Playing for Pizza

by John Grisham

  two hundred yards a game last year. You’ll have a great time, if you can remember to throw to our players instead of the other team.”

  “Cheap shot.” Rick zipped another bullet; again it was easily caught by Sly, who in return lobbed it back. The unwritten rule held firm—never throw a hard pass to a quarterback.

  Jogging up from the locker room was the other black Panther, Trey Colby, a tall, gangly kid too skinny for football. He had an easy smile, and in less than a minute said to Rick, “Are you okay, man?”

  “Doing well, thanks.”

  “I mean, the last time I saw you, you were on a stretcher and—”

  “I’m fine, Trey. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Sly was enjoying the moment. “He’d rather not talk about it. I’ve already tried,” he said.

  For an hour they played catch and talked about players they knew back home.

  Chapter

  9

  The Italians were in a festive mood. For the first practice they arrived early and loud. They bickered over who got which locker, complained about the wall decor, yelled at the equipment boy for a multitude of offenses, and vowed all manner of revenge against Bergamo. They continually insulted and ridiculed one another as they slowly changed into their practice shorts and jerseys. The locker room was cramped and rowdy and felt more like a fraternity house.

  Rick absorbed it all. There were about forty of them, ranging from kids who looked like teenagers to a few aging warriors pushing forty. There were some solid bodies; in fact most seemed to be in excellent shape. Sly said they lifted in the off-season and pushed each other in the weight room. But the contrasts were startling, and Rick, as much as he tried not to, couldn’t avoid a few silent comparisons. First, with the exception of Sly and Trey, all faces were white. Every NFL team he’d “visited” along the way had been at least 70 percent black. Even at Iowa, hell, even in Canada, the teams were 50–50. And though there were some big boys in the room, there were no 300-pounders. The Browns had eight players at 310 or more, and only two under 200. A few of the Panthers would stretch to hit 175.

  Trey said they were excited about their new quarterback, but cautious about approaching him. To help matters, Judge Franco assumed a position on Rick’s right, and Nino took charge of the left. They made lengthy, even rambling introductions as the players took turns greeting Rick. Each little intro required at least two insults, often with Franco and Nino tag-teaming against their fellow Italian. Rick was embraced and gripped and fawned over until he was almost embarrassed. He was surprised by the amount of English used. Every Panther was learning the language at some level.

  Sly and Trey were close by, laughing at him but also reuniting with their old teammates. Both had already vowed that this would be their last year in Italy. Few Americans returned for a third season.

  Coach Russo called things to order and welcomed everyone back. His Italian was slow and thoughtful. The players were sprawled on the floor, on benches, in chairs, even in lockers. Though he kept trying not to, Rick couldn’t help but flash back. He remembered the locker room at Davenport South High School. It was at least four times larger than the one he was now in.

  “You understand this?” he whispered to Sly.

  “Sure,” he said with a grin.

  “Then what’s he saying?”

  “Says the team was unable to find a decent quarterback in the off-season so we’re screwed again.”

  “Quiet!” Sam yelled at the Americans, and the Italians were amused.

  If you only knew, thought Rick. He’d once seen a semi-famous NFL coach cut a rookie for chatting in a team meeting during camp. Cut him on the spot, almost made him cry. Some of the most memorable tongue-lashings, dog-cussings, verbal bloodlettings Rick had seen in football had happened not in the heat of battle but in the seemingly safe confines of the locker room.

  “Mi dispiace,” Sly said loudly, causing even more chuckles.

  Sam continued. “What was that?” Rick whispered.

  “Means I’m sorry,” Sly hissed with his jaws clenched. “Now will you shut up.”

  Rick had mentioned to Sam earlier that he needed just a few words with the team. When Sam finished his welcoming remarks, he introduced Rick and handled the translation. Rick stood, nodded to his new teammates, and said, “I’m very happy to be here, and looking forward to the season.” Sam threw up a hand—halt—translation. The Italians smiled.

