When Nobody Was Watching

by Carli Lloyd

  There will be no denying you if the underdog shows up again and owns this game. Go make this yours. You deserve it.

  Signed

  The Planner.

  Reading over it again, I am filled with fresh gratitude for what my mentor/friend/trainer has done for me. James believed in me long before I did.

  How do you thank somebody for that?

  Jill sticks with the same lineup as the Germany game. I will be wearing the captain’s armband again, along with my usual Nike Mercurial Vapor Super Fly boots, with the words FIVE PILLARS—the motto of the University Soccer Academy—written on the side of each. When we go over set plays beforehand, Jill says that the first corner will be one that has been designed for me. Assistant Tony Gustavsson is in charge of the set pieces, and he is the architect of it. We practiced it only one time, but it cleverly creates a formation that spreads the Japanese defense out. I think it has a real chance to work.

  Jill huddles us up before we take the BC Place field. One of her best qualities as a coach is how straightforward she is. We’re grown women, and we know what’s in front of us. Jill honors that. She says simply, “We started this journey to get to this very point. You know what you need to do. There isn’t much else to say. We are ready. Let’s bring this trophy back home. Go out there, have fun, and enjoy it.”

  An explosion of noise greets us when we take the field, more than 50,000 people rocking the place. The sky is a smoky gray, and I mean literally smoky: wildfires are burning in the mountains outside the city, and by later that night it will get so bad that there will be an environmental alert.

  I take my spot along the center circle, at the half-field line, in the shaded half of the pitch. Seconds away now. Adrenaline is coursing through my body at Daytona 500 speed.

  Japan, the defending champion, kicks off, but Lauren Holiday wins possession of a bouncing ball almost immediately and chips it out wide to me. I get my first touch eleven seconds into the game. I take three dribbles, make a cut, and play it up to Alex, who knocks it out wide to Ali Krieger, who hits Tobin Heath, who centers it back to Alex. Alex’s left-footed touch carries the ball a bit too far, but we connect five passes and are attacking not even thirty seconds into the game. I love it. We keep the combinations coming.

  On our next foray into the Japanese end, Pinoe gets a pass from Kling and sends it crossfield to Morgan Brian. Morgan plays it to Ali and makes a run. Ali slips for a second but scrambles to her feet and finds her. Morgan carries the ball toward the goal line and lets fly with a cross that is blocked, drawing a corner kick.

  It is the third minute. Pinoe lines up to take the corner. Tony’s design has a cluster of players in front, hoping for a head ball to play, and several others spread around the box. I am about thirty yards out, seemingly a complete bystander. As Pinoe begins her approach to take the kick, I sprint into the box on a bit of a diagonal run. Pinoe’s kick is well struck and rolls quickly into the box, untouched. The play is built 100 percent on timing. If the kick is too slow, or too fast, if I am too early or too late, it will go for nothing. Pinoe’s corner is perfect. I run onto it and intersect with it just a stride inside the penalty spot. My focus is entirely on the ball, nothing else. I make contact with it with the outside of my left foot, and at the ball’s pace and my pace, I do not have to strike it hard. The ball fires off my foot, a spinning rocket toward the left side of the Japanese goal. Keeper Ayumi Kaihori dives but has no chance. The ball blasts into the net, and after a momentary fall I bound right back up and keep on running, heading to the corner, fists pumping and celebrating in front of the American Outlaws and then hugging Pinoe and everybody else near the corner flag.

  You could not ask for a better way to start.

  It is not just one of our best goals of the whole tournament, but one of the best goals of the year—not because I score it but because the execution on everybody’s part, especially Pinoe’s corner and the player movements that opened up the space, is exactly as Tony drew it up. On the bench, Jill smiles and pats Tony on the left leg. The Japanese players look as if they’ve just been hit by a tractor-trailer.

  The tractor-trailer is not stopping.

