“Hope,” Lesle told me, “I can see you on the gold medal podium for the World Cup.”
It was nice to hear that kind of stuff. But really, I had other plans. UW wasn’t even considered much of a soccer school. It definitely wasn’t a powerhouse like North Carolina. It didn’t place players on the national team the way Stanford or Santa Clara did. I knew I could get a full ride at the school of my choice.
On the last day of my UW recruiting trip, a Monday, I took a walk across campus. I saw students just hanging out, enjoying the sunshine. It was an eclectic crowd by ethnicity, age, fashion sense, and social stratum. I felt comfortable. Unscrutinized. I stopped by the university’s music building at the top of the steps leading down into the main quad. The campus spilled out in front of me, the Gothic-style redbrick buildings arranged in a rectangle, the bare cherry trees that would blossom in clouds of pink the following spring. In the distance, Portage Bay glistened. Beyond it, snowcapped Mount Rainier, the jewel of the Northwest, sat on the horizon like a scoop of ice cream.
I suddenly realized that this was my corner of the country, where I belonged. I felt a rush of emotion and a click of recognition so strong that it forced me to sit down hard on the stairs. I wanted to be more than a one-dimensional athlete, a number on a jersey, a prize to be attained by some coach. I wanted more—from my college, from my family, from myself. I was like the cherry trees on the quad—bare-branched but ready to bloom.
There on the steps, my future was abruptly rearranged. I wasn’t going to UW, and then suddenly I was. I could see myself here. I could be a normal college kid, without having to flee from my roots. I could be far enough away to have independence, yet maybe my family could participate in my success and be proud. Maybe my mother and I could build a relationship. My father could even watch me play. I almost started to weep from the force of my sudden conviction. I looked out at Mount Rainier, the smooth white crust covering the volcano below and knew I should be here.
Grandma would have said God was speaking to me.
II.
By the time I got back to Richland, I knew I was going to be a Husky. But I told Lesle and Amy that I didn’t want to announce it yet. I wanted to keep my private business private and be 100 percent sure of my decision, so other coaches were still recruiting me. April kept up the hard sell from Virginia. I knew that April—who had been one of the main assistants to national team head coach Tony DiCicco—could be my ticket into the national team pool. She kept nagging me to take my official visit to Charlottesville, so I finally scheduled it.
Somehow Lesle found out. My phone rang again. “Hope, don’t go, don’t get on the plane,” she said. “You’re good enough that no national team coach is going to pick you based on where you go to college. You’ll end up getting picked for the national team on merit.”
We were on the phone for more than two hours. “If you’re just going because of the national team, that’s the wrong reason,” Lesle said. “That’s not fair to Virginia. That’s not what the college experience is all about. Don’t get on the plane.”
I didn’t get on the plane. To this day, I’ve never been to the University of Virginia.
III.
With college still in the murky future, I concentrated on enjoying the present, my final year of high school. On November 21, we capped our undefeated soccer season by winning the state title, the first-ever championship for Richland High. I scored two goals in the game to bring my four-year total to 109. Within a couple of weeks, I was back on the basketball court, determined to enjoy my last season of competitive hoops. The year before, we finished third in the state, but we’d lost some key players to graduation, including Liz, who was playing soccer at Washington State. Our basketball team wasn’t as strong in my senior year, but I was having fun. I was key to our man-to-man defense. I loved shutting down the other team’s best player, and I was our second-leading scorer.
Senior year was going well. Glenn and I were getting along better—he even used a chunk of money from his disability checks to buy me a white Nissan Maxima. I felt special, that he wanted to invest in me. Marcus was away at college, so the house was calmer. There were a lot of parties with the other seniors—we were getting sentimental about going our separate ways, leaving old friends behind. The weekend before national signing day, our basketball team played Walla Walla. Afterward, there was a big party. My entire team was there, and everyone was drinking and telling stories, laughing about old times. I was a few days away from signing my national letter of intent with UW. Cheryl and her boyfriend were there, and I was with a date who went to a different school. In fact, my date was the designated driver for the evening. When Cheryl and her boyfriend left, my guy was eager to leave too—he didn’t know anyone, and he wasn’t drinking, so we left, while the party—and my teammates—raged on.
We headed home. Suddenly the car filled with red light. I turned around and saw a police car behind us, pulling us over. Thank God my date hadn’t been drinking. The officer shined his flashlight in the car.
“Hugging the line there a little tight,” the officer said. Then he shined the light over toward the passenger seat, on my face.
“Hope Solo?” he asked. Then, “Have you been drinking?”
There was no point in lying. I was kind of buzzed and I was a minor. It probably didn’t
