.
“I came here to try to work things out, not to find out how terrible a person I am,” I say. Then I storm out. It’s not the most mature move of my life, but what can I tell you?
I told you I don’t always do well with anger.
In the time it takes to click your spurs, a family fire has turned into a full-blown conflagration, my parents laying into me, me ripping right back. In that moment, I just feel hopeless, as if I’ll never be heard or have my feelings respected. I feel bulldozed. I am so sad that it has come to this. I call Brian, and he comes and picks me up.
The fight in the corner of Prospectors stays with me a long time. We’ve had our spats before, sure, but this is a deeper cut. It’s far beyond feeling rejected or misunderstood. I stick to my plan to look elsewhere for representation. I hire the services of John Johnson of Cozen O’Connor. It turns out to be one of the best moves I’ve ever made.
The next big tournament is the Algarve Cup in March in Portugal, and in the second of the four games Greg Ryan gives me my first start in a 5–0 rout of Denmark. I help set up one of Heather O’Reilly’s two goals and feel pretty good about my performance. Greg is still on me a lot about my defense, but every day I show up and work, and I believe I am gradually winning him over. I start again in the final against Germany and bang a shot off the left post from distance in the first half. The game remains scoreless and goes to PKs, the Germans finally prevailing, 4–3. It stinks to lose, but it’s impossible not to see that I am making progress. I just started two of four games—including the final—of one the most important competitions of the year.
A couple of days later, an email arrives from Greg. He is not an easy coach to read. His emotions and his assessments are about as stable as a weather vane in a windstorm. One day he might heap high praise on you. The next day he might act as if you’re lucky you haven’t been sent home already. I don’t know Greg Ryan very well at this point; maybe this is a motivational technique, to keep his players uncomfortable. After Algarve, I am apparently on his good side.
“You had a fantastic tournament,” Greg writes. “You should gain a lot of confidence from your performance in Portugal. Do not be satisfied as your potential is way ahead of you. Keep learning every time you step into a training session or a game. You have a great future with this team if you keep giving everything in you.”
Greg’s email is the most affirming assessment I’ve ever gotten from him. If only things were as positive at home. On the surface, my parents and I are getting along a little better, and I guess that is encouraging, but the deep, underlying divide remains. My parents are angry and resentful that I am closing them out of my soccer career, and I am angry and resentful that they refuse to let me take full ownership of my soccer career. I understand that our whole family life revolved around my travels and tournaments for years, and that my brother and sister got short shrift as a result.
It doesn’t mean that my parents have lifetime rights to tell me what to do.
I keep trying to make this point, and it never seems to get through. This is my journey. If I fall, I have to be the one to pick myself up. If I’m not getting the playing time I want or not impressing the coach, it’s up to me to figure out why. Having something go wrong doesn’t mean it’s time for a family discussion; it means I have to get better, make better decisions, and get back to the place that will take me where I want to go—back on the training field with James. If Greg is all over the place in his opinion of me as a player, I just have to work harder and eliminate any doubts he might have.
The problem with my parents is compounded by my father’s frequent critiques of my game. My dad was my first coach, the coach who launched me on my way. Of course he wants me to do well, but sometimes it is too much for me to take in.
A week after my twenty-fourth birthday, we play a fri
endly against Ireland in San Diego. I fly my parents out and put them up in a hotel so they can watch the game. Shannon Boxx, a stalwart holding mid, is out with an injury, and Kristine Lilly is out too, so I know I am going to have to shoulder much more of the defensive responsibilities.
We come out flying, peppering the Irish goal with shots. In the twentieth minute, I slip a pass down the left wing to Christie Welsh, who crosses to a charging Heather O’Reilly, who knocks it in. Defender Cat Whitehill pounds in a rebound and we’re up 2–0 at the half, on our way to a 5–0 victory.
I meet my parents briefly after the game.
“You didn’t look like yourself,” my father says. “You’ve gone away from the creative, attacking game you’ve always played.”
“Dad, I’m playing the way the coach wants me to play. He wants me to be a ball-winner and be as active on defense as I am on offense,” I say.
