by Carli Lloyd
I come on in the second half for Stephanie Lopez, but we are mostly playing desperate, skill-less soccer. In the seventy-ninth minute, Marta schools us again, flicking a pass to herself, wheeling around Tina Ellertson, carving up Cat Whitehill with a cutback, and beating Bri on the near side. We wind up losing, 4–0. It is not just our first defeat in more than eighteen months. It’s the worst Women’s World Cup loss in U.S. history, and I’m still trying to figure out how things unraveled so fast when I hear that Hope has just ripped Greg and Bri in a post-match interview.
“It was the wrong decision,” Hope says. “And I think anybody that knows anything about the game knows that. There’s no doubt in my mind I would have made those saves. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not 2004 anymore. It’s not 2004. It’s 2007, and I think you have to live in the present. And you can’t live by big names. You can’t live in the past. It doesn’t matter what somebody did in an Olympic gold medal game three years ago. Now is what matters, and that’s what I think.”
Aaron Heifetz, our press officer, tried to stop Hope from talking to the press, but Hope ignored him. In less time than it takes Marta to make one of her spin moves, outrage sweeps through our team and Hope is an instant pariah, isolated at our team meal and barred from our third-place game against Norway. She isn’t welcome in the medal ceremony to get the bronzes we don’t want. She isn’t even allowed to fly home with the team.
“You wouldn’t believe what’s going on. Everybody is freaking out,” I tell James in a text.
James tells me the Hope saga is all over the media at home too.
Hope is summoned to a meeting with the veterans, and they let her have it for breaking ranks and criticizing a revered teammate. Hope apologizes, but it is not enough. They want her to pay for her breach, and then pay some more. Hope is my closest friend on the team. She was directing her tirade at Greg and it almost came out as a rant against Bri. Still, I think this full-bore freeze-out is taking things too far.
In men’s sports, people criticize coaches and managers all the time, and sometimes call out teammates too, and it’s not that huge a deal. Things get hot and then it goes away. Often the guy speaking out is even lauded for having the courage to tell the truth. When it happens in women’s sports, though, it always seems to be viewed as a nasty, claws-out catfight. I hate that our World Cup has devolved into this, but I am not going to be part of the Hate Hope Campaign. I am not going to abandon my friend. It’s a gang mentality, and the gang wants to do everything but put Hope in stocks in downtown Shanghai.
It’s too much. Hope was wrong, but this is even more wrong.
James and I talk it through and he agrees.
“Hope didn’t kill anybody. She expressed an opinion,” James says.
And what everybody forgets in their haste to bury Hope is that Briana Scurry once did pretty much the same thing—pointedly criticizing the person she had lost her job to, a goalkeeper named Siri Mullinix. Granted, Bri’s comments came a couple of years later, not with the embers of defeat still hot and smoldering, but is there a statute of limitations on team loyalty?
Mullinix was the U.S. starter in the 2000 Olympics in Sydney, where the U.S. lost the gold medal game to Norway, 3–2, in large part because of some shaky goalkeeping. Bri, of course, had been the U.S. keeper for the 1999 World Cup champions, but in the long, happy aftermath had gotten out of shape and lost her job to Mullinix. Sometime before the next World Cup, Bri was asked whether she blamed herself for costing the U.S. the Olympic gold.
“I honestly believe that in my heart, yes. I knew I could’ve made a difference in that match,” she said.
So I refuse to go along. I sit next to Hope. I talk to Hope. I’ve thought it through and I completely disagree with this calculated crusade to crush her, and I am not backing off that position.
This does not please the anti-Hope cabal at all.
“Be careful about who you align yourself with,” somebody says. “It may come back to hurt you.”
“I don’t care. I am going to stand up for what I think is right,” I tell them.
I do not play one minute against Norway in the third-place game. I sit on the end of the bench for virtually all of the three-game tour we do after the World Cup, watching Aly Wagner play attacking midfield. Do you think this is just one of those crazy coincidences in life? I don’t.
It is the start of a long period of time in which I am viewed warily by some teammates and almost shunned by others. I am not happy about it. It’s not as if I am going out of my way to be an outsider. But I’m not going to grovel to become part of the in-crowd either. I am an open book. I have my goals and my routine and a ton of extra work to do to get where I want to go. That is what drives me. Nothing is going to get in the way of that. I feel very misunderstood by my teammates and wish it weren’t so. I don’t want them to think I don’t like them because I’m not going out with them all the time. There are probably ways in which I could do more to join in things without jeopardizing my goals. It’s something I know I need to work on.
“At times I think Carli was perceived as not wanting to be part of the team,” says Heather Mitts, my former teammate and fellow Universal Soccer Academy student who now broadcasts games for FOX Sports. “I was usually the organizer, and I would always try to get Carli to come out and do things, but she has this commitment and professionalism that was her complete focus at all times. Carli is a typical Jersey girl in a lot of ways. She has a hard exterior, but inside she has a big heart. She holds the people who are close to her dear and doesn’t forget her roots. It’s almost as if she lives in this little bubble and nothing is going to get in her way.”
