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

In recent months, I realized my dad was right. I fell into Adrian’s arms sobbing, and he wrapped me up. Then we drove to my little half-painted house in Kirkland, where my mother and Marcus were already waiting. I was drained, hollow, but I knew there was so much to do in just a few days. I needed to honor my father as best I could.

One blessing was knowing my father’s wishes: he had told both me and Marcus he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes spread over the Snoqualmie Pass. I hated driving in bad weather, so in the winter, when I had to navigate the pass on my way to or from Richland, I would stay on the phone with my father until I felt safe. “When I die, scatter my ashes there so I can still look out for both of you,” he had told us.

On Father’s Day, I had a barbecue at my house to celebrate my father’s life. Lesle and Amy came; so did Cheryl and Malia and Dad’s friend Mark. It was the first time I had ever met my father’s dear friend in person. Beverly came with her son. We had boards of photos of my dad set up. Adrian and Malia cooked for everybody.

During the gathering, Greg called. I already knew our team had beaten China in Cleveland. My teammates wore black armbands in honor of my father, and there was a moment of silence for him before the game. Bri had put my father’s initials on her goalkeeper gloves and recorded a shutout. I was touched by their actions.

“I’m just checking in with you,” Greg said. He told me to let him know when I was ready to come back and play with the team.

IV.

The next day, Marcus and I went to look at caskets. I was irritated by the incredible cost of ornate boxes, with leather padding and brass adornments that would just be burned up. The man who had been happy in a tent in the woods would have scoffed at the excess. Marcus and I found black humor in the absurdity of my father in a lavish casket. We decided not to get anything. We were going to dress my father in his beloved University of Washington sweats and a Native American Pride T-shirt he liked to wear, and cover him with a UW blanket—he didn’t need any fancy trappings.

While we were there, my phone rang. It was Greg again. He must have gotten impatient waiting for me to call back. He wanted to know when I would be back. I stepped into the hall to talk. I told Greg what I had known all along, ever since I had left the hotel in Cleveland. I needed to play in the game in New York. It was the moment my father had been looking forward to, and even if he wasn’t there, I wanted to fulfill the promise of our trip. I wanted to honor him by playing.

“Greg, I want to play against Brazil,” I said. “I’ll be there. I’ll play.”

He hesitated, then launched into minutiae about the travel and practice schedule. He thought I would miss too much training, but I knew the calendar. There was an off day and a travel day. I knew I would miss only one practice session. “I’ll be there,” I said. “I’ll play. My dad would want me to.”

Despite telling me he would honor my wishes, Greg told me that he thought I would be a distraction to the team. That he didn’t think I would be emotionally ready.

What the fuck did he know about emotions? I thought. He was a man who had patted my shoulder and called me “kiddo” moments after I learned my father had died. One day he told me to let him know what I wanted to do; the next day he was telling me how I felt. Was I supposed to apologize because my father had died? Was I being punished? I couldn’t believe it. I thought back to 2002, when I had roomed with Brandi Chastain when her mother, Lark, died of an aneurism. Brandi played the next day, and her teammates rallied behind her and picked her up. Eight months later, when Bri’s dad died, she came back and played in the next scheduled game.

Greg told me I could sit on the bench with the team. He had made up his mind. He wasn’t going to let me play in New York against Brazil.

V.

The plans for the memorial weren’t going well. I felt overwhelmed: the list of things I had to do was endless. Phone calls to be made, the obituary to be written, cremation plans to be finalized, finding someone to officiate the service. I was trying to get things done. Marcus and I were arguing. Thankfully, Cheryl flew into town as soon as she heard the news and helped us get organized—she could tell we were paralyzed by our pain.

The night before the memorial, we were at my house, sitting outside in the yard, going over the plans when Marcus and I got in a terrible fight. I yelled at him for not helping and for partying instead of working. He lashed out at me. “You’re taking this over,” he said, “like you fucking take over everything.”

I slapped him in the face. Even as my hand made contact with his skin, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I sprinted back into my house, Marcus chasing me and calling me hateful names. My mother was right behind him, screaming for us to stop as I dove under my dining table. Marcus is going to kill me, I thought, right here in my own house.

Jesus Christ! I thought. I was twenty-five years old, my father had just died, and my brother and I were acting like animals. And I was cowering under a piece of furniture. This was our family, this was our