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
Do You Know Where These Famous Authors Are Buried?
A strong sense of place can deeply influence a story, and in some cases, the setting can even feel like a character itself — or have a lasting influence on an author. With that in mind, this week’s literary geography quiz highlights the final stops for five authors after a life of writing. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the books if you’d like to do further reading.
Culture
What Happens When We Die? This Wallace Stevens Poem Has Thoughts.
Whatever you do, don’t think of a bird.
Now: What kind of bird are you not thinking about? A pigeon? A bald eagle? Something more poetic, like a skylark or a nightingale? In any case, would you say that this bird you aren’t thinking about is real?
Before you answer, read this poem, which is quite literally about not thinking of a bird.
Human consciousness is full of riddles. Neuroscientists, philosophers and dorm-room stoners argue continually about what it is and whether it even exists. For Wallace Stevens, the experience of having a mind was a perpetual source of wonder, puzzlement and delight — perfectly ordinary and utterly transcendent at the same time. He explored the mysteries and pleasures of consciousness in countless poems over the course of his long poetic career. It was arguably his great theme.
Stevens was born in 1879 and published his first book, “Harmonium,” in 1923, making him something of a late bloomer among American modernists. For much of his adult life, he worked as an executive for the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company, rising to the rank of vice president. He viewed insurance less as a day job to support his poetry than as a parallel vocation. He pursued both activities with quiet diligence, spending his days at the office and composing poems in his head as he walked to and from work.
As a young man, Stevens dreamed of traveling to Europe, though he never crossed the Atlantic. In middle age he made regular trips to Florida, and his poems are frequently infused with ideas of Paris and Rome and memories of Key West. Others partake of the stringent beauty of New England. But the landscapes he explores, wintry or tropical, provincial or cosmopolitan, are above all mental landscapes, created by and in the imagination.
Are those worlds real?
Let’s return to the palm tree and its avian inhabitant, in that tranquil Key West sunset of the mind.
Until then, we find consolation in fangles.
Culture
Wil Wheaton Discusses ‘Stand By Me’ and Narrating ‘The Body’ Audiobook
When the director Rob Reiner cast his leads in the 1986 film “Stand by Me,” he looked for young actors who were as close as possible to the personalities of the four children they’d be playing. There was the wise beyond his years kid from a rough family (River Phoenix), the slightly dim worrywart (Jerry O’Connell), the cutup with a temper (Corey Feldman) and the sensitive, bookish boy.
Wil Wheaton was perfect for that last one, Gordie Lachance, a doe-eyed child who is ignored by his family in favor of his late older brother. Now, 40 years later, he’s traveling the country to attend anniversary screenings of the film, alongside O’Connell and Feldman, which has thrown him back into the turmoil that he felt as an adolescent.
Wheaton has channeled those emotions and his on-set memories into his latest project: narrating a new audiobook version of “The Body,” the 1982 Stephen King novella on which the film was based.
A few years ago, Wheaton started to float the idea of returning to the story that gave him his big break — that of a quartet of boys in 1959 Oregon, in their last days before high school, setting out to find a classmate’s dead body. “I’ve been telling the story of ‘Stand By Me’ since I was 12 years old,” he said.
But this time was different. Wheaton, who has narrated dozens of audiobooks, including Andy Weir’s “The Martian” and Ernest Cline’s “Ready Player One,” says he has come to enjoy narration more than screen acting. “I’m safe, I’m in the booth, nobody’s looking at me and I can just tell you a story.”
The fact that he, an older man looking back on his younger years, is narrating a story about an older man looking back on his younger years, is not lost on Wheaton. King’s original story is bathed in nostalgia. Coming to terms with death and loss is one of its primary themes.
Two days after appearing on stage at the Academy Awards as part of a tribute to Reiner — who was murdered in 2025 alongside his wife, Michele — Wheaton got on the phone to talk about recording the audiobook, reliving his favorite scenes from the film and reexamining a quintessential story of childhood loss through the lens of his own.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
“I felt really close to him, and my memory of him.”
Wheaton on channeling a co-star’s performance.
There’s this wonderful scene in “Stand By Me.” Gordie and Chris are walking down the tracks talking about junior high. Chris is telling Gordie, “I wish to hell I was your dad, because I care about you, and he obviously doesn’t.”
It’s just so honest and direct, in a way that kids talk to each other that adults don’t. And I think that one of the reasons that really sticks with people, and that piece really lands on a lot of audiences, and has for 40 years, is, just too many people have been Gordie in that scene.
That scene is virtually word for word taken from the text of the book. And when I was narrating that, I made a deliberate choice to do my best to recreate what River did in that scene.
“You’re just a kid,
Gordie–”
“I wish to fuck
I was your father!”
he said angrily.
“You wouldn’t go around
talking about takin those stupid shop courses if I was!
It’s like
God gave you something,
all those stories
you can make up, and He said:
This is what we got for you, kid.
Try not to lose it.
But kids lose everything
unless somebody looks out for them and if your folks
are too fucked up to do it
then maybe I ought to.”
I watched that scene a couple of times because I really wanted — I don’t know why it was so important to me to — well, I know: because I loved him, and I miss him. And I wanted to bring him into this as best as I could, right?
So I was reading that scene, and the words are identical to the script. And I had this very powerful flashback to being on the train tracks that day in Cottage Grove, Oregon. And I could see River standing next to them. They’re shooting my side of the scene and there’s River, right next to the camera, doing his off-camera dialogue, and there’s the sound guy, and there’s the boom operator. There’s my key light.
