by John Grisham
“Phys ed. Cheerleaders.”
“Study much history?”
“Hated history. Why?”
“Parma goes back two thousand years and has an interesting history.”
“Parma,” Rick said as he exhaled and managed to slide down an inch or two, as if the very mention of the place meant defeat. He fished through a coat pocket and found his cell phone but didn’t open it. “What the hell am I doing in Parma, Italy?” he asked, though it was more of a statement.
Sam figured no response was best, so he decided to become a guide. “This is the downtown, the oldest section. First time in Italy?”
“Yep. What’s that?”
“It’s called Palazzo della Pilotta, started four hundred years ago, never finished, then bombed to hell and back by the Allies in 1944.”
“We bombed Parma?”
“We bombed everything, even Rome, but we laid off the Vatican. The Italians, as you might recall, had a leader named Mussolini, who cut a deal with Hitler. Not a good move, though the Italians never warmed up to the notion of war. They’re much better at food, wine, sports cars, fashion, sex.”
“Maybe I’ll like this place.”
“You will. And they love opera. To the right there is the Teatro Regio, the famous opera house. Ever see an opera?”
“Oh yeah, sure, we were raised on the stuff in Iowa. Spent most of my childhood at the opera. Are you kidding? Why would I go to an opera?”
“There’s the duomo,” Sam said.
“The what?”
“Duomo, cathedral. Think of dome, you know, like Superdome, Carrier Dome.”
Rick did not respond, but instead went silent for a moment as if the memory of domes and stadiums and their related games made him uncomfortable. They were in the center of Parma with pedestrians scurrying about and cars bumper to bumper.
Sam finally continued: “Most Italian cities are sort of configured around a central square, called a piazza. This is Piazza Garibaldi, lots of shops and cafés and foot traffic. The Italians spend a lot of time sitting at the outdoor cafés sipping espresso and reading. Not a bad habit.”
“I don’t do coffee.”
“It’s time to start.”
“What do these Italians think of Americans?”
“They like us, I guess, not that they dwell on the subject. If they stop and think about it, they probably dislike our government, but generally they couldn’t care less. They are crazy about our culture.”
“Even football?”
“To some degree. There’s a great little bar over there. You want something to drink?”
“No, it’s too early.”
“Not alcohol. A bar here is like a small pub or coffee shop, a gathering place.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Anyway, the center of the city is where the action is. Your apartment is just a few streets over.”
“Can’t wait. Mind if I make a call?”
“Prego.”
“What?”
“Prego. It means go right ahead.”
Rick punched the numbers while Sam worked his car through the late-afternoon traffic. When Rick glanced out his window, Sam quickly pushed a button on the radio and low-volume opera rose in the background. Whoever Rick needed to chat with was unavailable; no voice mail was left by the quarterback; phone slapped shut; returned to pocket.
Probably his agent, thought Sam. Maybe a girlfriend.
“You got a girl?” Sam asked.
“No one in particular. Lots of NFL groupies, but they’re dumb as rocks. You?”
“Married for eleven years, no kids.”
They crossed a bridge called the Ponte Verdi. “This is the Parma River. It divides the city.”
“Lovely.”
“Ahead of us is the Parco Ducale, the largest park in the city. It’s quite beautiful. Italians are big on parks and landscaping and such.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Glad you approve. It’s a great place to walk, take a girl, read a book, lie in the sun.”
“Never spent much time in parks.”
What a surprise.
They looped around, recrossed the river, and were soon darting through narrow one-way streets. “You’ve now seen most of downtown Parma,” Sam said.
“Nice.”
A few blocks south of the park they turned onto a winding street, Via Linati. “There,” Sam said, pointing to a long row of four-story buildings, each painted a different color. “The second one, sort of a gold color, apartment’s on the third floor. It’s a nice part of town. Signor Bruncardo, the gent who owns the team, also owns a few buildings. That’s why you get to live downtown. It’s more expensive here.”
“And these guys really play for free?” Rick said, mulling something that had stuck from a prior conversation.
“The Americans get paid—you and two others—only three this year. No one makes as much as you. Yes, the Italians play for the sport of it. And the postgame pizza.” A pause, then he added, “You’re gonna love these guys.” It was his first effort at bolstering team spirit. If the quarterback wasn’t happy, then there would be many problems.
