Solo by Hope Solo (best books to read for women .txt) 📗

I allowed only two goals in the Pan-American games, had shutouts in the semifinal and final matches, and my team won the gold medal. It was a great experience: the U.S. men’s team was full of up-and-coming young stars like Landon Donovan and DaMarcus Beasley. Goalkeeper coach Peter Muehler worked with both the men’s and women’s goalkeepers and had us train together. I trained with Tim Howard and Adin Brown, and Tim and I clicked on the field. After the final, Peter told me that my performance was the best he had seen by any goalkeeper of any gender. It meant a lot for me to hear his words of praise. He was so well respected in the U.S. Soccer hierarchy, and I knew he’d pass along his high opinion of me.

I flew through Seattle on my way home to Richland. My dad came and met me at Sea-Tac Airport, and waited with me for my connecting flight. He was thrilled to see my medal and stopped total strangers at the airport to tell them what I had accomplished. “My blond Italian goddess,” he said over and over. “You’re the greatest, Baby Hope. Never sell yourself short.”

V.

It was time to move to Seattle. I was finally leaving Richland—and my family—behind. My mother drove me over the mountains to help me move into my preseason dorm. We went early because soccer training camp was starting, so there weren’t a lot of other students around. I already felt lonely.

We pulled the boxes out of the back of the truck and started hauling them up in the dorm elevator. While my mom was upstairs, I pulled more stuff out of the truck and carried up a load, leaving some of my other possessions on the curb. When I came back down, I saw a man walking away with my small television. I stared after him in shock. “Mom!” I shouted to her as she came out of the dorm. “That man stole my TV.”

“Relax,” my mother said and she chased him down the street and got it back.

I felt like a country mouse! How was I going to function in a big city without Mom to rescue me? I felt very young and very dumb.

We rushed to unpack because I had to hurry off for the team’s preseason physicals. It was time to say good-bye, the moment I’d been waiting for my whole life. My mother looked at me and her eyes welled up with tears. To my surprise, I started crying too. I had never said good-bye to my mother in my whole life. It was my father who was always disappearing; our relationship was a never-ending good-bye. Mom was the one who had always been there. She was the one who had been left with two kids, the one who had to support us and deal with all our shit. She made sure we got to school, that we were fed, that we had the best basketball shoes and a way to get around. She wasn’t perfect, but she had tried her hardest. Despite all the harsh words and fights between us, she was my touchstone, the one I knew I could lash out at without fear of her walking out. I had been so obsessed with my father’s drama, had idolized and romanticized him so much, that I had taken my mother for granted. Now that I was saying good-bye, I realized I had never needed her more.

“I love you, Hope,” she said, hugging me.

“I love you, Mom,” I said.

It was true. I did love her.

VI.

Before my first UW game, my goalkeeper coach, Amy, and I headed out to the field early to warm up. My dad, hands shoved into the pockets of his rumpled trench coat, was waiting outside the gate to the stadium. “Hi, Dad,” I said and gave him a hug.

“Hi, Baby Hope,” he said. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” I said, awkwardly. “Well, gotta get to work.”

I went back to Amy.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Uh, that’s my dad,” I said, and left it at that.

When the game started, my dad went to sit high in the uppermost corner of the bleachers, as close to one goal as he could get. When my mother and grandparents arrived, they sat in the “family and friends” section at midfield.

And that’s pretty much how it went for my entire UW career—my family split into two sides, sitting in different places. My dad would come to games early; often waiting outside the fence when I arrived. He sat at the top of the stands, removed from everyone else. He would watch me intently and sometimes call out, “Let’s go, Baby Hope” at a quiet moment. He wanted to make me laugh, but I was determined to keep my serious game face. He wouldn’t mingle with the rest of my family—he knew how much animosity they still carried for him. He waited awkwardly for me after games while I visited with the others. I always felt pulled between the two halves of my family.

A big group from Richland made the trek over the mountains for every home game: Mom, Grandma Alice and Grandpa Pete, Aunt Susie, sometimes Marcus. Mary and Dick came to watch Cheryl, who had indeed made the team. Terry made the quick drive from Kirkland. My Richland family was unconditionally supportive, but they still hated the fact that I was a goalkeeper. They were sure that I was being punished in some way and that my true talents were being denied. Grandma Alice often wore a T-shirt with my photo on it, covered with buttons with soccer photos of me dating back to grade school. She responded to a fund-raising solicitation from our coaching staff with the following note: “I will only donate a penny for every shutout Hope registers, but I will donate $100 for every goal she scores.”

But Lesle and Amy couldn’t be bribed. They were thrilled to have a dominant goalkeeper. Still, they remained true to