One Life

by Megan Rapinoe

  The World Cup qualifying tournament that year was in the US, which meant that by the standards of the national team, it was a relatively easy fall schedule. The first match, against Trinidad and Tobago, was in Kansas City, and from there we zipped up to Illinois to beat Guatemala 5–0, thrashed Haiti 6–0 in Washington, DC, and after avoiding another upset against Mexico in the semis (we won 3–0), cruised through to the final and a 6–0 victory over Costa Rica in Pennsylvania. It was the seventh time we had won the tournament and it put us in good shape for the World Cup. Our new coach, Jill Ellis, who had been the head coach at UCLA and replaced Tom Sermanni in the spring, was as gung ho to win as we were.

  We were always gung ho to win, of course. When you have to fight as hard as we did just to get on the team, that attitude is a foregone conclusion. After the failure of our pay negotiations, however, our desire to lift the World Cup trophy was fiercer than ever. Most of us realized that winning the World Cup in 2015 would make it harder for the federation to deny us equal pay with the men, who had never won a World Cup—the furthest they’d gotten was third place, in 1930. To be the equal of the men’s team, not only did we have to be the best in the world, we also had to be the best in the world over and over. This time, the stakes were bigger than the tournament.

  It wasn’t only the pay raise we were fighting for. Inequities between the men’s and women’s games were so entrenched that they seriously affected our safety. Toward the end of 2014, we learned that most of our World Cup matches were scheduled to be played in stadiums with artificial turf. We were furious. Turf is dangerous. When you fall on turf, it takes the skin off your arm or leg like a cheese grater. It’s harder on your back and your ankles. We understood that playing on natural grass might not be possible all of the time—which wasn’t the case, actually, because clearly it is possible—but to play a major, money-spinning tournament like the World Cup on turf was ridiculous; it hadn’t been used in a men’s World Cup for over eighty years. In October 2014, we filed a lawsuit against FIFA; however, in January, under pressure to focus on training, we dropped the suit. But we made another vow: This World Cup would be the last time we played a major tournament on turf.

  In spite of the huge viewing figures generated in 2011, there was not much buzz in the run-up to the World Cup in 2015. There were a few big send-off games, but the sense of promotional inertia from both FIFA and the US Soccer Federation was depressingly familiar. Precedent didn’t seem to matter; we were always starting from scratch. To make matters worse, the tournament was in Canada, not a big soccer-playing nation. The saving grace was that we were close to America, so at least all of our games sold out. But the overall feeling was one of underpromotion, and though Vancouver, the host city and a hub of excitement, was cool, in every other city you’d have been forgiven for thinking there was no World Cup going on.

  Our response to all of this, as usual, was to focus on winning. The World Cup was our first big tournament with Jill as our coach, and while winning the qualifying tournament had been a great introduction to her, that was a regional competition. Part of the coach’s job is to manage the feelings of the players, and that means not passing on her anxiety to them. This was the first time we’d seen Jill perform in a super high-stress environment and we didn’t know what to expect. As the early rounds of the World Cup got under way, the team got off to a slow start. In our first match, I scored two of the three goals in our 3–1 win against Australia, a great opening followed by two underwhelming games—a 0–0 draw against Sweden, and a 1-0 win against Nigeria. We were underperforming and we knew it. Jill picked up some flack in the press for being too cautious, and whether that was fair, there was clearly a problem. Though the team vibe was good and we meshed well on the field, we weren’t playing as well as we should have. As the tournament progressed, the tension mounted.

  After our 1–0 win against China in the quarterfinals, we dispatched Germany 2–0 in the semis and set our sights on the final. It was scheduled for July 5 in Vancouver and was against our old rival, Japan, who we’d lost out to in the 2011 World Cup final. It was the kind of drama sports fans dream of, and finally buzz had been generated. Ahead of the game, fifty-five thousand tickets were sold. There was huge pressure on us all. The night before the final, Jill asked to see me.

  It’s not that I thought Jill didn’t rate me exactly. But unlike with Laura Harvey at Seattle Reign, I was never quite sure where I stood with Jill. I didn’t need superstar treatment, and I didn’t need someone to carte blanche believe in me. But I did need encouragement, and the vibe from Laura had always been supportive. “I believe in you so much,” she would say, and “You’re a great player.” But she would also tell me, “Here are the areas you need to improve” and “I believe you can be so much more.” Rather than berating me when I failed, she talked about my errors in terms of growing my game while acknowledging that in the biggest moments of a match, I always, always showed up.

  By contrast, I never felt in safe hands with Jill. That night before the World Cup final, when I walked into her room, she had a laptop with some film clips ready to go. For the next few minutes, she played a showreel of negative clips of me, replays of moments in which I’d failed to defend or lapsed in coverage on the back side. It was clear she was just nervous and, of course, I understood that. The US Women’s National Team had never failed to progress to at least the semifinals in the World Cup, and for a new coach, the pressure was intense. But by talking to me about her insecurities about me, I didn’t understand what she hoped to achieve—apart from unnerving me right before the game.