He somehow wedged his Honda into a space half its size, and they loaded up the luggage and golf clubs. There was no elevator, but the stairwell was wider than normal. The apartment was furnished and had three rooms—a bedroom, a den, a small kitchen. Because his new quarterback was coming from the NFL, Signor Bruncardo had sprung for new paint, rugs, curtains, and den furniture. There was even some splashy contemporary art on the walls.
“Not bad,” Rick said, and Russo was relieved. He knew the realities of urban real estate in Italy—most of the apartments were small and old and expensive. If the quarterback was disappointed, then Signor Bruncardo would be, too. Things would get complicated.
“On the market, it would be two thousand euros a month,” Sam said, trying to impress.
Rick was carefully placing his golf clubs on the sofa. “Nice place,” he said. He couldn’t count the number of apartments he’d passed through in the last six years. The constant moving, often in a hurry, had deadened any appreciation of square footage, decor, and furnishings.
“Why don’t you change clothes and I’ll meet you downstairs,” Sam said.
Rick glanced down at his white slacks and brown ankles and almost said, “Oh, I’m fine.” But then he took the hint and said, “Sure, give me five minutes.”
“There’s a café two blocks down on the right,” Sam said. “I’ll be at a table outside having a coffee.”
“Sure, Coach.”
Sam ordered coffee and opened his newspaper. It was damp and the sun had dipped behind the buildings. The Americans always went through a brief period of culture shock. The language, cars, narrow streets, smaller lodgings, the confinement of the cities. It was overwhelming, especially to the middle-and lower-class guys who’d traveled little. In his five years as coach of the Parma Panthers, Sam had met exactly one American player who’d ever been to Italy before joining the team.
Two of Italy’s national treasures usually warmed them up—food and women. Coach Russo did not meddle with the latter, but he knew the power of Italian cooking. Mr. Dockery was facing a four-hour dinner and had no idea what was coming.
Ten minutes later he arrived, cell phone in hand of course, and looked much better. Navy blazer, faded jeans, dark socks, and shoes.
“Coffee?” Sam asked.
“Just a Coke.”
Sam talked to the waiter.
“So you speak the lingo, huh?” Rick said, stuffing the phone in a pocket.
“I’ve lived here for five years. My wife is Italian. I told you that.”
“Do the other Yanks pick up the language?”
“A few words, especially items on a menu.”
“Just curious as to how I’m supposed to call plays in the huddle?”
“We do it in English. Sometimes the Italians get the plays; sometimes they don’t.”
“Just like i
n college,” Rick said, and they both laughed. He gulped his Coke, then said, “Me, I’m not bothering with the language. Too much trouble. When I played in Canada, there was a lot of French. Didn’t slow us down. Everyone spoke English, too.”
“Not everyone speaks English here, I can assure you of that.”
“Yes, but everyone speaks American Express and greenbacks.”
“Maybe. It’s not a bad idea to study the language. Life’s easier and your teammates will love you.”
“Love? Did you say love? I haven’t loved a teammate since I was in college.”
“This is like college, a big fraternity with guys who like to put on the gear, brawl for a couple of hours, then go drink beer. If they accept you, and I’m sure they will, then they’ll kill for you.”
“Do they know about, uh, you know, my last game?”
“I haven’t asked them, but I’m sure some do. They love football and watch a lot of games. But don’t worry, Rick. They’re delighted you’re here. These guys have never won the Italian Super Bowl, and they’re convinced this is the year.”
Three signorinas walked by and required their attention. When they were out of sight, Rick gazed at the street and seemed lost in another world. Sam liked him and felt sorry for him. He had endured an avalanche of public ridicule never before seen in professional football, and here he was in Parma, alone and confused. And running. Parma was where he belonged, at least for now.
“You wanna go see the field?” Sam asked.
“Sure, Coach.”
As they walked away, Sam pointed down another street. “There’s a men’s store down there, great clothes. You should check it out.”
“I brought plenty.”
“Like I said, you should check it out. Italians are very stylish and they’ll watch you carefully, both men and women. You can never be overdressed here.”
“Language, clothes, anything else, Coach?”
“Yes, a bit of advice. Try to enjoy yourself here. It’s a wonderful old town and you’re here for such a short time.”
“Sure, Coach.”
