When your parents are immigrants, you generally grow up speaking their language, be it Cantonese or Mandarin, Korean, Armenian or Spanish.
You close your eyes, drift into slumber, and that language carries you into your dreams.
But there comes a point where one door closes and another opens. You don’t dream so much in the language of your parents. You begin to dream in English.
That happened to me right about the time I became a Dodgers fan. I was 6, just starting school at Sheridan Elementary in Boyle Heights, and the narrator of those moments I so desperately wanted to happen — that baseball I wanted to see soar over the center field wall at Chavez Ravine — was Vin Scully.