I could hear and feel it. It was the weirdest thing. It’s like I was right back there.
I was able to really take in the emotional memory of being Gordie in all of those scenes. So when I was narrating him and I’m me and I’m old with all of this experience, I just drew on what I remembered from being that little boy and what I remember of those friendships and what they meant to me and what they mean to me today.
“Rob gave me a gift. Rob gave me a career.”
Wheaton recalls the “Stand By Me” director’s way with kids on set, as well as his recent Oscars tribute.
Rob really encouraged us to be kids.
Jerry tells the most amazing story about that scene, where we were all sitting around, and doing our bit, and he improvised. He was just goofing around — we were just playing — and he said something about spitting water at the fat kid.
We get to the end of the scene, and he hears Rob. Rob comes around from behind the thing, and he goes, “Jerry!” And Jerry thinks, “Oh no, I’m in trouble. I’m in trouble because I improvised, and I’m not supposed to improvise.”
The context for Jerry is that he had been told by the adults in his life, “Sit on your hands and shut up. Stop trying to be a cutup. Stop trying to be funny. Stop disrupting people. Just be quiet.” And Jerry thinks, “Oh my God. I didn’t shut up. I’m in trouble. I’m gonna get fired.”
Rob leans in to all of us, and Rob says, “Hey, guys, do you see that? More of that. Do that!”
The whole time when you’re a kid actor, you’re just around all these adults who are constantly telling you to grow up. They’re mad that you’re being a kid. Rob just created an environment where not only was it supported that we would be kids — and have fun, and follow those kid instincts and do what was natural — it was expected. It was encouraged. We were supposed to do it.
They chanted together:
“I don’t shut up,
I grow up.
And when I look at you I throw up.”
“Then your mother goes around the corner
and licks it up,”
I said, and hauled ass out of there,
giving them the finger over my shoulder as I went.
I never had any friends later on
like the ones I had when I was twelve.
Jesus, did you?
When we were at the Oscars, I looked at Jerry. And we looked at this remarkable assemblage of the most amazingly talented, beautiful artists and storytellers. We looked around, and Jerry leans down, and he said, “We all got our start with Rob Reiner. He trusted every single one of us.”
And to stand there for him, when I really thought that I would be standing with him to talk about this stuff — it was a lot.
“I was really really really excited — like jumping up and down.”
The scene Wheaton was most looking forward to narrating: the tale of Lard Ass Hogan.
I was so excited to narrate it. It’s a great story! It’s a funny story. It’s such a lovely break — it’s an emotional and tonal shift from what’s happening in the movie.
I know this as a writer: You work to increase and release tension throughout a narrative, and Stephen King uses humor really effectively to release that tension. But it also raises the stakes, because we have these moments of joy and these moments of things being very silly in the midst of a lot of intensity.
That’s why the story of Lard Ass Hogan is so fun for me to tell. Because in the middle of that, we stop to do something that’s very, very fun, and very silly and very celebratory.
“Will you shut up and let him tell it?”
Teddy hollered.
Vern blinked.
“Sure. Yeah.
Okay.”
“Go on, Gordie,”
Chris said. “It’s not really much—”
“Naw,
we don’t expect much from a wet end like you,”
Teddy said,
“but tell it anyway.”
I cleared my throat. “So anyway.
It’s Pioneer Days,
and on the last night
they have these three big events.
There’s an egg-roll for the little kids and a sack-race for kids that are like eight or nine,
and then there’s the pie-eating contest.
And the main guy of the story
is this fat kid nobody likes
named Davie Hogan.”
When I narrate this story — whenever there is a moment of levity or humor, whenever there are those brief little moments that are the seasoning of the meal that makes it all so real and relatable — yes, it was very important to me to capture those moments.
I’m shifting in my chair, so I can feel each of those characters. It’s something that doesn’t exist in live action. It doesn’t exist in any other media.
“I feel the loss.”
Wheaton remembers River Phoenix.
The novella “The Body” is very much about Gordie remembering Chris. It’s darker, and it’s more painful, than the movie is.
I’ve been watching the movie on this tour and seeing River a lot. I remember him as a 14- and 15-year-old kid who just seemed so much older, and so much more experienced and so much wiser than me, and I’m only a year younger than him.
What hurts me now, and what I really felt when I was narrating this, is knowing what River was going through then. We didn’t know. I still don’t know the extent of how he was mistreated, but I know that he was. I know that adults failed him. That he should have been protected in every way that matters. And he just wasn’t.
And I, like Gordie, remember a boy who was loving. So loving, and generous and cared deeply about everyone around him, all the time. Who deserved to live a full life. Who had so much to offer the world. And it’s so unfair that he’s gone and taken from us. I had to go through a decades-long grieving process to come to terms with him dying.
Near the end
of 1971,
Chris
went into a Chicken Delight in Portland
to get a three-piece Snack Bucket.
Just ahead of him,
two men started arguing
about which one had been first in line. One of them pulled a knife.
Chris,
who had always been the best of us
at making peace,
stepped between them and was stabbed in the throat.
The man with the knife had spent time in four different institutions;
he had been released from Shawshank State Prison
only the week before.
Chris died almost instantly.
It is a privilege that I was allowed to tell this story. I get to tell Gordie Lachance’s story as originally imagined by Stephen King, with all of the experience of having lived my whole adult life with the memory of spending three months in Gordie Lachance’s skin.
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