Chapter
5
The Stadio Lanfranchi is in the northwest corner of Parma, still in the city proper but away from the ancient buildings and narrow streets. It’s a rugby pitch, home to two professional teams and leased to the Panthers for football. It has canopy-covered grandstands on both sides, a press box, and a playing surface of natural grass that is well maintained in spite of the heavy traffic.
Soccer is played at the much larger Stadio Tardini, a mile away in the southeast section of the city, and there larger crowds gather to celebrate Italy’s modern-day reason to exist. There’s not much to cheer about, though. The lowly Parma team barely clings to its place in the prestigious Series A of Italian soccer. The team still draws its faithful, though—about thirty thousand long-suffering fans show up with Cubs-like devotion year after year, game after game.
That’s about twenty-nine thousand more than generally show up for Panthers games at Stadio Lanfranchi. It has seating for three thousand, but rarely sells out. Actually, there’s nothing to sell. Admission is free.
Rick Dockery walked slowly across midfield as long shadows fell, hands crammed in jeans pockets, the aimless stroll of a man in another world. Occasionally, he stopped and pressed hard with a loafer to check the turf. He had not stepped onto a field, or a pitch or whatever the hell it was, since that last day in Cleveland.
Sam sat five rows up on the home side, watching his quarterback and wondering what he was thinking.
Rick was thinking about a training camp one summer not too long ago, a brief but brutal ordeal with one of the pro teams, he couldn’t remember exactly which. Camp that summer had been at a small college with a field similar to the one he was now inspecting. A Division III school, a tiny college with the obligatory rustic dorms and cafeteria and cramped locker rooms, the type of place some NFL teams choose to make training as tough and austere as possible.
And he was thinking about high school. Back at Davenport South he had played every game in front of more people, home and away. He lost in the state finals his junior year in front of eleven thousand, small maybe by Texas standards but still a heckuva crowd for Iowa high school football.
At the moment, though, Davenport South was far away, as were many things that once seemed important. He stopped in the end zone and studied the goal-posts, odd ones. Two tall posts, painted blue and yellow, anchored in the ground and wrapped with green padding that advertised Heineken. Rugby.
He climbed the steps and sat next to his coach, who said, “Whatta you think?”
“Nice field, but you’re missing a few yards.”
“Ten to be exact. The goalposts are 110 yards apart, but we need 20 for the two end zones. So we play on what’s left, 90 yards. Most of the fields we play on are meant for rugby, so we have to make do.”
Rick grunted and smiled. “Whatever.”
“It’s a long way from Browns Stadium in Cleveland,” Sam said.
“Thank God for that. I never liked Cleveland, the city, the fans, the team, and I hated the stadium. Right there on Lake Erie, bitter winds, ground as hard as concrete.”
“What was your favorite stop?”
Rick grunted out a laugh and said, “Stop. That’s a good word. I stopped here and there, but never found a place. Dallas, I guess. I prefer warmer weather.”
The sun was almost gone and the air was growing cooler. Rick stuck his hands into the pockets of his tight jeans and said, “So tell me about football in Italy. How did it happen?”
“The first teams popped up about twenty years ago and it spread like crazy, mainly here in the north. The Super Bowl in 1990 drew twenty thousand, a lot less last year. Then it declined for some reason; now it’s growing again. There are nine teams in the A Division, twenty-five or so in the B Division, and flag football for the kids.”
Another pause as Rick rearranged his hands. The two months in Florida had given him a dark tan but a thin skin. His tan was already fading. “How many fans watch the Panthers?”
“Depends. We don’t sell tickets, so no one really counts. Maybe a thousand. When Bergamo rolls in, the place is packed.”
“Bergamo?”
“The Bergamo Lions, perennial champs.”
Rick found this amusing. “Lions and Panthers. Do they all have NFL names?”
“No. We also have the Bologna Warriors, Rome Gladiators, Naples Bandits, Milan Rhinos, Lazio Marines, as well as the Ancona Dolphins, and Bolzano Giants.”
Rick chuckled at the names.
“What’s so funny?” Sam asked.
“Nothing. Where am I?”
“It’s normal. The shock wears off fast, though. Once you put on the gear and start hitting you’ll feel at home.”
I don’t hit, Rick wanted to say, but thought better of it. “So Bergamo is the team to beat?”
“Oh yes. They’ve won eight straight Super Bowls and sixty-one straight games.”