Looking back at my life thus far, I have a rather simplistic view of myself. I'm just an average guy who always tried to do what was right and along the way was fortunate enough to live out a dream. But even now, with every new day that dawns, I'm trying to the best of my abilities to navigate this journey for myself and my family. As everyone knows, deep down inside, this shit ain't easy. If you look at people's Instagram pages, though, apparently it's a damn piece of cake. The problem is, I don't eat cake, and (as I think most of us are), I'm just trying to figure it all out as I go along. That being said, here's a brief peek at a few verbal polaroids from my childhood to help you, and me, better understand the Dan that sits here today writing this book.

Meet the Parents

You can't achieve too much success in life without some type of positive foundation. Therefore, meet my positive foundation, my parents Vince and Mary Lou, college sweethearts who have now been happily married for 63 years and are still going strong (Figure 1.1). They've always shown love and respect for each other. Even to this day, any time the song “Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel” by Tavaras comes on, they will bust some sick, impromptu dance moves. Not sure why, but my brain loves the random memory of them going all Dancing with the Stars in our living room to that jam.

Growing up, my parents were my everything. They were fun, fair, very loving people who always put the kids first and eternally had our backs in the most Godfather-like of ways. Both of them worked multiple jobs and constantly busted their asses to provide as best they could for all of us…and they still do.

Looking back at it now, even when we went without, we never felt as though we did. If you think about it, making the worst of times feel like the best of times is a pretty damn amazing quality to have as a parent. It's one that I strive to achieve anytime it's necessary to do so with my own children.

My mother is the sweetest, yet strongest, woman you could ever meet. She's always donning a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. A cancer survivor with a kind, caring soul who has always been deeply involved with the church. She's not only an incredibly talented seamstress but for years she taught at a school for disabled and special needs children. If there was ever anything we needed, even if it was just a shoulder to cry on, she was there. Her love and support for all of us was the glue that kept our family together.

My father is an Italian immigrant who came to America at the age of six. He was the youngest of seven children and learned how to speak English by being thrust into school a few days after he arrived in the states. Growing up, he diligently went to school during the day, then to work afterward with his father, who was a property caretaker for a few of the wealthier families in town. Because of this, he was forced to accept adult-like responsibilities at a rather young age. But even with all of that on his plate, he persevered and still managed to become the only person in his family to go to and graduate from college. He was our rock, and his love and strength were the foundation that our family was built upon.

House Party

I was the youngest of four children, three boys and one girl, a 10-year difference between myself and my oldest brother, Jim. I wouldn't say I was a “mistake,” but I treated my parents to a vacation in Italy a few years ago and after a couple glasses of 1989 Brunello truth serum, my dad admitted to me with a laugh, “I had no idea where the hell you came from!” Check, please!

Needless to say, there was never a dull moment at Casa Cortese, and if any of the boys stepped out of line, my sister, Dianne, was always there to kick any or all of our asses back in it, if need be. A beautiful, caring girl with a heart of gold who never took shit from anyone. For real, if you don't believe me, just ask our neighbor, Chuckie C. who ended up face down in the sewer after bullying her while she was walking home from middle school.

We all grew up in a small suburb, twenty minutes west of downtown Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and had an extremely loving, humble home. By “humble,” I mean, six people, one bathroom, well-water humble. To be clear, it wasn't like a Little House on the Prairie well. I didn't wear a bonnet and walk through fields of barley with a wooden bucket fetching water for Ma and Pa. Okay…actually, it was kind of like that, but I was wearing a bandanna instead of a bonnet. Been keeping it real since day one. I only bring all of this up to convey that we were an extremely tight knit family—tighter knit than a Jersey Shore Spring Break wardrobe. (Sorry, but for every semi-Italian reference I make, I get a free slice from Mike's Place.)

Boys in My Hood

It's been said, probably by me, that 50 percent of an individual's personality is genetic and the other 50 percent is created by their environment and the people who surround them. To be clear, I don't consider the people I grew up around to be “salt of the earth” types—they're more along the lines of “hot pepper of the earth” types. If you have them in moderation, they're the perfect accompaniment to add a little spice to any and all situations. Too much of them, or if you cross them, and they'll light up your ass. Believe me when I say, these people are the best people I've ever been around, and I wouldn't trade them for anything or anyone. Having lived in Los Angeles for the last 30 years I've come to appreciate just how real the people of Pittsburgh and all of western Pennsylvania are. They don't just have your back—they've got your front, too.

