I took the US women's loss in the World Cup rather hard. Not because I'm a overzealous patriot. Not because I'm related to one of the players. And certainly not because I have dreams of playing soccer for the US National Team. It's because I'm crushing hard on Hope Solo.
Now that that's out of the way, I can move on to the US's unbelievable win against Brazil. It was a phenomenally epic, goose-bumps-all-over kind of win. That win made me believe Abby and her fellow teammates were coming home with the cup. But it was Hope Solo's stomach playing peek-a-boo during slow motion replays--Hope landed on the ground as her shirt ever so slowly slid up and away from her stomach--that made my inner sports fan hold on to the arm of the sofa and grunt like a Neanderthal.
Come to think of it, maybe that didn't have anything to do with my inner sports fan.
No matter. I love women who get dirty. Women whose muscles gleam and pop when they run. Women who push physical and mental boundaries. Women who keep going after defeat.
Come to think of it, I love all the women on the US Women's National Team.
They put on one hell of a World Cup show. The sweaty, gritty, ten-heart-attacks-in-two-minutes drama they provided is what makes me a sports fan. Glimpses of Hope Solo's stomach is this sports fan's I-just-swallowed-my-tongue bonus.
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