When Nobody Was Watching

by Carli Lloyd

  I know adding the “most dangerous” tag onto the list is not hard as I know that this is not the Lloyd of the 2011 World Cup. This Lloyd is fitter, stronger, smarter, leaner and way more efficient than 2011. In 2011 they faced a Lloyd that was in a tug of war battle between the Women’s Professional Soccer League and WNT and with me for limited time and I was not able to run the true program I wanted to run. This year I had you all to myself and I know what I built. I have actually built the best player in the World. No other player in the world has done what you have done and none of them are better than you on 8/9/2012. On this day you are the best in the world and you need to get out there and show the world who you are. You are in form and top of your game. Peaking!!!!!

  Show them what you have been doing for the last ten years and show them that you are the most complete player on the planet. That you can do it all! Defend like no other and attack like no other. You go ahead and show them. Your body will not let you down and your mind will never give up and push you more than every player on that field.

  Today is the day you close the second phase saying, “I gave you a glimpse in Phase 1. You didn’t believe in me but I proved you wrong in Phase 2. But you won’t be able to get enough of me in Phase 3.”

  Remember this? “This is your time to shine and you will keep shining day by day until you once again shine the brightest.” The brightest is today. So bright the doubters will never forget it! So bright your opponents will tremble! So bright your legacy will never be forgotten!

  Let’s go get this, Ms. Lloyd. Let’s go own this game. Make it ours.

  James Galanis

  I walk off the bus, headphones in place, listening to Chris Brown’s “Dreamer” as I go. It lifts me up. We file into the locker room. It’s spacious and bright and has a pink LONDON 2012 logo on the floor. It is big-time. I have a corner locker, next to Heather O’Reilly, my longtime Jersey pal and teammate. After I get dressed, I walk out of the locker room and down a corridor, into a tunnel, which leads me to as famous a soccer pitch as there is in the world. I am breathless. It is immense and perfect and even more beautiful than I imagined it would be.

  I cannot wait to play on it.

  Back in the locker room, minutes before we are to walk out, the coaches leave the room. Pia has gone over strategic stuff in a meeting the night before, reminding us to apply high pressure, tackle hard, win fifty-fifty balls, be strong in the air, and use our size to our advantage. We know against such a technically superb team as Japan its players will almost certainly control possession in the game.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Pia says. “Let’s just stay organized defensively, and we will be fine.”

  Pia isn’t one to give rah-rah speeches, or any other sort of speech. She leaves us on our own, and we all huddle up. Christie Rampone, our captain, talks, and then Abby talks and a few others chime in. I don’t say anything. All I want to do is get on the pitch and play.

  We file out of the locker room, high-five the staff as we head down the hallway, and get lined up for the pregame walkout. I am hand in hand with a little blond girl, and when we step onto the pitch I cannot believe the size of the crowd. More than 80,000 people, the largest crowd ever to see a women’s soccer game, are in those red seats. It is a staggering sight, a beautiful sight. They are here to see us, to see women play soccer. I am a jumble of energy and anticipation. We shake hands and listen to the two national anthems, and now, finally, it is time.

  When the whistle blows, I feel almost as if I am a bull who has just been let loose on the streets of Pamplona.

  I am so ready.

  We kick off, and Abby rolls the ball to Alex, who plays it back to me. Pia likes us to play long ball at the start, maybe to help us get our legs pumping and blood going, so I send it long upfield toward Abby. Barely a minute in, I intercept a pass for Japan’s great midfielder, Homare Sawa, and off we go on the counterattack. I don’t make much of a cross at the end of it, but starting the game with a strong defensive play always stokes me up even more.

  In the eighth minute, Japan makes an uncharacteristic mistake and loses an easy ball out of bounds. Pinoe throws in to Boxxy, who slides the ball crossfield to Kelley O’Hara, who pushes it on to Tobin, who makes a run down the left flank and makes a nice pass inside the box to Alex, who gets instant separation, sprints to the end line, and makes a great cross. I see this unfolding near the 18 and make a hard run toward the goal, leaving my mark behind. Abby is in front, ready to finish. I see Alex’s ball floating toward me and keep running hard toward the goal. The cross is sinking fast. Abby, to my right, has her left leg raised, ready to side volley it in, though a defender is right on her. I have a clear lane in front of me and see the ball coming at me, as big as a beach ball. I lower my head, hit the ball squarely, and drive it into the net.