Neither of us is happy. The standoff continues.
I want to believe that I will resolve things with my parents eventually, but right now my focus is on firming up my spot on the roster and getting ready for World Cup qualifying. I have solid games starting in late-summer victories over China and Mexico and then earn my fifteenth cap in a friendly at the Home Depot Center in Carson, California, against Chinese Taipei. The game is October 1, 2006, almost a year to the day since the start of the World Cup in China, and it is not what you’d call a stiff challenge. We get off twenty-three shots, to none for Chinese Taipei. Abby Wambach records her fifth hat trick and adds three assists. In the seventy-sixth minute, with the score 7–0, Abby gets a ball with her back to the goal, about thirty yards out, and one-times the ball out to the right, where I am making a run. It is a perfect pass. I run onto it in full stride, fire, and slot it into the lower far corner. I make a little half-hop in delight—anything more would’ve been tacky given the score—and my teammates rush up to congratulate me.
It is my first goal for the U.S. Women’s National Team, the biggest moment I’ve had since I made my debut in Portland fifteen months earlier. Not unlike that first cap, it is surreal to be in my boots, running back upfield, trying to get my head around the fact that I’ve just scored a goal for the United States of America.
Three minutes later, Megan Rapinoe, a rising, twenty-one-year-old star who is still a senior in college, follows with the first goal of her career (and adds number two a few minutes after that). It is our eighth straight victory after the PK loss to Germany in the Algarve Cup final, improving our 2006 record to 13-1-1. Everything would be looking great except that we head off to South Korea for three games and I am back in Greg Ryan’s doghouse. We play Denmark in the first game, and the coaches tell me right before the game is starting that they want me to man-mark a Danish player. Almost from the first whistle to the last, Greg is yelling at me.
“You’re giving her too much space, Carli.”
“Tighten up on her.”
“Carli, we need you to defend.”
At halftime, Greg reams me out some more, and then says, “I’m going to give you another chance to go out there and get it right.”
I work hard and think I mark the Danish woman pretty effectively, but Greg definitely does not agree. The game ends in a 1–1 draw, and we look awful. I don’t play in the next game against Australia, and then we have a midfielders’ meeting and Greg lets me have it one more time.
“Your defense is really hurting us. You are making us vulnerable over and over again, and it’s got to stop,” he says.
I don’t mind being criticized and will listen to anything that I think will help make me a better player, but I honestly feel Greg is way off on this. I probably should keep my mouth shut.
But I don’t.
“I think my defending is getting better. I don’t think defending is our problem.”
Greg glares at me, his face reddening. Now he is screaming at me.
“Your defending is horrible! You don’t know what you are talking about! We looked like crap against Denmark, and if you don’t see that you are clueless.”
I am as angry as he is now. The meeting breaks up, and he tells me to hang around. It’s just the two of us.
“Don’t you ever question me like that again in front of other players,” he says. “You have no right to do that. You make me look bad, and you make yourself look like a bad teammate, someone who thinks she is bigger than the team. You better knock it off or you are going to have a very short career with the national team.”
I almost start crying on the spot but hold it together until I get back to my room, where I completely lose it and start bawling my head off. Even more than Greg’s harsh words, what upsets me is that I have no idea where I stand with him. He changes moods and evaluations the way most people change socks.
I believe—I know—I am a better defensive player, a harder-working player, than I was back in the spring when he wrote me that glowing email. Am I really that much worse now? Am I going backwards, or is he trying to motivate me? I was totally, utterly wrong to mouth off—that only made things worse. I let my frustration get the better of me.
I have to do better.
I am back in the starting lineup for the last two games of the South Korea trip, and we win them both, against the Netherlands and Canada. Though I can never be sure, Greg isn’t on me as much. We head back to the States and our home base, the Home Depot Center, for the biggest tournament I’ve played to date in my short time with the national team—the CONCACAF Gold Cup, which serves as the World Cup qualifier.
