Culture
Why one of America's biggest field hockey stars was kept off the Olympic stage
PARIS — The week was almost over, the Olympics nearly wrapped, when Erin Matson walked into the lobby of a botanical-themed boutique hotel. A sort of gilded garden pulled from a Parisian dream. This place is how the other side lives, and the name fit. La Fantaisie.
Nike booked a block of rooms during the Olympic Games. Its guests were part of an annual Athlete Think Tank, a consortium to survey influential women in sports. The list included Dawn Staley, Megan Rapinoe, Sue Bird and so on. They sat for group discussions, Master Class presentations from Serena Williams and Stacey Abrams, and for product sessions, giving feedback on Nike goods coming out soon and others still years from release.
The youngest member of the group was USC basketball star Juju Watkins. The second-youngest was Matson — a 24-year-old entering her second season as head field hockey coach at the University of North Carolina.
Matson arrived in the lobby wearing an oversized designer Nike sweatsuit. The chauffeur waiting outside was scheduled to leave for the airport in 45 minutes. Jess Sims, the Peloton instructor-turned-ESPN personality, walked past, asking if she and Matson were sharing a ride to Charles de Gaulle.
This is not the typical life of an American college field hockey coach. Matson is represented by Wasserman Group, the powerful sports and entertainment agency representing Katie Ledecky, Diana Taurasi, Nelly Korda and others, and this summer proved her reach. She walked the red carpet at the ESPYs. She was a featured speaker at the espnW Summit in New York City.
At a time when spiking interest in women’s sports is dictated heavily by name recognition and star power, Matson has found a place in these reserved spaces. Once the country’s top high school field hockey player and member of the U.S. national team at age 17, she played five seasons (2018-22) at North Carolina and won all imaginable honors. She became the NCAA’s third all-time leading goal scorer, was part of four national championship teams, and was named national player of the year three times.
But this year, instead of competing in Paris, the 24-year-old face of the sport was across town hanging out with Serena Williams as the U.S. national team went 1-3-1.
The backstory is layered. Following the December 2022 retirement of legendary coach Karen Shelton, UNC named Matson, then 22, as head coach of the winningest, most well-funded college field hockey program in the country. Many celebrated the move as daring — a succession mimicking Shelton’s rise 42 years earlier. It was another era, but Shelton once went from being a three-time national player of the year at West Chester, to high school head coach in New Jersey, to taking over UNC at 23. Others weren’t so cheery about the move. Some saw Matson’s hiring as ridiculous, a borderline insult to women’s sports, and criticized the school for what they saw as a closed job search.
Matson and the Tar Heels responded by winning the school’s 11th national championship in her first season as head coach.
All of this before turning 25.
Thus, the status.
Thus, Paris.
Matson filled a journal with notes and quotes. She talked to Staley about coach-captain relationships. She listened to Abrams speak on staying true to one’s values. She felt, at times, out of place. “Why am I here?” Not because of a lack of credentials, but because of field hockey’s ultra-niche place in women’s sports. It’s an issue much older than Matson.
Over lunch with Rapinoe one day, Matson was struck by a realization — that Rapinoe, a U.S. soccer icon, became so by being transcendent on the field and outspoken off the field. She raised the profile of women’s soccer as a player, a freedom afforded on the field more than when working as the CEO on the sideline.
In Paris, that field was Yves du Manoir Stadium. The U.S. national team, a group featuring two of Matson’s current players, one former player and five players she’ll coach against this fall, were outscored by eight goals and eliminated in pool play. They failed to medal, again, extending a streak dating to 1984.
The instinct, of course, is to make it make sense, but nothing is quite so simple here, and it’s only the sport that’s suffering.
Here’s the shortest possible version of the long, convoluted tale of Matson and USA Field Hockey. When hired at North Carolina, Matson knew taking a full-time job with a six-figure salary meant stepping away from the U.S. national team. In her version of events, she wanted a few years to settle into the job, then hoped to continue her playing career, splitting time between coaching and playing. She told UNC athletic director Bubba Cunningham of her plans to pursue the 2028 Olympics in Los Angeles. He was all for it.
Then two things happened. The Tar Heels won the national title in Matson’s first season. And the U.S. national team, one projected as a long shot to make the Paris Olympics, successfully qualified for the Games.
