by John Grisham
both doors, and said again, “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” Rick said, feeling slightly assaulted. “Are you a judge?”
“Call me Franco,” he demanded, waving at a leather sofa in one corner. It was evident that Franco was too young to be a seasoned judge and too old to be a useful fullback. His large round head was shaved slick; the only hair on his head was an odd thin patch on his chin. Mid-thirties, like Nino, but over six feet tall, solid and fit. He fell into a chair, pulled it close to Rick on the sofa, and said, “Yes, I am judge, but, more importantly, I am fullback. Franco is my nickname. Franco is my hero.”
Then Rick looked around, and understood. Franco was everywhere. A life-size cutout of Franco Harris running the ball during a very muddy game. A photo of Franco and other Steelers holding a Super Bowl trophy triumphantly over their heads. A framed white jersey, number 32, apparently signed by the great man himself. A small Franco Harris doll with an oversize head on the judge’s immense desk. And displayed prominently in the center of the Ego Wall, two large color photographs, one of Franco Harris in full Steeler game gear, minus the helmet, and the other of Franco the judge here, in a Panther uniform, no helmet, and wearing number 32 and trying his best to imitate his hero.
“I love Franco Harris, the greatest Italian football player,” Franco was saying, his eyes practically moist, his voice a bit gravelly. “Just look at him.” He waved his hands triumphantly around the office, which was practically a shrine to Franco Harris.
“Franco was Italian?” Rick asked slowly. Though never a Steelers fan, and too young to recall the glory days of Pittsburgh’s dynasty, Rick was nonetheless a fair student of the game. He was certain that Franco Harris was a black guy who played at Penn State, then led the Steelers to a number of Super Bowls back in the 1970s. He was dominant, a Pro Bowler, and later inducted into the Hall of Fame. Every football fan knew Franco Harris.
“His mother was Italian. His father was an American soldier. You like the Steelers? I love the Steelers.”
“Well, no, actually—”
“Why haven’t you played for the Steelers?”
“They haven’t called yet.”
Franco was on the edge of his seat, hyper with the presence of his new quarterback. “Let’s have coffee,” he said, jumping to his feet, and before Rick could answer, he was at the door, barking instructions to one of the girls. He was stylish—snug black suit, long pointed Italian loafers, size 14 at least.
“We really want a Super Bowl trophy here in Parma,” he said as he grabbed something from his desk. “Look.” He pointed the remote control to a flat-screen TV in a corner, and suddenly there was more Franco—pounding through the line as tacklers bounced off, leaping over the pile for a touchdown, stiff-arming a Cleveland Brown (yes!) and ripping off another touchdown, taking a handoff from Bradshaw, and bowling over two massive linemen. It was Franco’s greatest hits, long, punishing runs that were enjoyable to watch. The judge, thoroughly mesmerized, jerked and cut and pumped his fists with each great move.
How many times has he seen this? Rick asked himself.
The last play was the most famous—the Immaculate Reception—Franco’s inadvertent catch of a deflected pass and his miracle gallop to the end zone in a 1972 play-off game against Oakland. The play had created more debate, review, analysis, and fights than any in the history of the NFL, and the judge had memorized every frame.
The secretary arrived with the coffee, and Rick managed a bad “Grazie.”
Then it was back to the video. Part two was interesting but also a bit depressing. Franco the judge had added his own greatest hits, a few sluggish runs through and around linemen and linebackers even slower than himself. He beamed at Rick as they watched the Panthers in action, Rick’s first glimpse of his future.
“You like?” Franco asked.
“Nice,” Rick said, a word that seemed to satisfy many inquiries in Parma.
The final play was a screen pass that Franco took from an emaciated quarterback. He tucked the ball into his gut, bent over like an infantryman, and began looking for the first defender to hit. A couple bounced off, Franco spun free, kicked up his legs, and was off to the races. Two cornerbacks made halfhearted attempts to stick their helmets into his churning legs, but they bounced off like flies. Franco was soaring down the sideline, straining mightily in his best Franco Harris imitation.
“Is this in slow motion?” Rick asked, a half effort at humor.
Franco’s mouth fell open. He was wounded.
“Just kidding,” Rick said quickly. “A joke.”
Franco managed to fake a laugh. As he crossed the goal line, he spiked the ball, and the screen went blank.
