Little Changes

So, at a soccer field in Western Pennsylvania, I bump into this guy I used to know. It is a fear of mine, meeting anyone today from those years. Anytime I drive north from Maryland I have that fear. It is an irrational fear but a fear nonetheless. There are bigger towns and cities north. Pittsburgh and Philadelphia are towns, bigger cities, maybe I could call home. But north, it seems, are the small little towns trapped in foothills, trapped in a way of thinking I’d rather not be subjected to again. They want to be something else, these small towns, but it’s just talk.

Today is a big Under Seventeen Soccer Match, and my daughter is the starting goalie for a top-ranked Maryland team. The job makes her either the hero or the goat.  The ride home that follows will have its mood set by that result. It’s always tough being the “goalie’s parent.” Trust me: she is getting better at this, and so am I. Her soccer days will end soon; it is not what she wants to do anymore. It is something I think I’ve forced on her since she was twelve. I don’t think I am a bad father; it’s just that she is talented, and I know it.

There is dew on the grass, so you can trace the team’s movements in the tracks they leave on the field. Shuffles and stops, slides and tackles move the moisture and the turf. It is a triumphant dance of multicolored jerseys, swinging pony tails, screams and cheers. She handles fear and pressure with grace and resolution. I am sure she gets those qualities from her mother.

I preferred the games before the...