We’re in the high altitude of Albuquerque, days before our last game of the season, and I need to clear the air with Abby, one of the staunch members of the anti-Hope brigade. I reach out to her and ask if we can talk. We’re in our hotel. She comes to my room. She sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Abby, I respect you as a player and a person,” I say. “You’ve already had a huge impact on this team, and I know that will continue. I don’t know what you are hearing about me after all the stuff with Hope, but I just want you to know that I don’t want to get dragged into any crap and any drama. I just want to help this team win. I work my butt off, whether I am starting or not starting. I leave it all out there every time I am on the field. People may get the wrong idea about me sometimes because I don’t go out and stay to myself, but being on this team is my dream, and all I want is to contribute however I can to the success the team has had for a long time.”
Abby listens quietly. She is a big presence, even when she is sitting in a hotel room. She seems to take in what I am saying, and I think she appreciates the spirit behind it.
Then Abby tells me that she has some things to say too.
“You may not like it, but I hope you will hear me out,” she says.
I nod, but I can feel my guard spike like a schoolkid’s temperature.
“This has nothing to do with the Hope situation,” Abby begins. “You expressed your opinion, and that is fine. You are a really good player, but your spot on the team is in jeopardy. You are walking a fine line. You are actually kind of like Hope, because you have to win back the hearts of the team. People don’t see you fitting in, chemistry-wise. They see you not wanting to join in things, and just sitting in the corner texting all the time. They feel that you don’t trust them, and they don’t want you on the field because of that. You also didn’t have a very good World Cup, so that adds more questions. You are turning into Hope, and you better be careful.”
I am stunned by what I am hearing. Beyond stunned. I know I’m not one of the girls; that much I am clear on. But the other stuff . . . My job is in jeopardy? People don’t trust me? They are thinking they don’t want me on the team?
I tell Abby that it is hard to have trust right now, with all the stuff going around.
“I do everything I can to work hard, be the best, and not get caught up i
n the drama. What is so bad about that?”
As far as my World Cup, well, I don’t agree, because Greg would’ve been happy to have no midfield at all. He wanted us to lock people up on defense and boot the ball upfield and hope Abby scored a goal. He wanted no part of pretty soccer, possession soccer, and said so himself. I don’t want to get into all of Greg’s mood swings either, how hard it was to deal with being the future of the team one day and Alpo the next.
I don’t get into all this with Abby, because I’m not there to deconstruct Greg’s strategy or motivational techniques. I ask Abby if there is anything else.
“Whether we have the same coach or a new coach, you need to know your position is on shaky ground. I hope you can use the time off to look at your mistakes and reevaluate things and come back determined to make things work.”
Abby is finally done talking. My insides are seized up like an engine that has run out of oil. Abby talks a lot and she lives the way she plays . . . all out, and in your face. She has been a supporter of mine. After I was MVP in the Algarve Cup, she was quoted as saying the tournament was going to change the direction of my career.
“I think we’ve got a lot more really amazing things to see from Carli Lloyd. I just hope I can be around long enough to see them.”
I don’t think Abby is being mean-spirited by telling me all this, but I do think that she loves to inject herself into the middle of things. She wants to be on the good side of the veterans—in this case Lilly, Kate Markgraf, and Scurry. They want to punish me for siding with Hope, and now Abby wants to do the same, so she lets me have it. I don’t appreciate her acting as if she is part of the judge and jury that will decide my future. Yes, I respect Abby and what she brings on the field, but this is way out of bounds.
Abby departs and leaves a palpable pall in her wake. I stare out the window, trying to get my head around what just happened. My insides churn. I am freaking out, and that is probably understating it. I am terrified that my lifelong dream is in danger of being torpedoed by backroom bickering and backstabbing.
Do these players really have the power to run me off?
James and I have a long talk about it. I begin to get some clarity. I need to find out if any of this stuff is true—if I am indeed in a precarious position.
It’s not going to change how I work or go about my training, but I still want to know.
I call Cheryl Bailey, the general manager of the U.S. Women’s National Team, and ask to meet with Dan Flynn, the CEO of U.S. Soccer.
“You need to speak to Greg before you talk to anyone else,” Cheryl says. “He’s your immediate boss. That’s how we have to start.”
I agree. Cheryl has always been straight with me and a classy person to deal with. I call Greg in the hotel.
“Hey, Greg, this is Carli. I need to talk to you right away. It’s important. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure, Carli,” he says.
Greg and I have had so many ups and downs, and he’s under so much pressure in the wake of the Brazil debacle, that I really don’t know how he’s going to react. I just go straight at it.
“Abby and I just met in my room, and she told me that my spot on the team is in jeopardy and that people don’t trust me and don’t want to play with me,” I say. “Is this true?”
Greg’s square face almost seems to freeze before my eyes. He looks genuinely shocked.
“Abby has no right or place telling you your spot is in jeopardy,” Greg says. “I don’t know where she is coming from, but all I can tell you is that if I am the coach of the team, you are going to be on it. If someone else is the coach of the team, you are going to be on it.”
He tells me that if I ever need anything or want to meet with him again to please let him know.