  “I’d like to clear up one thing.” Halt, more Italian.

  “I’ve played in the NFL, but not very much, and I have never played in the Super Bowl.” Sam frowned and rendered. He would explain later that the Italians take a dim view of modesty and self-deprecation.

  “In fact, I’ve never started a game as a professional.” Another frown, slower Italian, and Rick wondered if Sam wasn’t doctoring his little speech. There were no smiles among the Italians.

  Rick looked at Nino and continued, “Just wanted to clear that up. It is my goal to win my first Super Bowl here in Italy.” Sam’s voice grew much stronger, and when he finished, the room erupted into applause. Rick sat down and got a bruising bear hug from Franco, who had slightly outmaneuvered Nino as the bodyguard.

  Sam outlined the practice plan, and the speeches were over. With a rousing cheer, they hustled from the locker room and over to the practice field, where they fanned out into a somewhat organized pattern and began stretching. At this point, a thick-necked gentleman with a shaved head and bulging biceps took over. He was Alex Olivetto, a former player, now an assistant coach, and a real Italian. He strutted up and down the lines of players barking orders like an angry field marshal, and there was no back talk.

  “He’s psycho,” Sly said when Alex was far away.

  Rick was at the end of a line, next to Sly and behind Trey, copying the stretches and exercises of his teammates. Alex went from the basics—jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges—to a grueling session of running in place with an occasional drop to the ground, then back up. After fifteen minutes, Rick was heaving and trying to forget last night’s dinner. He glanced to his left and noticed that Nino had worked up a good sweat.

  After thirty minutes, Rick was sorely tempted to pull Sam aside and explain a few things. He was the quarterback, you know, and quarterbacks, at the professional level, are not subjected to the same drills and boot camp banalities required of the regular players. But Sam was far away, at the other end of the field. Then Rick realized he was being watched. As the warm-up dragged on, he caught more glances from his teammates, just checking to see if a real pro quarterback could grind it out with them. Was he a member of the team, or a prima donna just passing through?

  Rick kicked it up a notch to impress them.

  Usually, wind sprints were put off until the end of practice, but not so with Alex. After forty-five minutes of bruising exercises, the team members gathered at the goal line, and in groups of six sprinted forty yards downfield, where Alex was waiting with a very active whistle and a nasty insult for whoever brought up the rear. Rick ran with the backs. Sly easily raced away, and Franco easily thundered in last. Rick was in the middle, and as he sprinted, he remembered the glory days at Davenport South when he ran wild and scored almost as many touchdowns with his feet as with his arm. The running slowed considerably in college; he was simply not a running quarterback. Running was almost prohibited in the pros; it was an excellent way to get a leg broken.

  The Italians chattered at each other, offering encouragement as the sprints dragged on. After five they were breathing heavily and Alex was just warming up.

  “Can you puke?” Sly asked between breaths.

  “Why?”

  “Because he runs us until someone pukes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I wish I could.”

  After ten forties, Rick was asking himself what, exactly, he had been expecting in Parma. His hamstrings were on fire, his calves ached, he was straining and gasping and soaked with sweat, though the temperature
was hardly warm. He’d have a talk with Sam and get some things straight. This wasn’t high school ball. He was a pro!

  Nino bolted for the sideline, ripped off his helmet, and delivered. The team yelled its encouragement, and Alex gave three quick bursts on the whistle. After a water break, Sam stepped forward with instructions. He would take the backs and receivers. Nino had the offensive linemen. Alex had the linebackers and defensive linemen. Trey was in charge of the secondary. They scattered around the field.

  “This is Fabrizio,” Sam said, introducing the rather slim receiver to Rick. “Our wideout, great hands.” They acknowledged each other. High-maintenance, high-strung, God’s gift to Italian football. Sam had briefed Rick on Fabrizio and suggested that he take it easy on the kid for the first couple of days. There had been no small number of receivers in the NFL who’d had trouble with Rick’s bullets, at least in practice. In games, the bullets, though beautiful, had too often sailed high and wide. A few had been caught by fans five rows up.