  Most people think Abby scored until they see the replay. Abby and I actually joked that I stole her goal. I go running and sliding in celebration, arms outstretched, and soon my teammates are on top of me. It is a dream beginning. We are on the board and ready for more.

  The Japanese have started tentatively, but they are firing up fast. In the seventeenth minute, Christie Rampone saves a goal after a defensive breakdown with a brilliant block with her right foot, and Hope follows by stuffing the rebound. It’s a close call, and Hope is even better just over a minute later, when Japan’s Yuki Ogimi puts a head on a cross and launches it toward our goal. The game is an instant away from being tied, but Hope dives and punches the ball into the crossbar. Ojimi tries to pound in rebound but misses wide. Hope has saved us again. Japan keeps the pressure on, its attack now humming. Aya Miyama, the Japanese captain, pounds a ball into the crossbar in the thirty-fourth minute, and we dodge another bullet.

  None of us ever thought this would be easy.

  Ten minutes into the second half, Pinoe plays a square ball to me not far from midfield. I take a touch and see a stretch of space in front of me, with only one defender to beat. So I take off with the ball, veering to the right. I take two more touches, and then a few more, and I still have room. Still going right, I notice the defense, and the goalkeeper, are all going with me, and at that moment I know it is time.

  I am about twenty-five yards out. I take a final touch and let it rip, across my body, across the grain. I hit it squarely. I watch the ball’s flight, watch it all the way until it flies into the side netting, just inside the left post.

  Wembley explodes in noise. I run around looking for people to hug.

  We are up 2–0.

  There are thirty-five minutes to play, an eternity and a half. Nobody believes this is done. Nobody. The Japanese came back twice in the World Cup, and there is no way they are quitting now. The Japanese are pushing the attack, committing numbers in the offensive third. Ojimi converts a rebound with a side-footed shot that Hope has no chance on in the sixty-fourth minute, and it is 2–1. Japan keeps coming. We try to stay tight and organized. In the eighty-second minute, Lauren Cheney pushes a left-footed pass to me, and I have space and let it fly, a left-footed laser that feels good when it leaves my foot but sails inches over the crossbar.

  Damn.

  That could’ve clinched it.

  It’s a one-goal game, and the most skillful team in the world is coming at us. In the eighty-third minute, Mana Iwabuchi, a nineteen-year-old forward, pressures Christie Rampone as she is receiving a pass, steals it, and goes in alone on Hope. Iwabuchi takes a left-footed touch, then a right, and then side-foots a shot toward the far post, from maybe ten yards away. It looks to be a certain goal, a tie game. Hope sees Iwabuchi, sees the ball on the side of her right foot, reads it perfectly. Iwabuchi kicks toward the far post. Hope dives to her left. She knocks it toward the corner.

  It is a world-class save. Hope has had several of them in this game. She is the best in the world, and this is why.

  Hope has to smother a dangerous cross in the next minute, and you just know it’s going to be frantic right until the final whistle. The ga
me goes into extra time, and now it’s the ninety-second minute and Japan is making its last push. A forward named Karina Maruyama gets the ball on the right and starts to attack, and I make a hard run at her, contesting her advance, getting in her way enough so that she trips me. The referee blows the whistle for a foul. Hope takes the ensuing free kick and sends it far downfield. The ball never returns to our end. The three whistles sound. The crowd roars.

  We are Olympic champions, again.

  We hug and cry and revel, and I look up at this massive, holy place we are in—Wembley—and disbelief only begins to describe it. We have just defended our Olympic gold medal.

  In Wembley Stadium.

  Could it get better than this?

