In my twelve games, I made seventy-seven saves, the fourth-highest total in school history. Against BYU, I made thirteen saves, one short of the school regular-season record. But for the first time in a very long time, I learned what it was like to lose. Our team wasn’t great. We finished fifth in the Pac-10 conference that year and didn’t make the playoffs. I’ve always enjoyed challenges, and I never regretted my decision to be at Washington, not once. When my grandparents celebrated their golden fiftieth wedding anniversary, I was able to be there—heading home for a quick trip with Cheryl. And I liked taking my own path, helping to build something new.
That fall was a period of huge adjustments. When I got to UW, I started weight training for the first time. I was living in the dorms and eating dorm food. I was no longer the skinny kid who graduated from Richland High. My body was changing. I did what I was told by the trainers. I always prided myself in being first in fitness, first in sprints, first in weight training. I was great at drills: I could go up and down, diving for balls a million times and never getting tired. I wanted to work hard, harder, the hardest. But it was a shock to see how quickly my body could change. I was self-conscious of my new muscles. I thought I looked ugly in dresses.
That wasn’t the only adjustment. That young, naive feeling I had while I watched a stranger carry off my television never fully went away. Back in Richland, I felt pretty savvy, but now my high-school rebellions seemed like childish stuff. At UW everyone seemed more comfortable socially and more stylish. Though I was still a good student, I was more self-conscious in class. I stopped speaking up. I was shocked by the constant partying, the random sex in the bedrooms at fraternity parties, the illegal drugs being exchanged—and the apparent ability of everyone to go crazy at night and then get up and go to class. My roommate was far more adept than I at juggling sports, studies, and men. I really liked her—she was fun to hang with—but I was uncomfortable with her habits. It seemed there was always a man in our room. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the sounds of her having sex in the next bed. I’d lie in bed squeezing my eyes shut, pushing away memories of my father in that hotel room with the strange woman. I felt like a little child again, in a situation beyond my control. I was put off by my roommate’s lack of modesty and her disregard for privacy, but it seemed normal, so I never spoke up.
I just rolled over and pretended to be asleep.
VII.
The team activity for the week was to feed the homeless at the Union Gospel Mission Men’s Shelter in Seattle’s Pioneer Square. Lesle made sure we were involved in our community with regular activities, such as visiting kids at the Children’s Hospital and conducting soccer clinics at schools. I knew the community projects were important, but I just couldn’t do this outing. I’d seen those homeless men lining up outside Union Gospel, in rumpled coats and worn-out shoes. I knew I was probably the only one on my team who was willing to make contact with a homeless person without being forced by the team.
Plus, I was afraid of running into my father. So I just didn’t show up. They all got on the bus, and I stayed behind in my dorm and studied.
The next day, Lesle called me aside. “Hey, Hope,” she said. “That wasn’t an optional activity. Where were you?”
I swallowed hard. “I couldn’t go,” I said. “I didn’t want to see my dad.”
Lesle looked surprised. She and Amy had seen my dad at our games, had even exchanged brief hellos. But they had no idea that he was homeless. With my secret out in the open, I let the rest out. I told Lesle the whole story, the kidnapping, the erratic contact, his blue tarp in the woods. She listened. She let me talk, without interruption or judgment. “OK, Hope,” she said. “Next time we go to Union Gospel, you don’t have to go.”
The next time the team went down to Pioneer Square, I went to the library. My teammates thought I was getting a special privilege, that I thought I was too good to feed homeless people.
They didn’t know the truth. And Lesle didn’t explain.
CHAPTER SIX
The ’99ers
A horde of squealing Mia Hamm fans swarmed around me. They had signs. They had posters. They wielded sharpies like switch-blades. I was trying to get into the lobby of our hotel in Portland without my USA warm-ups being torn off my body. Hotel security was no match for the passion of those prepubescent girl soccer players, who pulled at us with their sticky hands. Some of my teammates and I formed a wedge and made it from the bus and through the revolving door into the lobby, which was cordoned off from the fans. Once inside the elevator, I exhaled. Safe at last. I was starting to get it. This U.S. women’s national team was a big deal.
I knew, of course, that winning the World Cup seven months earlier had elevated women’s soccer into the mainstream. I knew that Mia Hamm and Brandi Chastain had become household names. But what I didn’t know was that their rock-star aura had generated Beatles-level hysteria.
April Heinrichs, who knew me well from having recruited me
