My fears were unfounded. I lived in a community that was proud of its athletes. Without my even knowing, several people in the community had already helped me out financially, chipping in over the years to make sure I could play soccer for the Three Rivers Soccer Club, pay the tournament fees, stay in hotels, and travel to away games. My first coach, Carl Wheeler, helped out. So did Tim Atencio, who aided me in raising money to play ODP. After that conversation with my mother and Glenn, I set about fund-raising. It was humbling—soliciting money at local tournaments and asking my club for help. But people seemed to take pride in giving me a hand; my Richland neighbors were invested in my athletic success.
I was able to keep playing. And, eventually, the state and regional programs found money for me. My soccer career wasn’t going to end.
II.
It was a good time to be a female athlete. The summer before my sophomore year, the Atlanta Olympics were dubbed the Women’s Games. American female athletes—including the U.S. women’s soccer team—stole the show. This success showed how well Title IX—the federal law passed nine years before I was born and that I was only vaguely aware of—had worked. Title IX, enacted in 1972, bans gender discrimination in institutions receiving federal funds, which opened up collegiate and high school athletics to girls. Now the first generation to grow up under Title IX was winning fistfuls of gold medals.
The U.S. soccer team drew capacity crowds that summer as they made their gold-medal run. That was the first time most people had ever heard of players like Mia Hamm, Julie Foudy, and Michelle Akers, and their popularity was rooted in soccer-playing kids like me all over the country.
But Title IX didn’t make things easier inside my house. Money continued to be a touchy subject; I felt like my soccer was making things harder on my family.
After being laid off, my mother started her own business as a handywoman, doing fix-it jobs around town. Her best clients were older men and single women who didn’t want to let a stranger in their homes. But her drinking got in the way, and she lost customers. It was the first in her string of odd jobs: working at a health club, running a secondhand store.
Marcus had been a good defensive lineman in high school and was planning to play football at Walla Walla Community College, just as our older brother, David, had. But he got in a car accident, breaking his ribs and suffering a contusion to his liver. So instead of playing football, he spent his first full year out of high school partying and raising hell. One night he borrowed our mother’s tricked-out red Nissan Maxima and went to a friend’s house to get loaded. Coming home the next morning—still drunk—he took a turn too fast and totaled the car. He tried to run away but was arrested. Because he had a suspended license, he was facing jail time. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two months in jail plus forty-five days of house arrest, during which time he had to wear an ankle bracelet tracking device.
Marcus was released from jail in time for football training camp at Walla Walla, but because Walla Walla is in a different county, he couldn’t live there while he wore the bracelet. So my grandma and grandpa drove him there and back, ninety minutes each way, every day for forty-five days—a round-trip trek of unconditional love.
III.
My first serious boyfriend was a guy I’ll call Tom. I’d had a boyfriend when I was younger—his parents were friends with Mom and Glenn, and we camped and snorkeled and played sports together. I had also dated some older guys—I never had a problem getting a date or earning the attention of boys I liked. But Tom was special. He was a year ahead of me. Tom was handsome and he played football and basketball. He was the new guy and all the girls were interested. He quickly became attached to the popular group, but was dating me. He was my first love, although I wasn’t ready to sleep with him.
I didn’t hang out with the popular girls. I was too busy playing sports to play their social games. I couldn’t keep track: friends one day and backstabbers the next, who was wearing the right clothes, who was on the outs. I was good friends with the athletes in the group, the ones who knew me as a teammate, but a lot of the popular girls saw me as a threat. They didn’t like the fact that the boys they liked liked me. And dating a guy like Tom made them hate me even more.
I was traveling a lot for soccer, missing parties, dances, and weekend outings. After I got back from one trip, I heard that Tom had cheated on me with a cheerleader, one of the popular girls. I was devastated. Late in the summer, a few weeks later, Cheryl and I walked through the dusty entrance of the county fair in Kennewick. Coming out the exit was the cheerleader who had slept with Tom. Cheryl prayed I wouldn’t notice her, but I did. I made a beeline toward the girl, cutting through the stream of carnival goers.
“Hey,” I said, stepping in front of her. “You’re a fucking slut.”
She smirked at me. “Tom’s pretty good,” she said. “You should give him a try.”
I punched her in the face. Cheryl grabbed me.
