I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and the sky.
From earliest childhood Danny Rossi had a single, desperate ambition — to please his father.
And one single haunting nightmare — that he never could.
At first he believed there was a legitimate reason for Dr. Rossi’s indifference.
After all, Danny was the slender, unathletic brother of the toughest fullback in the history of Orange County, California. And all the time that Frank Rossi was scoring touchdowns and attracting college scouts, Dad was too involved with him to pay attention to his younger son.
The fact that Danny got good grades — which Frank never did — made no impression whatsoever. After all, his brother stood a mighty six feet two (a head taller than Danny), and his mere entrance on the field could bring a stadium of cheering people to their feet.
What could little bespectacled red-haired Danny do that earned applause? He was, or so his mother constantly reported, a gifted pianist. Almost a prodigy. This would have made most parents proud. And yet Dr. Rossi never once had come to hear him play in public.
Understandably, Danny felt enormous pangs of envy. And a resentment growing slowly into hatred. Frank is not a god, a person, too. Sooner or later you’re going to notice.
But then in 1950, Frank, a fighter pilot, was shot down in Korea. Now Danny’s pent-up jealousy transformed, in painful stages, first to grief and then to guilt. He somehow felt responsible. As if he’d wished his brother’s death.
At the ceremony in which they named the school athletic field for Frank, his father wept uncontrollably. Danny looked with anguish at the man he so admired.
And he vowed to bring him consolation. Yet, how could he give his father joy?
Even hearing Danny practice annoyed Arthur Rossi. After all, a dentist’s busy day was orchestrated to the grating noise of drills. And so he had a cork-lined studio built in the cellar for his sole surviving son.
Danny understood this was no act of generosity, that his father wished to be freed from the sight as well as the sound of him.
Yet, Danny was determined to keep fighting for his father’s love. And he sensed sport was the only way for him to rise from the cellar of paternal disapproval.
There was just one possibility for a boy of his size — running. He went to see the track coach and asked shyly for advice.
He now got up at six each morning, slipped on sneakers, and left the house to train. His excessive zeal during those early weeks made his legs sore and heavy.
But he persevered. And kept it all a secret. Till he had something worth telling Dad.
On the first day of spring, the coach made the entire — squad run a mile to gauge their fitness. Danny was surprised that he could actually stay near the real runners for the first three quarters.
But suddenly his mouth was parched, his chest aflame. He started to slow down. From the center of the field — he heard the coach call out, “Hang in there, Rossi. Don’t give up.”
Fearing the displeasure of this surrogate father, Danny drove his weary body through the final lap. And threw himself, exhausted, onto the grass. Before he could catch his breath, the coach was standing above him with a stopwatch.
“Not bad, Danny. You sure surprised me — five minutes forty-eight seconds. If you stick with it, you can go a heck of a lot faster. In fact, five minutes can sometimes cop third place in our dual meets. Go to the supply desk and get a uniform and spikes.”
Sensing the proximity of his goal, Danny temporarily abandoned afternoon piano practice to work out with the team. And that usually meant ten or twelve grueling quarter-miles. He threw up after nearly every session.
Several weeks later, the coach announced that, as a reward for his tenacity, Danny would be their third- miler against Valley High.
That night he told his father. Despite his son’s warning that he’d probably get badly beaten, Dr. Rossi insisted on attending.
That Saturday afternoon, Danny savored the three happiest minutes of his childhood.
As the fidgety runners lined up at the middle of the cinder track, Danny saw his parents sitting in the first row.
“Let’s go, son,” his father said warmly. “Show ’em the good old Rossi stuff.”
These words so ignited Danny that he forgot the coach’s instructions to take it easy and pace himself, instead, as the gun went off, he bolted to the front and led the pack around the first turn.
Christ, thought Dr. Rossi, the kid’s a champion. Shit, thought the coach, the kid’s crazy. He’ll burn himself out.
As they completed the first lap, Danny glanced up at his father and saw what he had always thought impossible — a smile of pride for him.
“Seventy-one seconds,” called the coach. “Too fast, Rossi. Much too fast.”
“Looking good, son!” called Dr. Rossi.
Danny soared through the next four hundred yards on wings of paternal approval.
He passed the halfway mark still in the lead. But now his lungs were starting to burn. By the next curve, he had gone into oxygen debt. And was experiencing what runners not inaccurately call rigor mortis. He was dying.
The opposition sped past him and opened a long lead. From across the field he heard his father shout, “Come on, Danny, show some guts!”
They clapped when he finally finished. The sympathetic applause that greets the hopelessly outclassed competitor.
Dizzy with fatigue, he looked toward the stands. His mother was smiling reassuringly. His father was gone, it was like a bad dream.
Inexplicably, the coach was pleased. “Rossi, I’ve never seen a guy with more guts. I caught you in five minutes fifteen seconds. You’ve got real potential.”
“Not on the track,” Danny replied, limping away. “I quit.” He knew, to his chagrin, that all his efforts had only made matters worse. For his embarrassing performance had been on the track of Frank Rossi Field.
Humiliated, Danny returned to his previous life. The keyboard became an outlet for all his frustrations. He practiced day and night, to the exclusion of everything else.
He had been studying since he was six with a local teacher. But now this honorable gray-haired matron told his mother candidly that she had nothing more to give the boy. And suggested to Gisela Rossi that her son audition for Gustave Landau — a former soloist in Vienna, now spending his autumnal years as music director of nearby San. Angelo Junior College.
The old man was impressed by what he heard and accepted Danny as a pupil.
“Dr. Landau says he’s very good for his age,” Gisela reported to her husband at dinner. “He thinks that he could even play professionally.”
To which Dr. Rossi responded with a monosyllabic, “Oh.” Which meant that he’d reserve all judgment.
Dr. Landau was a gentle if demanding mentor. And Danny was the ideal pupil. He was not only talented but actually eager to be driven. If Landau said go through an hour of Czerny’s keyboard exercises every day, Danny would do three or four.
“Am I improving fast enough?” he’d ask anxiously.
“
But Danny had no time — and knew nothing that would bring him “fun.” He was in a hurry to grow up. And