  Tobin makes a great run down the right side and gets taken down just outside the box, and we have another set piece in the fifth minute. Holiday takes this one and drives it low and hard to Julie Johnston, who has edged toward the near post. I am at the 18-yard line and make a run as soon as Lauren makes contact. Julie’s job is to get a piece of the ball and send it on behind her, into the middle, and she does it beautifully. The ball caroms toward the front of the goal, glances off a Japanese player’s hand, and here I come, unmarked at first, crashing the goal, then beating two defenders to the ball and side-footing it past Kaihori to make it 2–0. BC Place is quaking it is so loud, and again I just keep on running, putting my arm around Lauren and then leading our whole team on a sprint across the field, all the way to the bench, where we have a spontaneous group hug.

  Who can even believe this is happening? It is the greatest start to a World Cup game the U.S. has ever had, the greatest start to a game that I have ever had.

  It is almost an out-of-body experience, the way this game has begun. Japan tries to settle itself and create the possession it is so good at, but Becky Sauerbrunn, a rock in the back the whole World Cup, intercepts a pass and plays it up to Morgan Brian, who directs it out wide to Tobin. Tobin takes a few touches and chips a long ball into the box, toward Alex, but a missed clearance leaves the ball bouncing inside the box, and Holiday takes full advantage, stepping up and volleying it, a superb strike that blows right past Kaihori, who must have no idea what has hit her.

  We are in the fourteenth minute and we are up 3–0, and the rollicking fans are just cheering nonstop because they have no idea what else to do. The Japanese huddle up before the kickoff, trying somehow to stay composed and probably remind themselves that they have more than seventy-five minutes to get this level. It doesn’t help. They connect ten passes on their next possession, but near the half-field circle I intercept a bad backpass and take a touch, eluding a Japanese player and starting upfield. I take a second touch and look up to see who is open and how best to attack, when I notice that Kaihori is off her line—way off her line—near the 18. I know if I hit it right I can get the ball over her and put it on goal.

  I have been practicing these midfield shots with James for thirteen years.

  It’s worth a shot, I tell myself.

  Maybe a foot inside the center line, fifty-four yards from the Japanese goal, I push the ball far enough in front of me that I can take a full swing at it. I power up to the ball and drive it toward the goal. Kaihori sees what I am doing and begins a desperate retreat. My ball has just the right trajectory, high enough to carry but low enough that Kaihori doesn’t have much time to recover. She keeps retreating, and it doesn’t make it any easier that I am shooting from the shadows and she is looking straight into the sun. She stumbles backwards at about the 6-yard line, and as she falls she manages to get her right hand on the ball, slightly redirecting it.

  It is not enough.

  The ball bounces once, ticks off the left post and into the net, with Ayumi Kaihori sprawled on her back right in front of it.

  We have entered the realm of the surreal. Japan gave up two goals in the run of play in six previous games. And now we have scored four in sixteen minutes. Are you kidding? I am running and laughing, holding two index fingers aloft, trying to comprehend what is happening but knowing there is no chance. Hope almost never comes out of goal to celebrate, but she runs up to join us this time.

  She hugs me and says, “Are you even human?”

  I don’t know what I am. I just know we are up 4–0 on a great team, sixteen minutes into the World Cup final, and we aren’t letting up. It’s barely two minutes later when Pinoe chips a sweet ball to Kling, who arches a perfect little cross in front. I go up and put a head on it, knocking it toward the near post, but just wide.

  It migh
t be the easiest chance I have had all day.

  The Japanese break through in the twenty-seventh minute on a goal by forward Yuki Ogimi, who spins in the box and curls a beautiful shot into the upper left corner. They pick up their level at the end of the half, and Jill warns us at the break not to get complacent, not to sit back. We need to keep up the pressure and the attacking mentality that got us the lead.

  Just five minutes into the second half, Japanese midfielder Aya Miyama takes a long free kick, which skims off Julie’s head into the corner of the goal. Japan has cut our lead in half, and if we learned anything in the Cup final four years earlier, when Japan twice came back from one-goal deficits, this is not a team that goes away.