  The medal ceremony is one of the greatest moments of my life. I listen to “The Star-Spangled Banner” and even though we won in 2008, somehow this is so much richer, so much better. I love our team and love how we fought, and on a personal note, I feel so much satisfaction, knowing that I started the Olympic Games as a reserve and finished them in a whole different place.

  This isn’t about me, though. It’s about a group of women who fought hard and gave every morsel of energy and skill they had to offer. It’s about sacrifice and belief and never giving in, never giving up. It’s about character—one of the Five Pillars James has talked to me about from the start. When a reporter asks James about my performance in London, he says, “Carli has achieved so much, and she trains as if she’s achieved almost nothing. That is a very rare quality.”

  Later, somebody asks Pia about her decision to bench me to start the Olympics.

  “She proved that I was wrong,” Pia replies. “I am really happy that she is more clever than I am.”

  Long-range strikes are one of my favorite parts of the game. Here I tee one up against Japan in London.

  © John Todd/isiphotos.com

  One of my all-time-favorite celebration photos. It’s a happy pile of players when we took the lead against Japan in the Olympic final in London.

  © M. Stahlschmidt/ SSP

  Arm in arm with my best friend on the team, Hope Solo, minutes after we beat Japan for the Olympic gold in 2012.

  © John Todd/isiphotos.com

  When we won gold in London, it was show-and-tell time with our new medals.

  © M. Stahlschmidt/SSP

  A full-service midfielder has to do it all. Here I go up for a header against Colombia in the knockout round of the 2015 World Cup.

  © M. Stahlschmidt/SSP

  Not too many people thought we'd beat Germany in the World Cup semifinals. My PK got us on the board—and on our way to a 2-0 victory.

  © Tim Bouwer/isiphotos.com

  You think I was pumped at all after my first goal in the 2015 World Cup final? Check out the bulging veins.

  © John Todd/isiphotos.com

  The Cup final was three minutes old when my first goal came to rest.

  © Mike Hewitt/FIFA, Getty Images

  The celebration was on after I scored number 2 against Japan in Vancouver.

  © M. Stahlschmidt/SSP

  When the great Abby Wambach came on late in the World Cup final, it was only right that I take off the captain's armband and present it to her.

  © Dennis Grombkowski/Getty Images

  Jill Ellis gets a major bear hug after the World Cup final.

  © M. Murray/SSP

  There's nothing better than being on top of the podium and bringing the World Cup trophy back home after sixteen years.

  © Brad Smith/isiphotos.com

  The stuff of dreams: holding up the Golden Ball after being named the best player in the 2015 World Cup.

  © L. Benedict/SSP

  I was happy to win the Silver Boot as the second leading scorer in the 2015 World Cup, but nothing came close to winning the Cup itself.

  © Steven Limentani/isiphotos.com

  A happy reunion of family and friends greeted me at the Newark airport on my return from the London Olympics in 2012. That's my former teammate Heather Mitts to my immediate right.

  Courtesy of The YGS Group/Philadelphia Inquirer. Photo by Sarah J. Glover.

  The ultimate World Cup celebration: a ticker-tape parade in New York City with Megan Rapinoe and, of course, the trophy!

  © Rob Kim/Getty Images

  My future husband, Brian Hollins, and I have prime seats at the 2015 ESPYs in Los Angeles.

  © Kevin Mazur/Getty Images

  President Barack Obama graciously invited the World Cup champions to the White House. He seems quite pleased with his new jersey.

  © Jim Watson/Getty Images

  USWNT coach Jill Ellis and I were honored by FIFA as World Coach and World Player of the Year at a Swiss gala in January 2016. Playing for Jill has been one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

  © Mike Hewitt/FIFA, Getty Images

  In the spring of 2016, my U.S. teammates (from left) Alex Morgan, Hope Solo, and Becky Sauerbrunn, and I (along with Megan Rapinoe, not pictured) filed a federal wage-discrimination complaint. That's our attorney, Jeffrey Kessler, on the right.

  Courtesy of NBC Universal Archives

  I love working with young players. Here I do a live demo of the drills I still do to this day at my camp.

