dominic,a 17-year-old italian-american living in colorado, dreams of becoming a baseball star. His father, a poor bricklayer, is temporarily jobless.
I want to talk to you, papa. it's very important.
I thought it was settled. you're going to finish school, then come to work for me.
It won't work.
Shut up about it. we went along stride for stride, the snow piling up on our coats. I decided on a different approach.
You know who joe Dimaggio is, papa? And tony lazzeri and frank?
Ball players, he groused. you ever heard of babe pinelli, or lou, or ron? more ball players.
People, papa! Human beings like you and me. sons of tailors and butchers and fishermen. of barbers and coal miners. italian-americans from homes like ours, from all over the country in this land of opportunity. you know what they say about opportunity, papa? you know everything. tell me it knocks but once.
He stopped and so did i. he looked at me in exasperation, his hand sliding from the pocket of his coat. he doubled it into a fist and brought it close to my nose.
See this? it knocks too. just once. but i had to make my stand.
I'm leaving town, papa. he turned and walked on, faster. we went a block before he spoke.
Where you going?
California.
He stopped once more, his hat and shoulders coated with snow.
And you're gonna get rich, playing ball. i'm going to try out with the Chicago Cubs. do the Chicago Cubs know this? they'll know when they see me.
Pain and sadness softened his face. He put his hand on my shoulder, hesistant to speak what was on his ming. but i knew.
Say it. youdon't think i'm good enough. you're good enough, KId, he said gently. but you're not tough enough. you know what i'm talking about? those men are like iron. they're hard, tough. they'll grind you in the dirt. they'll kill you. they'll break your heart.
We were on this dead street in the middle of the night in snow so thick we could hardly see one another, and he was tellig me i was weak, my own