  You can tell the Japanese are starting to believe they can do this, and there’s still almost forty minutes to play. We need to answer. On our ensuing possession, we put pressure on the Japanese back line. I control a loose ball near the top of the box and carry it in and push it ahead to Alex. She is rebuffed, but we keep possession, and soon Kling and Alex work a nice give-and-go that leads to a corner kick. Holiday lofts it right in front of the goal. Kaihori tries to punch it away but muffs the clearance, and the ball goes beyond her to Morgan Brian, who centers it to Tobin, who is unmarked in front and pounds it in.

  The lead is back to three, and we are not letting up. I win a ball in the middle third and make my longest run of the day deep into the attacking third before hitting Pinoe on the left side of the box. I nearly take advantage of sloppy Japanese defense and almost beat Kaihori to a backpass before she grabs it. Kelley O’Hara, who comes on for Pinoe, continues her dynamic play and has two good chances right away.

  The game moves beyond the seventieth minute, and Japan is playing some of its best soccer of the game. Hope makes a fine clearance on a high ball, and the defense stays tight and organized, giving the supremely skilled Japanese little room to create.

  In the seventy-ninth minute, the greatest goal-scorer in the history of international soccer, Abby Wambach, comes on for Tobin. A huge ovation resounds through BC Place. I go over to the sideline, take off the captain’s armband, and strap it on Abby. This will be the final World Cup game of her career. It’s only right that she goes out with the armband.

  The clock keeps moving, but I am oblivious to it. Even as I see our bench and coaching staff standing arm-in-arm, I am fighting for loose balls, trying to keep possession. Now we move into extra time, one minute and then another and then a third, and I am chasing a ball that sails over my head when the three whistles blow and the stadium erupts one more time.

  I drop to my knees and am almost instantly overcome by emotion. I don’t cry in public, ever. I guess I make an exception when we win a World Cup. The coaches and the whole team pour onto the field, running so fast you’d think they were being chased. Heather O’Reilly is the first to reach me. She bends down and wraps her arms around me, and there we are in BC Place by False Creek, two Jersey girls reveling in the happy, smoky moment. Other players head to the edge of the field to find their family and friends and drink in the love. I don’t go over to the stands, because I don’t think anybody is there. Soon enough, I find out I am wrong; Aunt Patti, my cousins Jaime and Adam, and my best friend Karen have all secretly made the trip for the final. Brian thought hard about it but in the end wanted to respect my wishes.

  My parents? They are not here. I don’t even know if they watched. I never hear a word until my mother sends a card a few weeks later.

  After the medal ceremony, and after I receive the Golden Ball for being the Player of the Tournament, I return to the locker room and can’t find my phone at first, because it’s somewhere beneath all the layers of cellophane they’ve covered the locker room with to protect our stuff from spraying champagne. When I finally dig it out, there are more than 400 text messages. I call Brian first, and it’s so wonderful to hear the joy in his voice.

  “I am so happy and proud of you,” Brian says.

  “I can’t wait to celebrate with you,” I say.

  When I reach James, he says, “What’s going on?”

  “Not much,” I say. “Just won a World Cup and scored some goals.”

  “I told you you could do it,” he says.

  “I know. And I am not stopping now. When are we training next? I want to keep getting better.”

  James stops me. “Ms. Lloyd, relax and enjoy the moment. We will train soon enough.”

  I meet up with Aunt Patti, Jaime, Adam, and Karen.

  I hug them all and tell them, “I can’t believe you are here!” Jaime and Karen stay with me in my room that night, even though I never go to bed. I am way too wired and way too happy to sleep. The team party goes loud and late. For once I am not in my room, hydrating and stretching. I am in the middle of everything. It’s the best sleepless night of my life.

  19

  Pure Gold

  ONE HUNDRED NINETY-ONE DAYS after our triumph over Japan and what people are calling the greatest performance in the history of the World Cup finals, I have traded in my white number 10 USA uniform and Nike boots for a red Matthew Christopher gown and high heels. I am with Brian, sitting directly behind Ronaldo in the second row of a huge auditorium in a swanky building called Kongresshaus, on the shores of Lake Zurich in Switzerland.