“For seven years I play fullback,” Franco said as he resumed his perch on the edge of his seat. “And we never beat Bergamo. This year, with our great quarterback, we will win the Super Bowl. Yes?”
“Of course. So where did you learn football?”
“Some friends.”
They both took a sip of coffee and waited through an awkward pause. “What kind of judge are you?” Rick finally asked.
Franco rubbed his chin and considered this at great length, as though he’d never before thought about what he did. “I do lots of things,” he finally said with a smile. His phone rang on the desk, and though he didn’t answer it, he did look at his watch.
“We are so glad to have you here in Parma, my friend Rick. My quarterback.”
“Thanks.”
“I will see you at practice tonight.”
“Of course.”
Franco was on his feet now, his other duties calling him. Rick was not exactly expecting to be fined or otherwise punished, but Romo’s “complaints” needed to be addressed, didn’t they?
Evidently not. Franco swept Rick from his office with the mandatory embraces and handshakes and promises to help in any way, and Rick was soon in the hall, then down the stairs and into the alley, all alone, a free man.
Chapter
8
Sam passed the time in the empty café with the Panther playbook, a thick binder with a thousand Xs and Os, a hundred offensive plays, and a dozen defensive schemes. Thick, but not nearly as thick as the ones handed out by college teams, and a mere memo compared with the tomes used in the NFL. And too thick, according to the Italians. It was often mumbled, in the tedium of a long chalkboard session, that there was little wonder soccer was so popular throughout the rest of the world. It was so easy to learn, to play, and to understand.
And these are just the basics, Sam was always tempted to say.
Rick arrived promptly at 11:30, and the café was still empty. Only a couple of Americans would arrange a lunch at such an odd hour. Lunch, but only salads and water.
Rick had showered and shaved and looked far less criminal. With great animation, he relayed the story of his encounter with Detective Romo, his “non-arrest,” and the meeting with Judge Franco. Sam was highly entertained and assured Rick that no other American had received such a special welcome from Franco. Sam had seen the video. Yes, Franco was as slow in the flesh as he was on the film, but he was a punishing blocker and would run through a brick wall, or at least give it his best shot.
Sam explained that to the best of his limited knowledge, Italian judges are different from their American counterparts. Franco had broad authority to initiate investigations and proceedings, and he also presided over trials. After a thirty-second summary of Italian law, Sam had exhausted his knowledge on the subject, and it was back to football.
They picked through the lettuce and played with the tomatoes, but neither had much of an appetite. After an hour, they left on foot to handle some business. The first item was the opening of a checking account. Sam chose his bank, primarily because a certain assistant manager could thrash through enough English to resolve matters. Sam pressed Rick to do it himself, and helped only when things were at an impasse. It took an hour, and Rick was frustrated and more than a little intimidated. Sam would not alway
s be around to translate.
With a quick tour of Rick’s neighborhood and the center of Parma, they found a small grocery with fruits and vegetables stacked along the sidewalk. Sam was explaining that Italians prefer to buy their food fresh each day and avoid stockpiling groceries in cans and bottles. The butcher was next door to the fish market. Bakeries were on every corner. “The Kroger concept doesn’t work over here,” Sam said. “Housewives plan their day around shopping for fresh food.” Rick gamely tagged along, somewhat engaged in the sightseeing but not interested in the notion of cooking. Why bother? There were so many places to eat. The wine and cheese shop held little interest, at least until Rick spotted a very attractive young lady stocking reds. Sam pointed out two men’s stores, and again dropped rather pointed hints about ditching the Florida garb and upgrading to the local fashions. They also found a cleaners, a bar with great cappuccino, a bookstore where every book was in Italian, and a pizzeria with a menu in four languages.
Then it was time for the car. Somewhere in Signor Bruncardo’s little empire a well-used but clean and shiny Fiat Punto had become available, and for the next five months it belonged to the quarterback. Rick walked around it, inspected it carefully without uttering a word, but couldn’t help but think that at least four of them would fit into the SUV he’d been driving until three days ago.
He folded himself into the driver’s seat and inspected the dash. “It’ll do,” he finally said to Sam, who was standing a few feet away on the sidewalk.
He touched the stick shift and realized it was not rigid. It moved, too much. Then his left foot got caught on something that was not a brake pedal. A clutch?
“Manual, huh?” he said.
“All cars here are manual. Not a problem, is it?”
