The Audacity of Hope

“Well…I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided I don’t want to be really, really
rich. I think I want a simple life.”
Her words were so unexpected that I laughed. She looked up at me and smiled, but her
eyes told me she’d meant what she said.
I often think of that conversation. I ask myself what Malia makes of my not-so-simple
life. Certainly she notices that other fathers attend her team’s soccer games more often
than I do. If this upsets her, she doesn’t let it show, for Malia tends to be protective of
other people’s feelings, trying to see the best in every situation. Still, it gives me small
comfort to think that my eight-year-old daughter loves me enough to overlook my
shortcomings.
I was able to get to one of Malia’s games recently, when session ended early for the
week. It was a fine summer afternoon, and the several fields were full of families when I
arrived, blacks and whites and Latinos and Asians from all over the city, women sitting
on lawn chairs, men practicing kicks with their sons, grandparents helping babies to
stand. I spotted Michelle and sat down on the grass beside her, and Sasha came to sit in
my lap. Malia was already out on the field, part of a swarm of players surrounding the
ball, and although soccer’s not her natural sport—she’s a head taller than some of her
friends, and her feet haven’t yet caught up to her height—she plays with an enthusiasm
and competitiveness that makes us cheer loudly. At halftime, Malia came over to where
we were sitting.
“How you feeling, sport?” I asked her.
“Great!” She took a swig of water. “Daddy, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Can we get a dog?”
“What does your mother say?”
“She told me to ask you. I think I’m wearing her down.”
I looked at Michelle, who smiled and offered a shrug.
“How about we talk it over after the game?” I said.
“Okay.” Malia took another sip of water and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re
home,” she said.
Before I could answer, she had turned around and started back out onto the field. And
for an instant, in the glow of the late afternoon, I thought I saw my older daughter as the
woman she would become, as if with each step she were growing taller, her shape
filling out, her long legs carrying her into a life of her own.