Solo

team jumped up to another level. The core group had been together for years—pretty much since the day I met Cheryl—with our coach, Carl Wheeler. We became a “select” team, which meant a higher level of competition and commitment. We were expected to travel to tournaments. And there were costs involved, which made it difficult for my family. I was fortunate that Cheryl was my teammate. Mary and Dick drove me to games and tournaments, took me out to eat, and never made me feel as though I didn’t have enough. My coaches, Carl and later Tim Atencio, gave me rides and helped me out, buying snacks and Gatorade if I didn’t have anything with me. Of course my mom and Glenn and my grandparents contributed, but I was getting help from others as well, though I was too young to realize it.
Our team traveled around the state to play. We loved going over the mountains and beating the top teams in Seattle. They were the big-city kids who were supposed to win. We were the scrappy country kids, who showed up with garish blue eye shadow and T-shirts with numbers instead of fancy jerseys. When we beat the rich-kid Seattle teams, it was especially gratifying.
One autumn Sunday, we were on the other side of the mountains for a game. It was a dark, rainy Seattle day. Cheryl and I had carpooled with another player’s family. We pulled up in the parking lot next to the field, which was located in the middle of a park, surrounded by woods and dripping trees. I got out of the car and looked around for our coach. I saw a large man, limping through the parking lot in a rumpled trench coat.
I dropped my bag. “Cheryl,” I said, “I think that’s my dad.”

CHAPTER THREE
A Double Identity
My heart thudded as I walked across the parking lot. There was no doubt in my mind who this man was, even though the last time I had seen him was about five years earlier and he’d been in a holding cell at a Seattle police station. He was stamped on my brain forever, a figure constantly invading my thoughts and daydreams.
He stopped walking. We looked at each other and—for a beat—I wondered if he would even recognize me. I had been a small girl the last time he had seen me, but now I was on the cusp of becoming a young woman. “Baby Hope,” he said and opened his arms to wrap me in a hug.
I stepped forward, into his embrace. Of course my father recognized me. Of course I was still his Baby Hope. It didn’t matter how much time had passed. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, tell him a million things. But I didn’t know where to start. I felt shy and nervous, and I also had a game to play.
“Cheryl,” I said. “This is my dad.”
“My dad.” The words tasted funny in my mouth.
During our warm-ups, Cheryl and I tried to impress him. Our ongoing goal was to break the team record for number of times heading the ball—usually we could get around seventy headers back and forth without letting the ball touch the ground. That day, heading to each other across a little path that led into the woods while my father watched, we broke the record, keeping the ball in the air for eighty-eight touches.
I wanted to play the game of my life on that muddy field in Seattle. I wanted to show my very first soccer coach what a strong player I was. My father loved sports. I wanted him to see what kind of athlete I was becoming. I was like a puppy, amped up and eager to show off, and once the game began, I channeled that onto the field. In the first half, I scored on a header, and then scored two more times. In the second half, we had a healthy lead, so we rotated goalkeepers, and I went into goal. I slipped going for a ball, and my opponent chipped it over my head and into the net. My dad never let me forget that: the first time he ever saw me play in goal, I let in a sky ball.
Happy and sweating, I went over to my father when the game ended. I wasn’t sure what would happen next.
“Would you like to see where I live, Baby Hope?” my father asked.
Absolutely. I motioned for Cheryl to come with me, and we followed my father as he limped down the path that led into the woods. It was wet and dark, and our footsteps were quiet on the damp earth. I wasn’t scared, just curious. To the right of the path we spotted a blue tarp set up like a tent, covering some belongings. My father stopped in front of the makeshift shelter. “This is where I live,” he said.
My father was homeless. His few possessions were inside a duffel bag, stuck under the blue tarp to stay dry. There was no one else around; just one man’s lonely spot in the rain-soaked woods. I hadn’t had much experience with homeless people, yet I wasn’t completely shocked. My father was such a mystery, he could have flown us to the moon and told me he lived there and I would have believed him.
Cheryl was more unnerved than I was. I think that was the moment she fully realized how different my life was from hers, that no matter what direction I turned, I wouldn’t find a normal life.
It was time to go—we had a long drive back to Richland and even though I wanted to stay and spend more time with my father, I was just a kid. I wasn’t in control. My father promised to keep in touch.
“Dad, come see me play basketball sometime,” I begged.
“I will, Baby Hope,” he said. “I’ll send you some money.”
We hugged good-bye, and I got into the car. I can’t