  The backup quarterback was a twenty-year-old Italian named Alberto something or other. Rick threw soft sideline routes to one group, Alberto to the other. According to Sam, Alberto preferred to run the ball because he had a rather weak arm. Weak it was, Rick noticed after a couple of passes. He threw like a shot-putter, and his passes fluttered through the air like wounded birds.

  “Was he the backup last year?” Rick asked when Sam got close enough.

  “Yes, but didn’t play much.”

  Fabrizio was a natural athlete, quick and graceful with soft hands. He worked hard to appear nonchalant, as if anything Rick fired to him was just another easy catch. He big-leagued a few catches, snared them with too much cocky indifference, then committed a sin that would have cost him dearly in the NFL. On a lackadaisical quick-out, he snatched the ball with one hand simply to show off. The pass was on target and did not need a one-arm grab. Rick simmered, but Sam was all over it. “Let it go,” he said. “He doesn’t know any better.”

  Rick’s arm was still slightly sore, and though he was in no hurry to impress anyone, he was tempted to gun one into Fabrizio’s chest and watch him drop like a rock. Relax, he said to himself, he’s just a kid having fun.

  Then Sam barked at Fabrizio for running sloppy patterns, and the kid sulked like a baby. More patterns, longer throws, then Sam brought the offense together for a review of the basics. Nino squatted over the ball, and to prevent jammed fingers, Rick suggested they practice a few snaps, slowly. Nino agreed that this was an excellent idea, but when Rick’s hands touched his backside, he flinched. Not a radical jerk of the rear, nothing that would cause a referee to flag him for illegal procedure or offside, but a distinguishable tightening of the gluteus maximus much like a schoolkid about to receive licks from a thick wooden paddle. Perhaps it was just a case of new-quarterback jitters, Rick told himself. For the next snap, Nino hovered over the ball, Rick bent slightly forward, eased his hands just under the center’s rump, as he had done since junior high school, and upon contact Nino’s glutes instinctively tightened again.

  The snaps were slow and soft, and Rick knew immediately that hours were needed to improve Nino’s technique. A full step would be wasted waiting on the ball while tailbacks broke for their holes and receivers ran to their spots.

  On the third snap, Rick’s fingers grazed Nino’s zone ever so slightly, and evidently such a soft touch was far worse than an outright slap with the hands. Both cheeks arched painfully at the delicate contact. Rick glanced at Sam and quickly said, “Can you tell him to relax his ass?”

  Sam turned away to keep from laughing.

  “Is problem?” Nino asked.

  “Never mind,” Rick said. Sam blew his whistle, called a play in English, then Italian. It was a simple tailback off-tackle to the right, Sly taking the handoff with Franco plowing through the hole first like a bulldozer.

  “The cadence?” Rick asked as the linemen settled into place.

  “Down, set, hut,” Sam replied. “In English.”

  Nino, who evidently held the unofficial position of offensive line coach, inspected the guards and tackles before squatting over the ball and preparing his glutes. Rick touched them as he yelled, “Down!” They flinched and Rick hurriedly added, “Set,” then, “Hut.”

  Franco grunted like a bear as he lunged from his three-point stance and lurched to the right. The line moved forward, bodies jolting upright, voices growling as if the hated Bergamo Lions were over there, and Rick waited an eternity for the ball to arrive from his center. He was half a step back when he finally grabbed it, turned, and thrust it at Sly, who had already run up the back of Franco.

  Sam blew his whistle, yelled something in Italian, then, “Do it again.” And again and again.

  After ten snaps, Alberto stepped in to run the offense, and Rick found some water. He sat on his helmet and was soon drifting away to other teams, other fields. The drudgery of practice was the same everywhere, he decided. From Iowa to Canada to Parma and all those stops in between, the worst part of the game, in whatever language, was the numbing tedium of physical conditioning and the repetition of running play after play.

