In the aftermath of the World Cup, all the ’99 players were awash in new opportunities: they were shooting commercials, endorsing products, making appearances, basking in their new fame. Mia had written a book. Brandi was in a Nike commercial with basketball star Kevin Garnett. Bri made appearances. Everyone agreed that this was great exposure for women’s soccer, uncharted territory for women athletes. But Bri had relaxed a little too much. She had, by her own admission, gone home and celebrated. She was confident that she could get her form back quickly, but she couldn’t. Diving for balls, running sprints, doing fitness tests—I was kicking her ass. So were the other two relatively inexperienced goalkeepers, Siri Mullinix and Jen Branam. We were all outperforming the legendary Briana Scurry.
I was shocked. I didn’t understand how you could relax so close to the Olympics—risking missing out on one of the great opportunities in sport. “We have a problem in that we have four good goalkeepers,” April told reporters. “We have one with a wealth of experience and three with little experience. . . . Hope knows we don’t guarantee playing time. But, at the same time, I have confidence in her.”
April was going to cut twelve players before she named the final Olympic roster. She would keep two goalkeepers and make one an alternate. I felt I had a decent shot. I got my first start for the national team on April 5, 2000, against Iceland at Davidson College in North Carolina. The game was closed to the public. In a scheduling quirk, U.S. Soccer wanted back-to-back games with Iceland but felt it could only market one game, so the other was closed. At least I didn’t have to deal with the screaming throngs of Mia fans in my debut. A player from North Carolina who was on the Iceland roster lifted a ball right over me that could have been a disaster, but fortunately it bounced wide right of the goal. That was about the only threat. On offense, our team was ridiculously dominant, scoring 8 goals. I had my first appearance for the national team—known in soccer parlance as a cap—and my first shutout, even if no one saw it.
II.
The hotel in Portland was the nicest I’d ever been in. Security kept fans out of the lobby. It wasn’t just kids begging for autographs now. Professional autograph seekers were lined up trying to get signatures they would turn around and sell. Because I was wearing USA warm-ups, I was asked for my signature. But I knew I hadn’t done anything to earn the attention—I was just surfing in the wake of the ’99ers.
I was scheduled to play against Mexico in the Nike Cup on Cinco de Mayo. My family drove down from Washington for the game and attended a family dinner in a banquet room at the hotel. Well-dressed mothers and square-jawed fathers stood in groups and chatted about real estate and the Internet boom. My family stood out: Grandma Alice wearing her Hope shirt, my mother tasting every dessert and then asking for a doggie bag. They stood around awkwardly. Few of the other parents came up and introduced themselves. My family, I thought, does not fit in here. I fought the urge to hide.
For the game against Mexico, fans filled the stands at Portland’s Civic Stadium. I subbed for Siri in the second half, with a 4–0 lead. We were firmly in control, but in one sequence, Brandi let a ball through the back line, and I had to dive to make a save. Brandi turned around and yelled at me—“Come on, Hope!”—blaming me for not coming out for the ball.
It hadn’t been my mistake, but I didn’t argue. That was my mistake.
After the game, April called me in for a conversation about my status. She wanted to talk about the ball Brandi had missed, and our interaction. “That tells me that you’re not ready, Hope,” she said. “We all knew Brandi made a mistake. Yet you didn’t have the courage to call her out and yell back at her. You’re not ready to lead this defense.”
I knew then I wasn’t going to make the final cut. When the team went to Australia for a pre-Olympic tournament a few weeks later, I wasn’t on the traveling roster. I stayed behind in California to train. I was disappointed, but I understood April’s decision. I was gifted, competitive, fit, and determined. But I was still learning. I wasn’t polished. There was still a lot of work ahead of me.
After the final cutdowns, I went directly to the U-21 team. In Germany, a few days after my nineteenth birthday, we won the Nordic Cup.
Shortly after I was cut from the team, I received a letter from my dad.
Dear Baby Hope,
It is always so nice to hear from you, you make my day. I miss and love you. Well, Baby Hope, you are the greatest soccer player in the world! Pele comes second to you. Sorry you didn’t make the soccer team—that’s their fault. Now you get back to school—you lost a year. . . . You know you can hang with anyone in soccer now. We always knew Baby Hope was the best.
I have an idea, let’s have our own soccer team. You be the goalie. Cheryl will be our defender, she has bulldog in her. Marcus, Dave, and I will be strikers—we all have lead in our legs. Your mom will be a defender, she has bulldog too. She knows how to protect you in more ways than one. Teresa will be the cheerleader; she wouldn’t want to get dirty. Jeff can be a midfielder too and Christian has to play. When you are playing striker, Christian will be with you and you can set him up and he
