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

if a sub was coming on, but continued to play a man down. North Korea—already far too comfortable—was clearly energized by Greg’s decision to let us play shorthanded until Abby could return and stepped up the pressure. The North Koreans passed the ball with ease in front of our goal, eventually sending a pass wide to Kil Son Hui at the top of the penalty box. She lashed the ball toward me. I thought I could catch it. Instead the hard shot slipped through my wet gloves and into the goal. That made it 1–1.

Abby had been out for three minutes, and we were tied and struggling. Yet Greg still continued to let us play shorthanded. The message he was sending was pretty clear: Without Abby we’re doomed. Our subs are no good.

I gathered my composure but was still under tremendous pressure. The North Korean players played kickball with each other while our team struggled for possession. After Carli was called for a foul, North Korea sent a free kick wide of the goal and then passed the ball among six different players. A shot heading toward the right post was deflected by Shannon Boxx directly in front of me; I was moving right, then tracked left with the deflection. But Kim Yong Ae pounced on the ball and shot it over my outstretched right hand.

Another goal. We were down 2–1. We had never lost a game in group play in World Cup history. I could see the alarm in my teammates’ eyes. Greg seemed paralyzed on the sideline, doing nothing to stop North Korea’s momentum. Finally, after ten long minutes and two North Korean goals, Abby came sprinting out on the field with eleven stitches in her head. Back at full strength, we calmed down. In the sixty-ninth minute, Heather O’Reilly buried a shot in the upper right corner of the net. We were even, 2–2, but North Korea continued to push forward. In stoppage time, they thought they had the winner on a hard shot, but I fully extended to my right to push the ball out of danger. Just seconds later, another North Korean player took a long shot directly at goal that I dove at and smothered. I was keeping us alive. Finally the whistle blew. We finished with a draw and a critical point in the group standings.

I wasn’t happy about the goals—particularly the first one that had slipped off my gloves—but I was still proud. I had made a fistful of spectacular saves that kept our team in the game. I learned a rough lesson about trying to catch a slippery ball, a mistake I wouldn’t make again. We came away with a point on a day when no one—not me, our field players, our coach—was at their best. Coming up big in the final seconds of the game only bolstered my confidence.

After the whistle, Greg came up to me on the field. He had a huge grin on his face. “Thank you for those saves,” he said, giving me a hug. Then he pointed to the sky. “Somebody’s watching out over you from up there,” he said.

I stiffened. It was the first time since I’d returned from my father’s memorial service—almost three months earlier—that Greg had openly acknowledged my loss. In those final weeks of training in the United States, he had never reached out to me or asked me how I was doing. But now that I had come up big in a World Cup game, he was going to use my dad as a motivating factor? That offended me. But I didn’t say anything. I just let him hug me while I seethed.

II.

The ashes were in a small container the size of my thumb that I placed in my locker before every game. Though I normally wouldn’t wear my goalkeeper gloves out to the field, I did in China. I placed a tiny bit of ash in my left glove in the locker room. Out on the field, I put my right hand over my heart for the national anthem and held my left glove carefully by my side. When I walked into the goal, I made the sign of the cross, kissed my closed fist, then opened my glove and let the ashes drop, saying a little prayer to myself. I had meant what I had said at his memorial: my dad would always be in goal with me.

After the North Korea game, we stayed in gray Chengdu—a city famous for its lack of sunshine—for another few days to play Sweden, the third-ranked team in the world.

Sept 14, 2007

Game Two—so nervous, Dad. Please be with me. Help me know that I have nothing to prove after last game. Help me to live in the moment. Right through the fingers, Dad, but I played so well. I just want to play relaxed, play in the moment, enjoy every minute. Let’s have fun, Dad.

Our game against Sweden was a much better outing for our team, with none of the tension and dramatics of the North Korea game. Abby scored twice, the first goal coming on a penalty kick, and our defense played much better. I saw my old friend Lotta Schelin—the rising star of the Swedish team—but she couldn’t beat me. I had my first World Cup victory and shutout. I whispered a word of thanks to my dad.

We left Chengdu and headed to Shanghai, getting into the city just days before Typhoon Wipha. We played Nigeria—with the chance to win our group—in a steady downpour. Lori Chalupny scored just fifty-three seconds into the match, and Nigeria was on its heels the rest of the day. Still, late in the game, I was forced to make some saves to preserve the victory, another shutout.

Despite our difficult draw, we had won our group and were now in the quarterfinals against England. The game was in Tianjin, in northern China, a long trek from Shanghai. All our family members made the journey. The