Solo by Hope Solo (best free ereader .TXT) 📕

and cold, and tumbleweeds blew across the street. Our teammates laughed—many were from pretty suburbs in California or Colorado, and they couldn’t get over how desolate and unsophisticated Richland was. Hanford had been declared one of the most toxic sites in America, which didn’t make it more appealing. Whatever. I might be living in hip Seattle and running around the globe to play soccer, but that Columbia riverbank dust is in my soul.

My whole family came to the game, including my mother. And I was so proud to see her. After several attempts, my mom stopped drinking on Halloween of 2000. She had tried quitting on her own, then in an outpatient rehab, but nothing lasted. But when she started attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, she stopped cold turkey. She was adjusting to her new life: she and Glenn had lost a lot of their hard-partying river friends. We stopped attending traditional annual events, like a big New Year’s party. My grandparents made sure not to drink when Mom was around—and they loved their evening martini. Glenn stopped social drinking. Everyone supported her, and I started to see a real change in her. She seemed so much happier.

“Mom,” I said, giving her a hug when we came to Richland. “I am so proud of you.”

I had to laugh when Mr. Potter, the Richland athletic director—the same guy who had kicked me off the basketball team—came up to greet me with an embrace. I stiffened. “Don’t act like you were a part of this, Mr. Potter,” I said. I wasn’t going to be a phony just to let him feel important.

VI.

Lesle believed our team would become stronger by being tested in tough nonconference games. We usually played powerhouses like Portland and Santa Clara. In my senior year, though, she outdid herself: she scheduled us in the Carolina Classic tournament in September, playing Duke and North Carolina. Those were two of the top teams in the country, but we were making our mark nationally: ranked number eleven to start the season. We lost both Carolina Classic games; I missed them both because I was with the national team for a game against Scotland in Columbus, Ohio. I got the start, and was replaced by Bri in the second half. Abby didn’t start but came off the bench to score a hat trick (three goals in one game)—probably the moment she became indispensable to the national team.

I didn’t know it, but that was the last game I would play for the national team for the next two and a half years. April was still encouraging and supportive, but Bri had regained her form and, having learned the hard way, was determined not to let go of the starting spot again.

I wanted to make the most of my senior year at UW. Our team had partied too much the year before, and the seniors decided to have a “dry” season. I didn’t think it was a good idea—I didn’t feel like policing the younger players, and I knew the rule would definitely get broken. Hell, we broke it ourselves—with senior-only parties in which we were sworn to secrecy about drinking. Not surprisingly, the younger players broke the rule too. The new players were struggling to balance the partying side of college with the hard work of soccer. I felt they were out of control, lacking focus and commitment. Still, the “dry” rule that everyone was ignoring became too big a distraction—too much energy and time went into trying to figure out how to handle violations.

It wasn’t where our attention needed to be. On the field, our team was struggling. Our ambitious schedule hurt us: we lost eight games, seven to ranked opponents. We had a lot of talent, but everyone seemed to be pointing fingers rather than scoring goals. I was a captain, but I felt ineffective. I had one foot in the national-team camp and couldn’t give the UW issues my complete attention. And I was frustrated by what I saw. In one team meeting, a freshman started to argue with Lesle about a formation she was implementing. I stood up. “This isn’t fucking high school,” I shouted. “Why don’t you listen to someone who knows about the game?”

I stormed out. It wasn’t an appropriate reaction for a senior captain, but I resented having a know-it-all freshman take over the meeting. When I had been a younger player, I looked up to our juniors and seniors. But now our team seemed irreparably broken. When we lost to UCLA in our final home weekend, I was disappointed. My senior season hadn’t gone as I had hoped. No happy ending.

Lesle gave me a hug after the game. “I’m glad you have Adrian,” she said. “I know you need someone to lean on away from the team.”

When selections were made for the NCAA postseason tournament, UW was left out. The selection committee didn’t consider our strength of schedule. They just saw all the losses. Portland, led by Christine Sinclair, won the national championship. I ended my career at UW with every school goalkeeper record, including my eighteen shutouts, 325 saves, and a goals-against average of 1.02. But statistics never mattered to me. The important thing was that—finally—I had learned to become a goalkeeper.

Not long after I first put on the purple UW jersey—choosing number 18 so that I could keep my options with a number a field player would wear—my goalkeeper coach, Amy, handed me a note that said, “A goalkeeper cannot win a game. A goalkeeper saves it.” I made those words my computer screen-saver.

In high school, I had been the forward who won games. It was a huge mental adjustment to learn that my job was to save games. To be patient in goal. To anticipate what was needed. Amy taught me the nuances of being a goalkeeper. Before, I would stand in goal, the ball would come toward me, and I’d use my athletic ability to make the save. But thanks to