  © Leigh Ann Ronczka

  13

  Coaching Carousel

  I ARRIVE HOME FROM THE OLYMPICS still in a full state of euphoria, with my second gold medal around my neck and my first and only boyfriend, Brian Hollins, waiting for me at Newark Liberty Airport. My aunt Patti and uncle Wayne, cousins Jaime and Adam, and Jaime’s husband and their two kids are all there. So are my aunt Sandy and Brian’s mother and sister and her husband and their two kids, along with my best friends, twin sisters Kathy and Karen Sweet, and friend Laura Aleszczyk. (James isn’t there, but that’s only because he prefers to sit out the revelry and let me celebrate with my family and friends.) They’ve arranged for a party bus to take us all back down the Turnpike to my place in Mount Laurel, which they’ve decorated with an American flag, posters, and USA placards. There are red-white-and-blue hearts and a homemade sign that reads: WE ARE SO PROUD OF YOU CARLI. Everyone is wearing either a number 10 jersey or an Olympic shirt or a T-shirt with a silhouette of me kicking a ball.

  It’s a small and heartfelt celebration, just the way I like it.

  My parents and brother and sister are not part of the festivities, by their own choice. I don’t hear from any of them after the Olympics, though they do send me a card. It’s hard to believe that it has been four years since we’ve had any relationship to speak of. Things are no closer to being resolved than they were in 2008, and in some ways they are even worse, as articles start to appear talking about how James’s training methods helped forge an Olympic champion. Everything seemed to change once James began to be credited for playing a huge role in my development.

  As I said before, I never would’ve gotten close to the national team, or James Galanis, without my parents’ support. There is plenty of credit to go around. It’s all so crazy and needless, and so sad, but after all this time I am getting resigned to it. I would be thrilled if all this went away tomorrow and we could be whole again. I will meet my parents wherever I have to meet them. I will own my part in it. James has encouraged me over and over again to find a solution, to reach a détente.

  He does it when I get back from London, in fact.

  “You need to reach out to your parents. You both made mistakes, and you need to find a way to try to reunite with your family,” he says. “Reach out to them and be open. You can fix this. Sit down and have an honest conversation and put it behind you.”

  A few weeks after I return from London, my brother reaches out and wants to come over. It’s awkward at first. We make small talk. Then we get to bigger issues.

  “I just want you to know how much this hurts Mom and Dad every single day of their lives,” Stephen says. “They want you back in the worst way. I just hope you can see how unfair you’ve been with
them.”

  He goes on to say, “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You were destined to be this sort of player, an Olympic champion.”

  This is Lloyd family code for: “You give James too much credit for your success.”

  Stephen stays for a couple of hours. I don’t see much change going on, but he asks if I would consider getting together with Mom and Dad.

  “I’m going to think about it,” I say.

  I decide to invite my parents over to my house. I’ve been in it for over four years, and they’ve never really even seen it.

  My parents come over a couple of weeks after I visit with my brother. We start with chitchat, but we all know we’re not here to talk about how lovely an autumn it has been.

  “I am sorry that I’ve been disrespectful at times,” I say. “I was wrong to be that way after all that you’ve done for me.”

  “I am sorry I snapped that day when I told you to move out,” my father says. We are off to a pretty good start. I allow myself to be hopeful. If we can at least respect each other’s feelings instead of trying to shoot them down, we can get somewhere. If both sides can own their hurtful behavior, we have a chance.

  I give my parents a tour of my home, upstairs and downstairs. “It’s so nice,” my mom says. “We’re so proud of what you’re doing and that you can live in such a beautiful home.” They sit on my couch, and we start to talk, and I own up to just about everything they have had an issue with. I find out, finally, about my dad’s heart surgery and how he had a 90 percent blockage and had to be rushed to the hospital. He tells me he’s been under lots of stress at work and with our family situation, but he was lucky to get it taken care of right away. All in all, it’s as good a visit as we’ve had in a long time. My dad has to get up early for work, so they leave after a few hours.