My dad was the only one of all his brothers and sisters born in America, and baseball was the way he became even more American. He took me to all the Dodgers games. I used to keep score on a big white piece of oak tag—how many people hit home runs and singles and struck out and all of that. I still have a picture of Jackie Robinson on my wall.
Brooklyn was just everything to me. It gave me everything I needed. On Nostrand Avenue, where we would go shopping for food, practically every other store was run by a refugee who escaped Hitler. The fact that I’m now here, on the Foreign Relations Committee, it makes me choke up, you know?