North Carolina coach Erin Matson is lifted up by her team after defeating Northwestern for the national title in November 2023 at Karen Shelton Stadium in Chapel Hill. (Jamie Schwaberow / NCAA Photos via Getty Images)
Reversing course on her original decision, Matson made a late effort to land a spot on the U.S. team, requesting a tryout and playing in the indoor Pan-Am Games to notch some international playing reps. While much of the already established U.S. national team had sacrificed time and energy, living and training at a facility in Charlotte, N.C., the official roster was not yet finalized. Multiple collegians who played their 2023 seasons would be invited to try out. Matson would not. USA Field Hockey issued a statement that Matson “did not qualify under the mandatory terms of the selection criteria.” Simon Hoskins, the executive director of USA Field Hockey, told The Athletic it was his decision to deny the tryout request, saying, “It’s an organizational policy, so it comes to me.”
The resulting backlash ran both ways. Matson’s supporters levied accusations of jealousy in the ranks of USA Field Hockey. Matson’s detractors criticized her for wanting special treatment and walking away from the national team in the first place. Acrimony and arguments mounted. Earlier this summer, a series of conversations with members of the 1984 bronze-medal winning team drew a variety of responses — both that USA Field Hockey wasn’t capitalizing on a new star, and that roster policies exist for a reason. Meanwhile, other current college coaches declined to go on the record to discuss the topic.
Anyone operating from a perch of perspective could see a valid case either way. Matson did choose to prioritize her coaching career over her playing career. At the same time, regardless of protocols or personal feelings, was it really in the sport’s best interest for her not to try out for the Olympics?
Field hockey, played evenly among men and women in other parts of the world, has long struggled to catch on in the United States. While other women’s sports have hit periods of momentum, field hockey has never moved into the mainstream. It’s regional. It requires specific (read: expensive) turf. It doesn’t draw droves of kids as a youth sport. So while other women’s sports have enjoyed measurable growth, like increased college scholarship totals, field hockey has stagnated. A lack of success at the national level can be seen as both a root cause and a byproduct. Since ’84, the United States has finished no better than fifth in any Games since.
Hoskins cites a lack of government funding.
“It’s just not fair,” he said. “It’s a subsidized industry that we’re competing in. It’s a real struggle for the organization.”
Money is one thing, but popularity is another, and field hockey has never waded into public consciousness because the public knows so little about it. Sports need stars; in this instance, the sport’s biggest American star wasn’t part of the game’s biggest stage in Paris. Well, she was, except she was watching track and swimming meets and posting pictures for her 70,000 Instagram followers while the U.S. team scored five total goals in five games.
A day full of gymnastics and waiting the 🐐 do her thanggg
Not pictured: product sessions with Nike about the future 👀👀 pic.twitter.com/7Bksq9PYAK
— Erin Matson (@erinmatsonn) August 6, 2024
Neither the results nor the optics add up.
Though the ugliness of the 2024 process is still fresh, Matson says she fully intends to pursue a spot on the 2028 Olympic team, even if that requires upwards of two years playing for the national team — “One hundred percent,” she said — but as an organization, USA Field Hockey must examine its shortcomings at the international level.
“I think there’s got to be changes (in the system),” Matson said. “I won’t sugarcoat that. I don’t know how many times we’ve got to fail for people to say that, but like, you know, come on. So I think there’s going to be. But there’s definitely no question that I would love to do that. I know I can help.”
Considering how fraught things turned through the spring, some will wonder what’s rectifiable.
“You don’t have to like me,” Matson said. “I’m not telling you to be my friend. I don’t need any more friends. I have support and I’m grateful. But why can’t we come to an understanding? Do we want to win or have the best chance to win? I don’t mean just here at the Olympics. Our sport needs to win.
“I’m not someone who lives in regret, gets hung up on that, or holds grudges. I truly believe if you want to grow or progress, you can’t be hung up on that stuff.”
In the meantime, Matson will keep coaching. In what felt like a wink to her detractors, she made a notable hire this summer. Romea Riccardo, who won five NCAA titles at UNC and graduated in December, was named as a full-time assistant coach on staff. Matson says Riccardo was to her what she was to Shelton. Once upon a time, the two were freshmen together.
“The argument from the schools that recruit against us is, ‘They’re a young staff; they have no idea what they’re doing,’” Matson said. “And you know, I always joke — don’t people know that we like a target on our back by now? If you just stay quiet and don’t tell me what you’re thinking, I’ll actually probably get less motivated. But if you keep telling me, oh, you’re too young, oh, you can’t do this and that — like, stop it, ‘cause you’re only hurting yourself.”
The 2024 North Carolina season will start next week with the Tar Heels, again, a national title favorite. Matson says she knows perceptions. “That, oh, Erin is off gallivanting in Paris. Oh, Erin is out in LA at the ESPY Awards,” she said. “But I don’t think people understand that I know how fortunate I am, and I use these opportunities and ask, how can we be better, how can the sport get bigger?”
Maybe that’s possible. Or maybe it’s fantasy.