  It was late when Alex assumed authority again, and with his quick shrill whistle the forty-yard sprints began with a fury. The jokes and insults were gone. No one laughed or yelled as they ran down the field, slower with each whistle, but not so slow that Alex might get upset. After each sprint, they trotted back to the goal line, rested for a few seconds, then off again.

  Rick vowed to have a serious little chat with the head coach tomorrow. Real quarterbacks do not run wind sprints, he kept telling himself as he urged himself to get sick.

  · · ·

  The Panthers had a delightful post-practice ritual—a late dinner of pizza and beer at Polipo’s, a small restaurant on Via La Spezia on the edge of the city. By 11:30, most of the team had arrived, fresh from showers and anxious to officially kick off another season. Gianni, the owner, put them in a back corner so they wouldn’t be too disruptive. They gathered around two long tables and all talked at once. Just minutes after they settled in, two waiters brought pitchers of beer and mugs, quickly followed by more waiters with the largest pizzas Rick had ever seen. He was at one end, with Sam on one side and Sly on the other. Nino rose to make a toast, first in rapid Italian, and everyone looked at Rick, then in slightly slower English. Welcome to our little town, Mr. Reek, we hope you find a home here and bring us a Super Bowl. An odd round of hollering followed, and they drained their glasses.

  Sam explained that Signor Bruncardo picked up the tab for these rather boisterous dinners, and treated the team at least once a week after practice. Pizza and pasta, some of the best spaghetti in town, without all the fuss and ceremony that Nino so fondly dispensed at Montana’s. Cheap food, but delicious. Judge Franco stood with a fresh glass and launched into a windy speech about something.

  “More of the same,” Sam mumbled in English. “A toast to a great season, brotherhood, no injuries, et cetera. And of course to the great new quarterback.” It was obvious Franco would not allow himself to be outdone by Nino. After they drank and cheered some more, Sam said, “Those two jockey for attention. They’re permanent co-captains.”

  “Picked by the team?”

  “I suppose, but I’ve never seen an election, and this is my sixth season. It’s their team, basically. They keep the boys motivated in the off-season. They’re always recruiting new locals to take up the sport, especially ex–soccer players who’ve lost a step. They’ll convert a rugby player every now and then. They yell and scream before the game, and some of their halftime tongue-lashings are beautiful. In the heat of battle, you want them in your foxhole.”

  The beer flowed and the pizza disappeared. Nino called for order and introduced two new members of the team. Karl was a Danish math professor who’d settled in Parma with his Italian wife and taught at the university. He wasn’t sure what position he might play but was anxious to select one. Pietro was a baby-faced firepl
ug, short and thick, a linebacker. Rick had noticed his quick feet in practice.

  Franco led them in some mournful chant that not even Sam understood, then they burst into laughter and grabbed the beer pitchers. Waves of clamorous Italian rattled around the room, and after a few beers Rick was content to just sit and absorb the scene.

  He was an extra in a foreign film.

  · · ·

  Shortly before midnight, Rick plugged in his laptop and e-mailed Arnie:

  In Parma, arrived late yesterday, first practice today—food and wine are worth the visit—no cheerleaders, Arnie, you promised me beautiful cheerleaders—no agents here so you’d hate the place—no golf anywhere, yet—any word from Tiffany and her lawyers?—I remember Jason Cosgrove talking about her in the shower, with details, and he made eight mill last year—sic the lawyers on him—I ain’t the daddy. Even the little kids speak Italian over here—why am I in Parma?—could be worse I guess, could be in Cleveland. Later, RD

  While Rick was asleep, Arnie returned the message:

  Rick: Great to hear from you, delighted you’re there and enjoying yourself. Treat it as an adventure. Not much happening here. No word from the lawyers, I’ll suggest Cosgrove as the sperm donor. She’s seven months along now. I know you hate the arena game but a GM called today and said he might get you fifty grand for next season. I said no. What about it?

  Chapter

  10