  Once the montage was over, she turned to me and asked whether I thought I should be in the starting lineup. “Or should I keep you on the bench and maybe bring you in during the second half?” she wondered. I was completely incredulous. “What?!” I replied. “I’m literally one of the best players in the whole tournament, what are you talking about?” No, I told her; you shouldn’t start me on the bench. I need to be in the opening lineup.

  I left the meeting in a daze. It seemed to me Jill was nervous and was working out those nerves by passing them on to me, without understanding what that could do to a player. I have a solid sense of self, but jeez, that would shake anyone, and that night, it cost me some sleep. It was hard to not be rattled and I was also pissed off. Great, I thought; the night before the biggest match of my career, you’ve shown me all these negative things about myself, and now that’s all I have in my mind. If you’re nervous, I thought, call your wife.

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  —

  Everything we’ve achieved politically as a team can be dated to what happened after that World Cup final. Before we played Japan on July 5, 2015, we were politically disorganized, so although we elected player reps to negotiate with US Soccer, we had no clear sense of how to get what we wanted. After the final, when we found ourselves, once again, in the absurd position of being the best in the world while being treated like amateurs, we finally stopped messing around. We couldn’t keep going through this cycle of winning with conditions never improving. This time, no matter how much work it took, we were going to change things.

  The match itself was dramatic, a high-scoring game of a kind you never get in the final of a huge tournament. We went for broke and the first half was Carli’s. Three minutes in, I played a short ball from the corner and Carli smacked it right in, boom! Two minutes later, she scored again, and ten minutes after that, Lauren Cheney made it 3–0 with a beautiful volley. We had never felt so confident on the field. Japan clawed back a goal, but by halftime, after another goal—a ridiculous shot from half field that only Carli would have had the audacity to try—we were up 4–1.

  We weren’t going to let our guard down now. Ahead by three goals in the second half of the World Cup final is a pretty sweet place to be, but we were also wary of getting too relaxed. After a fifth goal by Tobin Heath, however, it was hard to keep our expectations at bay. Even after a clumsy own goa
l, bringing the score to 5–2, we knew we were home. The final whistle blew. The stadium exploded. We had won the World Cup after a sixteen-year hiatus, with the highest score ever recorded in a tournament final. And to cap it all, it was my thirtieth birthday.

  There is nothing like winning, except winning when you know you’re going to put it to good use. When we got back to the States, it was immediately clear that US Soccer was unprepared to take advantage of our win and keep up public interest. We were returning to bad contracts, bad pay, and no structure or foundation to build on our global audience. Winning the World Cup was awesome. But it wasn’t enough.

  We started to talk about organization. Our Players Association was in disarray, so we began auditing the skills of every member of the team to determine how we could put them to use. The smartest people among us were Christen Press, Becky Sauerbrunn, and Meghan Klingenberg. Christen’s great at strategy; Meghan’s amazing at the business side; and Becky is incredibly clever, which is why they were our player representatives already. Now, we decided, instead of relying solely on lawyers, these were the people we wanted in the room when it came to negotiating our contracts.

  We had other usable skills—chiefly, celebrity. While Christen hated doing media, it came easily to Alex Morgan and me, and we could generate publicity, talk ourselves blue about pay and conditions, and put our platform to good use. Our public profiles, meanwhile, meant we hit heavy in the room with US Soccer. This is how we proceeded, identifying what we needed and then appointing whoever was strongest in that area. When you know yourself and your strengths, there is always something you can do to raise the standard for everyone.

  As a team, it was an extraordinary moment—witnessing this collection of women rise up—and it fundamentally changed our dynamic. Prior to 2015, the leadership structure within the team had followed playing hierarchies, so those elected to negotiate with US Soccer were always the best or oldest on the team. Now, by looking at people’s skills off the field, we essentially established a business within a business. We developed clear goals and strategies. We put systems in place to handle media interest. Younger players were encouraged to speak up and get involved, and natural leaders—whether or not they were the best on the team—were encouraged to take on those roles. It was a better, more democratic environment in which we gave one another space to be more than just players.

  I swung into action, giving interviews and putting the pay issue front and center. Right after the World Cup, I did a Q and A with The Players’ Tribune and was asked what needed to happen in order for the women’s game to get to the next level. “We need more funding,” I said. “Listen, it’s awesome that people got on board and watched the World Cup. And it’s cool that businesses like us, but I hope they put their money where their mouth is. The women’s game can make money. It’s proven. It’s not a handout. It’s not ‘you should do the right thing.’ More than 20 million people watched the final in the US alone. That’s real money.” Without sexism putting a hand on the scales, the argument made itself.

  In the fall, we embarked on a national victory tour, playing friendlies and exhibition matches around the country. In December, we were due to play a match against Trinidad and Tobago in Hawaii—on turf. A few days before the game, during a practice session on the field in Honolulu, I tore my ACL. It actually happened on grass, but because the game itself was to be played on turf, everyone assumed the injury had happened on turf, too, and I was happy to let the misapprehension stand. For once, the federation was embarrassed. The game was canceled and Sunil Gulati, the federation president, apologized to the players for a “series of mistakes” leading up to the game in Hawaii. We all knew the problem went much further than that, and although Gulati didn’t say so, we felt confident that the publicity around my injury meant we would never be asked to play on turf again.