“Thank you, Greg. I really appreciate that,” I say. It says a lot about Greg’s character that he would go out of his way to reassure me on all this, given our tumultuous history.
The next day we play poorly and tie Mexico 1–1 to end our year. U.S. Soccer announces after the game that Greg Ryan will not be returning. It is not a decision that surprises anyone. I believe a change has to be made but still feel for Greg, and I will always be thankful that he was there for me when I needed it.
We say our good-byes and head our separate ways. We finish 2007 with one loss in twenty-four games, but that loss is viewed as a complete disaster and costs the coach his job, which gives you an idea of the expectations we face. I don’t want to think about the World Cup or the Brazil game or anything else. I just want to get home and see Brian and get back to Ark Road and the Blue Barn and train with James again. Everything else may be in chaos, but this is the one constant—I train with James Galanis, I get better, stronger, fitter. It has been happening for going on four years, and it’s not going to change. It is foolproof. Having something in my life that feels foolproof is very comforting about now.
8
Olympian and Outcast
THE BEST PART ABOUT THE END OF 2007 is that it leads to 2008. There won’t be another World Cup until 2011, of course, but at least we have the next best thing to look forward to—an opportunity to win our third Olympic gold medal in the last twelve years. We will go after it under the direction of a new coach, Pia Sundhage, a former star of the Swedish national team who sings Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are a-Changin’ ” at our first meeting and talks about a whole new style of play.
She wants us to dictate tempo, be brave and take risks, and possess the ball. Talk about music to my ears.
“Let’s raise the level of attack in women’s soccer,” Pia says.
I love playing for Pia. I am finding new gears in training because her practices are so fun and challenging. Pia not only doesn’t want to bypass the midfield, she wants everything to flow through it. She has made it clear that she wants me to become a focal point, and I am learning so much from her, especially about making runs off the ball and becoming more of a threat that way.
“You have all the tools to become the best player in the world,” Pia tells me.
Back for another Algarve Cup a year after I was named MVP, I experience the biggest change of all in the third of our four games, against Norway. I open with a strong game in a 4–0 victory over China, getting a goal and an assist, and play okay against Italy in our second game, but I am not good against Norway. The Norwegians pack the middle and sit back on us and pressure our every possession, and I never find my rhythm. I am fighting a slight groin pull and don’t feel confident. I give away the ball as if I’m handing out Easter eggs, particularly in the first half, but the amazing thing is that Pia doesn’t get on me and doesn’t pull me.
“I want you to learn to play through games like these,” she says.
The second half is better, and we wind up winning, 4–0, and we go on to beat Denmark to take the tournament. I feel so fortunate finally to have a coach who seems to appreciate what I can bring.
Another huge positive is Jill Ellis, Pia’s assistant coach and my former U-21 coach. I have felt a special connection with Jill from the start. She is an authentic person, and I trust her completely. When she tells me something, I know it’s motivated only by her desire to make me a better player. She approaches me before a training session one day.
“When you are in the attacking third, you should keep doing what you are doing—taking people on, finding the right pass, getting yourself forward,” Jill says. “You are an incredible weapon in that part of the field, but one area I think is important to concentrate on is your turnover-to-completion ratio in other parts of the field, when we are building up.”
She goes on.
“A true, world-class center mid should have a pass completion percentage in the mid to high eighties. When I look at your technical skills, I am thinking, This player is so good—that’s where she should be, not in the fifties or sixties. This is all about making smart decisions and being conscious of ball security in our half of the field, getting us from the goalkeeper to the oppo
nent’s half. When you lose the ball there, it can put us in a dangerous situation. So it’s good to be thinking about ball retention and not being wasteful and making every possession count.”
Pia is not into statistical analysis, but Jill is. During our training sessions, she keeps track of completion percentages, and when I come off, she’ll tell me, “Sixty percent,” or “Seventy percent.” It becomes almost a game within a game for us. I totally embrace the idea of taking greater care with every possession—learning when to take risks and when to keep it simple. As a young player, I wanted to make an impression and often tried too hard to make a highlight-film play. Sometimes it would work. Other times the ball would get taken away. Like a young writer who reaches for big vocabulary words and elaborate constructions instead of something simple and direct, I am learning that less is more.
I am learning lots of things this year, probably as much as I have in my soccer career. During our training sessions when I’m home, James is encouraging me to connect more with my teammates and take advantage of what he calls “the togetherness factor.” I keep to myself by nature, but during all the craziness during the Greg Ryan era and the World Cup, I withdrew even more. Not being sure about where I fit in or what my future was only heightened my natural insecurities. Now things are different, and I need to respond accordingly. James and I agree that it’s important for me to do less texting and more connecting, to ask questions and reach out to people more. I will be twenty-six by the time the Olympics come around. I am not the new kid anymore. It’s quite clear that my spot on the team is not at all in jeopardy.
“Keep listening to the coaches and be supportive of all changes and subs they make,” James writes to me in an email. “They fully support you, and you need to do the same. Your time has come to become a leader and lead this team into Olympic qualification and then lead them to Olympic gold.”