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; photos: Andrew Katsampes / ISI Photos, Jamie Schwaberow / NCAA Photos via Getty Images)
Culture
Poetry Challenge Day 5: The Role of Poetry In Our Lives
We’ve come to the end of our Poetry Challenge. In four days, we’ve committed the four stanzas of “The More Loving One” to memory, and taken some time to ponder its intricacies and appreciate its meaning. (Just joining us? Start here anytime.)
Now what?
In one of his notebooks Auden observes that “a poem or a novel is a gratuitous not a useful object, like a lathe or an automobile.” He wasn’t being modest or dismissive. The impracticality of poetry is a feature, not a bug. It doesn’t do anything, which may be why, as a species, we can’t seem to do without it.
This is how Auden assessed poetry’s value in his elegy “In Memory of W.B. Yeats”:
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
Poetry is part of everyday human reality, and also one of our tools for taking stock of that reality and commemorating our passage through it, alone and together.
A poem is a gift — a gratuity, you might say, offered for no special reason. Auden’s gifts were abundant, and his generosity was legendary. His biographer Edward Mendelson has documented a pattern of discreet, sometimes secret kindness directed at friends, colleagues and strangers: money lent; hospital bills paid; hospitality offered freely along with food, companionship and advice.
Auden’s later work often operates in a similar spirit. Some of his best verse of the postwar era takes the form of letters, wedding toasts, public remarks and dinner-party witticisms, as if poetry were a grand game of words with friends.
“The More Loving One,” first published in Britain at Christmastime in 1957, is a modest, thoughtful present for the reading public. (A few years later, as it happens, it ran in the Book Review.) At first glance, its intention seems to be, above all, to provide a bit of amusement. Anyone can pick it up, pass it along, tuck it away, find a time and place for it — as we have done this week.
Should we hear it once more, before we go?
As we have seen, there is much more to these lines than clever words and pleasing sentiments. Auden applies the balm of irony and rhyme to matters that might otherwise be too grave, too daunting, too scary to deal with. Are we alone in the universe? How should we love? Why should we care?
Instead of a definitive response, Auden offers a thought experiment. Suppose the worst: stars that don’t give a damn; asymmetrical affections; an empty sky. What are we to do?
The answer — care anyway! — reflects the eccentric, stubborn Christianity of Auden’s later years. Faced with the possibility of nothing, the speaker nonetheless chooses to surrender, to love, to believe. This is not a practical decision. It’s an aesthetic impulse, an entirely gratuitous choice.
It’s also a refusal of solitude. We picture the speaker alone, looking up at the chilly night sky, talking himself through his mixed feelings about it. But of course he isn’t alone. We’ve been here the whole time, accepting the gift and sharing it, standing beside our poet as he beholds the stars.
Fill in the entire poem! Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite it.
Question 1/8
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
The final challenge: You’ve been training for this all week. Now show off what you know.
We’re going to do the whole poem, starting from the top. You’ll have emoji hints for each round.
👀👆✨🤓🧠🙂↕️4️⃣🫂🏃🏻😈
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
Culture
Poetry Challenge Day 4: What The Stars Can Teach Us About Love
Here we are on Day 4 of the Poetry Challenge, looking up, again, at the sky. (If you’ve just arrived, click here to catch up.)
We’ve considered “The More Loving One” as a witty, teasing love poem, and also peeked into the life of its author, W.H. Auden, to see what it might have meant to him. But maybe it’s time to take this poem at face value, as a meditation on our place in the universe.
You can read the whole poem here, but to recap: We start by admiring the stars even though they don’t feel the same way (or any way, really) about us. Then we wonder … do we care about them all that much? At last, we imagine them extinguished, leaving an emptiness that we tell ourselves would be just fine. Eventually.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Tracy K. Smith, poet
The poem resolves with a sigh that seems to linger, as if the poem didn’t quite want to end. Unlike the concluding lines of the previous stanzas, all of which clocked in at precisely eight syllables, the last line of the last one extends to nine. That may sound trivial, but we know that Auden counted his syllables carefully.
And it isn’t hard to identify the extra particle, the one tweezed in among the others. Auden could just as well have written, “Though this might take a little time.”
That would have maintained the pattern without altering the meaning. The “me” is implied. Adding it might seem redundant. Which is exactly why Auden does it.
Though this might take me a little time.
W.H. Auden, poet
That scant word makes the poem last a little longer. It also emphasizes the human presence of the speaker, a person whose perceptions and feelings are what this is finally all about. He is asking for patience, for grace, as he adjusts his eyes and heart to a stark new situation.
But how much time is “a little”? The split second it takes to utter that extra, unstressed “me”? However much is needed to heal all proverbial wounds? Or are we thinking in astronomical measures, as those stars invite us to suppose? In that case, it might take our poor stargazer more time than he has. Millions of years. Hundreds of millions!