  I hadn’t been injured like this in almost ten years. It was a shock. But those kinds of early lessons don’t leave you and it was, I knew, important to give myself time and not rush back on the field. In playing terms, we were in a tight turnaround between the World Cup and the Olympics, but I was pretty logical about the injury and knew not to be reckless. At the end of the season, as I plowed through cycles of rest and rehab, I kept in touch with Becky, Christen, and and our fierce labor lawyer, Mady, about how to press the federation for better pay.

  One thing we learned: You can’t go into a campaign worrying about whether people will like you. This is a problem for women. We’re socialized to fear being disliked. In any encounter, the burden of social ease often falls on us. We’re not supposed to make trouble, and it stops us from getting—or even asking for—what we want.

  Well, sorry. When a male national team player receives $5,000 for losing a friendly, and a female player receives $1,350 for a win (and nothing whatsoever for a loss or a tie); when the women’s national team exceeded revenue projections by $16 million in 2015, and the men’s team was in the red; when there are disparities going right down to the level of per diems we receive when we travel for the team ($50 a day for the women; $62.50 for the men)—it’s not time to make nice. At the end of 2015, we made a decision. Keeping things pleasant, civil, and in-house at the federation hadn’t worked. Now we needed outside help. We hired another lawyer. We looked to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. We took steps toward filing a formal complaint.

  13

  RIO

  Sera and I hosted Thanksgiving at home in Seattle that year. It was a full house, with a lot of my cousins and friends staying for the long weekend. The day after the holiday, I called my mom in an indignant rage. “God, Mom,” I said, “these effing people, they leave their coffee cups everywhere. What’s with that? I’m making pot after pot, and they act like they’re on vacation.”

  My mom burst out laughing. “They are on vacation!” she said. “In your house, and you’re the hostess.” Growing up, it drove her crazy when I left my stuff all over the house. (“Pick up after yourself, I’m not going to wait on you!” she’d yell.) Now karma had come for me and she thought it was hilarious. Looking after people, it turns out, is completely exhausting, and also something I felt compelled—and secretly loved—to do. “I don’t know how it happened,” I grumbled to my mom, “but I got your hospitality gene.”

  Throwing our own Thanksgiving was a sign that I had finally established somewhere beyond my parents’ house to call home. In August, a month after the Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage and a few weeks after the World Cup final, Sera and I had gotten engaged. There was so much to be excited about that summer, but being able to marry the woman I loved was right up there with winning the World Cup. We made a public announcement, posting a photo of us kissing on Instagram and inviting everyone to celebrate with us. It was a hopeful gesture, one matched, the following March, when I and four of my teammates—Carli, Becky, Alex, and Hope—put our names to a federal wage discrimination complaint with the EEOC. We were backed by the whole team, and judging by the press we received, by most casual observers, too. The numbers were hard to argue with; in spite of making more money, generating more publicity, and winning overwhelmingly more matches than the men’s team, we made as little as 40 percent of what they did. In the early part of 2016, it felt as if we were forging ahead.

  The only sadness was Brian. A lot had changed since our childhoods. Years earlier, he’d had a moment of reckoning in the prison yard, when he’d realized it was self-defeating for prisoners to be fighting one another when they were all being let down by the system. In the wake of this, he’d become quite liberal, an outspoken critic of racism in prison and a proponent of system reform.

  In other ways, however, nothing had changed. He’d watched the World Cup from a prison cell in San Diego, where he was serving eight months on drug charges. A journalist had visited him there and the piece was posted, with my blessing, on the US Soccer Federation website. It painted a vivid portrait of my brother watching my games on the
TV from his cell, cheering me on with other men who, for whatever reason, had been ensnared in the system alongside him, and banging on bars when we won. It was a positive piece, and a good exercise in humanization, showing, through the medium of my goofy brother, that drug addicts and offenders aren’t some mysterious “other,” but brothers, sons, sisters, mothers who came from families no different from yours.

  Like a lot of the coverage about Brian, however, it was also sentimental in tone. “I think we’ve even gotten closer [as adults],” he said of our relationship, but I think we both knew it was more complicated than that. If I played in the Rio Olympics the following summer, I knew Brian would be rooting for me all the way. But while I kept up with his news through my mom and we texted sporadically, the truth is I hadn’t seen him in years.

  I was still coming back from my knee injury that spring. The recovery process was grueling, full of six-hour days of rehab and training. I knew from experience that my body was healing and that if I could be patient, I’d get to the other side. In the meantime, I tried to focus on other things. That March of 2016, I flew to New York to speak at Cornell University for the launch of Athlete Ally, an LGBTQ advocacy group. “I have walked in your shoes, and walked the road ahead of you, and want you to know you will be OK, and you have more support than you ever dared to dream of,” I’d said when I joined the organization, addressing young gay athletes. Now I was excited to talk to students.