b"I t was 1975 in Sicily. My basketball team, U.S. Palermo, was playing the deciding game for regional qualifications. With the tallest and strongest ball players in the region, in my mind, we were destined to become the new champions.The game was close, with consecutive back and forth scoring runseach basket more exciting than the one before. On that day, playing that game, I was on fire. I couldn't miss.With just a few minutes remaining, I called out for the ball, caught it perfectly, set up for the jump shot and executed without hesitation.The basketball launched off my fingertips, with a reverse rotation into a perfectly arching trajectory, over the heads of everyone on the floor. It was one of those jump shots that just felt perfect, like it was winking at me and promising nothing but net. Deep down I felt smug. I was covertly cocky, and secretly self-assured. After all, this was one of my best games of the entire season. For that one moment, I owned the world. Or so I thought.The ball bounced off the rim, seemed to pause in mid-air, made its descent, missed the basket and despite all our scrambling efforts inside the painted lines of the key, we all failed to recover the ball for the rebound.I was both shocked and shattered. The rest of the game was a blur, a rapid succession of bad plays and worse decisions. This game would become my personal Waterloo, and I was Napoleon.In hindsight, I realize it was just a basketball game, but I was 17, so of course it meant the world to me. It was the most important thing in the world. Clearly, I had much to learn about the true meaning of life.American basketball played a significant role in the drama of my daily existence; mostly because I was good at it.However, when the final whistle shrieked to signal the end of the game, not only had we, as a team, lost that significant game, I felt like I had lost a little of my essence, my spirit.Regardless,thetwoteamslinedupandperformedtherequisitegood-sportsmanshiphandshake procession. In reality, we were all friends off the court; but at that very moment, as I moved down the line grudgingly touching the sweaty palms of our victors, I hated them all. But I especially hated myself for being the catalyst for this devastating loss. You know, life has an interesting way of telling you what your future holds. Sometimes we can take the hintmost times we're not even present to comprehend what happened. It just happens.Generally, I don't believe in destiny. However, in this case, it was probably showing itself to me. I just couldn't see it. That day, destiny came in the form of my friend (and recent basketball rival), Massimo.Americano, Massimo called out after we finished shaking hands. That was my nickname back then. I was the Sicilian kid with American dreams. I dressed like one, I spoke a little English, and even though I had never been there, America was where I needed to be. This might have explained why I only played basketball in a country where football (soccer) reigns supreme.Americano, Massimo yelled again as he jogged over. I want to talk to you. My mom wants to chat with your family. There just might be a way to finally go to America and finish school there. That was his pitch. He smiled, hugged me, and said, Come for lunch tomorrow. My mom will explain everything.26"