What does it mean to exist as a solitary being in such a vast, incomprehensible cosmos? This may have been an especially timely question when this poem was written; early versions date from 1957, the year the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, marking the beginning of the space age. But poets have been looking at the sky for a very long time.
Some find comforting news of heaven, like William Wordsworth:
The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest’
Others, like Ada Limón, see the projection of our own curiosity:
Arching under the night sky inky
with black expansiveness, we point
to the planets we know, we
pin quick wishes on stars.
Occasionally a poet (Stephen Crane in this case) will hear an answer that makes Auden’s silent stars seem kind:
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
Auden himself came back to the subject a dozen years after “The More Loving One,” in a poem called “Moon Landing,” which ambivalently hailed the Apollo II mission as a “phallic triumph,” “a grand gesture” of male self-regard. And while he acknowledges the spirit of adventure behind the mission, he doesn’t admire the moon enough to want to see it up close:
Worth going to see? I can well believe it.
Worth seeing? Mneh! I once rode through a desert
and was not charmed
He’d rather contemplate the moon above him — one who “still queens the Heavens” — than tread like Neil Armstrong on its dusty, lifeless surface. The feats of NASA and its astronauts belong to a world of science, politics and media spectacle; Auden prefers the realm of mythology and aesthetics.
He’s in good poetic company. In “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer,” Walt Whitman, at a lecture, finds himself “tired and sick” of charts and diagrams and scientific discourse.
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
He did not give a damn if they gave a damn.
For Auden, as for Whitman, demystifying the stars risks stripping them of their poetry. A sense of wonder flickers through “The More Loving One,” along with the wit and the romantic weariness. The poem concludes with an almost defiant commitment to awe, the search for sublimity in the heavens.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Matthew McConaughey, actor and poet
Stars or no stars, what matters is the attitude of the person below: receptive, yearning, more in love than he may be willing to admit, even if — or indeed because — he doesn’t quite know what it is he’s worshiping.
As we approach the end of the poem, our own feelings might be in a bit of tangle: admiration, amusement and something else that’s harder to pin down in words or themes. A feeling that, having spent time with a poem largely about solitude, we are less alone.
Let’s nail down those tricky last lines, and come back tomorrow to talk about the whole thing.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the final stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
Culture
Book Review: ‘Israel: What Went Wrong?,’ by Omer Bartov
The result has been a terrible irony for a country that was founded as a refuge from intolerance: “How is it that the appeal to humanitarianism, tolerance, the rule of law and protection of minorities that characterized the beginning of Jewish self-emancipation gradually acquired all the traits of the relentless, remorseless and increasingly racist ethnonationalisms from which Zionism sought to liberate European Jewry?”
To answer this painful question, Bartov uses all the tools at his disposal, weaving together history, personal anecdotes, even some literary criticism, including a close reading of a poem — by Hayim Nahman Bialik and known to “every Israeli schoolchild” — about the perils of vengeance that has been misinterpreted and warped for political ends. Bartov writes unsparingly about Hamas’s murderous attacks, in which about 1,200 Israelis were killed and about 250 others taken hostage, which he calls an unequivocal “war crime and a crime against humanity.” It was a “slaughter of innocents” that “evoked collective memories of massacres and the Holocaust.”
Indeed, in a May 2024 poll of Israelis that he cites, more than half of the respondents said Oct. 7 could be compared to the Holocaust, and the Israeli media repeatedly depicted the massacre as a pogrom. Bartov understands why — for traumatized people, new traumas will revive old ones — but he maintains that the label is a category mistake. Israel is a state; it has an army, laws and government. A pogrom “is a mob attack, condoned or supported by the state authorities, against a minority lacking any attributes of a state.” (“To be sure,” he adds, “pogroms have occurred within the territories controlled by Israel, but when they take place, they were and are being carried out, with increasing frequency and ferocity, by settlers in the West Bank.”)
Israel doesn’t have a constitution. After its founding, its government was supposed to codify the protection of religious freedom and minority rights, but efforts to adopt a constitution were waylaid and arguably thwarted by political figures like David Ben-Gurion, the country’s first prime minister. Bartov believes that a constitution could have made Zionism “superfluous” after it succeeded in establishing a state that could be a refuge for Jews. Citizens could have turned toward the task of building a “just society” that aimed at “peace, truth and reconciliation with the Palestinians.”
This sounds nice, if fanciful; constitutions don’t magically prevent authoritarianism. Not to mention that attacks by surrounding Arab states did nothing to alleviate Israelis’ sense that they were constantly embattled.
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