Our opener is against Mexico in late November, and I go the full ninety minutes in a 2–0 victory. Overall it is one of my best efforts yet. I defend well, tackle hard, and spray balls all over the park, one-touch passes here and through balls there. I ping balls across field and put pressure on the Mexican defense. Best of all, the victory assures us of a spot in the World Cup the following year in China. We finish the job by defeating Canada in overtime, 2–1, and it’s a little extra sweet because James comes out to watch in person. It is great to have him there and meet everybody.
When James congratulates Greg on the Gold Cup victory, Greg has a moment with him.
“Please make sure Carli gets some time off and rests up. Next year is going to be a long grind,” Greg says.
The team takes a holiday break, and I head back to South Jersey. I don’t tell Greg, and I’m sure James doesn’t either, but there’s no way I’m backing off. A couple of days to recharge is all I need, and then James and I head for the Blue Barn, our winter training location in Marlton, New Jersey, a tin-sided place that sits off Tuckerton Road and looks as if it could double as an airplane hangar. I keep going back to the truth I learned when I started working with James: I am not naturally fit, so I need to do more physical training than just about anybody. I need to keep adding cords of muscles, build endurance, and sharpen and tighten all my ball skills.
Rest?
I don’t think so.
7
World of Trouble
I HAVE TWO NEW BEST FRIENDS as 2007 begins. One is my roommate for yet another trip to China, Marci Miller. Seven years older than me, Marci is the big sister I never had, a person I immediately trust and connect with. Both of us are homebodies who don’t care about going out and partying and hanging out until all hours. It’s shocking to me, honestly, but there are lots of players who party hard. Marci and I have our own little film club; we stay back in the room, watch movies, and encourage each other constantly, even though we are both center midfielders and theoretically competing for playing time. I make fun of her when she goes out and buys a pair of Skechers. She makes fun of me for my tough, Jersey-girl game face.
Marci grew up in a blue-collar suburb of Chicago, so I guess it’s no surprise that she is the ultimate blue-collar player. Her game is built on grit and ball-winning and sacrificing everything for the team. She is close to thirty years old when she debuts for the national team, making her one of the oldest rookies ever. As good a player as she is, M
arci was never hailed as the future of the team. She has none of the entitlement or attitude that often accompanies the players who are touted that way. When we are not watching movies, we are tuning in episodes of 90210 and Lost and laughing a lot. Marci does her work and tries to find the best in everybody.
What is not to love about that?
Being with Marci is like being back with the Medford Strikers girls. She always has my back, the same way the Strikers did. Now that I’ve had a few years with the national team, I am witnessing a much different team dynamic, and often a much less pleasant one. I see people who seem to be threatened by me and aren’t eager to see me do well because I might take their spot. I see a culture of wariness instead of warmth. Early in my time with the team, I make a run in the attacking third and am wide open and do not get the ball. I don’t think anything of it, until it happens a second time, and then a third.
Finally, it dawns on me that I’m not getting the ball because this teammate does not want me to have it, never mind that I might do something good with it. No, the pass instead goes another way, from one friend to another. The realization is stunning to me, and sad.
Do players on the U.S. Women’s National Team really make decisions on who they pass to based on who they like, or based on whose position they are trying to protect? I think.
I ask someone I have gotten to know and trust if I am being paranoid.
“No, you are not being paranoid at all,” she says.
You want to think that the higher up you go in a sport, political stuff becomes less important and everything is more of a meritocracy. You want to believe that the best players make the U.S. Women’s National Team, and that the best of those are the starters.
I am finding out that this is not necessarily the case. U.S. Soccer is a superb organization and, in Sunil Gulati, has a president who is a man of character and vision, but unfortunately, these advantages don’t take politics or personal agendas completely out of the equation. So much of it comes down to where you went to school, what coaches are behind you, who is pushing you behind the scenes, and who your allies are among the veteran players. It also comes down to whether you are among the anointed ones, as decided by the U.S. developmental people. If they’ve “discovered” you and nurtured you and decreed that you will be the face of the team going forward, you are assured of having the soccer equivalent of the red carpet rolled out for you. You are a player the honchos want to succeed because they will not look good if you don’t.