Snapshot, early Summer evening 1979 in Leetsdale, Pennsylvania. Not only was it hot, it was humid AF, as the kids say. The combined odors of pollution, popcorn, Marlboros, and cotton candy fool your brain into believing that this is what fresh air actually smells like. The seats are full, lights are on, and the Quaker Valley Little League All-Star game is in full effect.

The field is located right along the Ohio River Boulevard, a highway that was western Pennsylvania's version of the Autobahn. Just imagine a live version of Mario Kart, only with Buick Electras and AMC Pacers pieced together with duct tape and painted-over putty bumpers hauling ass everywhere. Next to the highway were the train tracks, next to the train tracks was the Ohio River and the only fish you saw in there in 1979 were floating on the top. Across the river were massive billowing smokestacks from a seven-mile stretch of steel mills. I'm sure the sunset was beautiful. It just wasn't usually powerful enough to pierce through the smoke, but on the rare occasion that it did, it gave the field an incredibly cool and probably toxic Studio 54 vibe, so yeah…just like Studio 54.

Parents at that time weren't like today's parents. They didn't try to outdo each other by explaining how their kid had a trainer and a nutritionist and was “going pro.” (Note to today's parents, 99.99 percent of your kids aren't going pro, so spend more time teaching them to be kind to people.) These parents actually got along, had fun, laughed, cheered, smoked, drank, ate fattening food, and enjoyed the moments together as a community—and all this was just at one Little League game. You should see a Steelers Sunday!

Cut to the final inning of the game, runners on second and third, two outs, we're down 11-10. A 12-year-old, bucktoothed me stepped out of the graffiti-covered dugout and headed toward the batter's box. This was going to be my Rock n' Jock foreshadowing moment, I was going to jack a three-run homer, win the game for us, and walk off with the MVP trophy. In my mind, the cheering crowd of 200 felt more like 20,000. As I stepped into the batter's box, I heard a noise that sounded like what I'd imagine a dolphin would make during a prostate exam. It was our third-base coach, Doc, screaming, “Danny! Danny!” He was flailing his arms so hard there was a good chance he might take flight.

A few things you should know about Doc: He was a lovable guy, the town's OB-GYN, he was accident prone, built like a Weeble, and just hearing his Mr. Bill–like high-pitched voice brought a smile to your face. And—oh yeah—his almost-empty 7Up can was completely full of gin just two innings ago AND he knew absolutely nothing about baseball.

When he saw me looking his way, he screamed, “BUNT!” Parents started to laugh. So did the umpire, so did Doc. He never used signals for the batters, reasoning, “I can't remember the goddamn things.” So he giggled, shrugged, and yelled again, “Seriously, bunt it!” I called a timeout and jogged down to him, and he put his arm around me. I swear I caught a respectable frat party–like buzz from his hush-toned breath.

He slapped my helmet, sent me off, and yelled, “I say B you say unt. B-unt. B-unt!” over and over. The crowd was loving Doc's antics, and as I stepped back into the batter's box, the infielders moved back, thinking it was a ploy. The pitcher went into his wind up and threw a delicious high fastball just like I liked them. I was about to knock the cover off of the ball, but then something happened that I didn't expect to happen. I bunted the freakin' ball! Don't ask me why, but it dribbled down the first base line so slowly, a 90-year-old man taking a piss would've even glanced and smirked. Our runner on third started streaking toward home (not a 1970s kind of streaking, he was just running really fast). I vaguely remember the cheers from the crowd being oddly split between “Go!” and “Are you fucking kidding me!” The pitcher barehanded the ball, threw it home, it sailed over the catcher's head, hit a pole on the backstop and ricocheted like a bullet out near second base. As I got to first base, our second runner, whose name I can't remember, but I do know he was Polish, slid across home plate. Game over, we win, pandemonium ensues! I looked toward third base and Doc was nowhere to be found. Apparently, his two-way pager was blowing up the entire final inning and he had to go deliver twins. As an ironic side note…I won the damn MVP (Figure 1.2).