In many American cities, a century ago, the first place where the children of Italian immigrants felt entirely comfortable was not school and not even home, but a patch of open ground between buildings. Empty lots, half-paved streets, and small neighborhood parks became gathering spots in the afternoons, where boys improvised bases with pieces of wood or flattened tin cans and argued over rules learned from older kids.
Their parents spoke dialects from Sicily, Campania, or Liguria, yet the language in those fields was different, fast, and practical, made of gestures, shouts, and shared understanding. In truth, what they were learning was not only a game: without quite realizing it, they were learning how to belong.