  The event is FIFA’s annual gala, Ballon d’Or (French for “Gold Ball”). The date is January 11, 2016. I have played soccer all over the world, but I’ve never been to Zurich until now. I am here because I am a finalist for the most prestigious award a soccer player can receive—FIFA’s World Player of the Year. The greatest players in the sport are all around me, among them Lionel Messi, Neymar, and my personal favorite, Andres Iniesta, the incomparable midfielder for FC Barcelona. On the women’s side, the notables include my fellow finalists, Aya Miyama of Japan and Celia Sasic of Germany, the star players of our last two opponents in the World Cup, along with my friend and teammate, Hope Solo, who was on the short list for Player of the Year honors, as well.

  I am accompanied by my three allotted guests: Brian, James, and James’s oldest son, Astin. The room is very warm, and between that and my nerves—I am more nervous by far than I’ve ever been for an Olympic or World Cup final—my hands and feet are slick with sweat. I’ve been nervous ever since I arrived in Switzerland, almost unable to eat, sleeping fitfully, my fuel mostly consisting of cappuccinos. Brian and I are holding hands, but I keep having to pull away to dry myself off a bit. When you play you can work out the nerves by running for a ball or tackling somebody. At Ballon d’Or there is nothing to do but sit and wait and hope your name is called, kind of like FIFA’s version of the Oscars.

  Between the time the master of ceremonies says, “I proudly present the FIFA Women’s World Player of the Year,” and opens the envelope, it feels as if a full ninety minutes goes by, plus ten minutes of stoppage time. I think my heart might pound right out of my gown. It keeps pounding until I hear the emcee say:

  Carli Lloyd.

  I want to get up and run around as if I were celebrating a goal, but I play it cool instead. The happiness I feel is almost indescribable. I give Brian a kiss and begin the walk up onto the stage, careful to lift up the gown so as not to trip, pausing to shimmy my foot back on the heel because it has slipped out from the sweat. I successfully make it up the steps without a tumble and gratefully receive the trophy, which is so heavy I could do curls with it.

  “Wow,” I say.

  I am overcome in the moment and take four or five seconds to collect myself. I apologize, and the crowd applauds. Finally, I think I’m calm enough to get through my remarks, which I’ve been thinking about for a couple of days.

  Here’s what I say:

  “It truly is an honor. This has been a dream of mine ever since I started my journey with the national team.

  “Celia . . . Aya . . . [You are] phenomenal footballers just as deserving of this award.

  “I want to thank everyone who voted for me. Also I want to thank Sunil Gulati and e
veryone at U.S. Soccer for all their support. I also want to thank Jill [Ellis] and the coaching staff [and] all of our support staff. I honestly wouldn’t be sitting up here—standing up here—without my incredible teammates, and we all know it took twenty-three players to win the World Cup this past summer, so thank you to them.

  “To my friends and family at home, thank you for your support. To my fiancé Brian, I couldn’t have done this without your support. I love you. To James, we started this journey thirteen years ago. You told me that I could become the best player in the world. It just took me the realization now that I could. Thank you for everything. One last shout-out: Astin Galanis, Preston Galanis, keep working hard. Keep your dream and just go after ’em.

  “Thank you, everybody.”

  The whole night is a blur. It gets even better when Jill Ellis, who took over our team just over a year out from the World Cup, is named the Women’s Coach of the Year. Afterwards, I pose for photos with Messi, the men’s Ballon d’Or winner, and get to meet Ronaldo, Marcelo, Kaka, and a who’s who of other world-class players. I even sneak in a quick photo with Iniesta.

  The gala dinner is in the room next door, but even then I barely eat because I am too excited and people keep coming by and wanting photos. It is a blast, but by now I really want out of the gown and heels. Brian and I go back to the hotel to change; the only clothes I have are my U.S. training pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, so that’s what I go with. We head down to the hotel bar, where we meet up with Jill and our FIFA liaisons. For me that is Rebecca Smith, a former national team player for New Zealand, who is my guide the whole time in Zurich. She is awesome and wants to make sure everything goes perfectly. Rebecca orders me a shot of tequila, the only drink I have the whole night.