“Of course not.” He could not remember the last time his left foot had depressed a clutch. A friend in high school had had a Mazda with a stick shift, and Rick had practiced once or twice. That was at least ten years ago. He jumped out, slammed the door, and almost said, Got anything with an automatic? But he didn’t. He could not show concern with something as simple as a car with a clutch.
“It’s either this or a scooter,” Sam said.
Give me the scooter, Rick wanted to say.
Sam left him there, with the Fiat he was afraid to drive. They agreed to meet in a couple of hours in the locker room. The playbook had to be addressed as soon as possible. The Italians might not learn all the plays, but the quarterback was required to.
Rick walked around the block, thinking of all the playbooks he’d suffered through in his nomadic career. Arnie would call with a new deal. Rick would take off to his newest team, terribly excited. A quick hello at the front office; quick tour of the stadium, locker room, and so on. Then all enthusiasm faded the instant some assistant coach marched in with the massive playbook and dropped it in front of him. “Memorize it by tomorrow” was always the command.
Sure, Coach. A thousand plays. No problem.
How many playbooks? How many assistant coaches? How many teams? How many stops along the way in a frustrating career that had now led him to a small town in northern Italy? He drank a beer at a sidewalk café and couldn’t shake the lonely feeling that this was not where he was supposed to be.
He shuffled through the wine shop, terrified a clerk might ask him if there was anything in particular he needed. The cute girl stocking the reds was gone.
And then he was back, staring at the five-speed Fiat, clutch and all. He didn’t even like the color, a deep copper he’d never seen. It was in a row of similar cars parked tightly together, less than a foot between bumpers, on a one-way street with a fair amount of traffic. Any effort to drive away would require him to ease forward and back, forward and back, at least a half dozen times as he inched the front wheels into the street. Perfect coordination of the clutch, stick, and accelerator would be essential.
It would be a challenge in an automatic. Why did these people park so close together? The key was in his pocket.
Maybe later. He walked to his apartment and took a nap.
· · ·
Rick changed quickly into the Panther practice uniform—black shirt, silver shorts, white socks. Each player bought his own shoes, and Rick had hauled over three pairs of the game-day Nikes the Browns had so freely dispensed. Most NFL players had shoe contracts. Rick had never been offered one.
He was alone in the locker room, flipping through the playbook, when Sly Turner bounced in, all smiles and wearing a bright orange Denver Broncos sweatshirt. They introduced themselves, shook hands politely, and before long Rick said, “You wearing that for a reason?”
“Yep, love my Broncos,” Sly said, still smiling. “Grew up near Denver, went to Colorado State.”
“That’s nice. I hear I’m a popular guy in Denver.”
“We love you, man.”
“Always needed to be loved. Are we gonna be pals, Sly?”
“Sure, just give me the ball twenty times a game.”
“Done.” Rick removed a shoe from his locker, slowly put it on his right foot, and began lacing it. “You get drafted?”
“Seventh round by the Colts, four years ago. Last player cut. One year in Canada, two years in arena ball.” The smile was gone and Sly was undressing. He looked much shorter than five feet eight, but he was solid muscle.
“And here last year, right?”
“Right. It ain’t that bad. Kinda fun, if you keep your sense of humor. The guys on the team are wonderful. If not for them, I’d never come back.”
“Why are you here?”
“Same reason you’re here. Too young to give up the dream. Plus, I got a wife and kid now and I need the money.”
“The money?”
“Sad, ain’t it? A professional football player making ten thousand bucks for five months’ work. But, like I said, I ain’t ready to quit.” He finally pulled off the orange sweatshirt and replaced it with a Panther practice jersey.
“Let’s go loosen up,” Rick said, and they left the locker room and walked onto the field.
“My arm’s pretty stiff,” Rick said as he made a weak throw.
“You’re lucky you’re not crippled,” Sly said.
“Thanks.”
“What a hit. I was at my brother’s, yelling at the TV. Game was over, then Marroon goes out with an injury. Eleven minutes to go, everything was hopeless, then—”
Rick held the ball for a second. “Sly, really, I’d rather not replay it. Okay?”
“Sure. Sorry.”
“Is your family here?” Rick asked, quickly changing the subject.
“No, back in Denver. My wife’s a nurse, good job. She told me I got one more year of football, then the dream is over. You got a wife?”
“No, not even close.”
“You’ll like it here.”
“Tell me about it.” Rick walked back five yards and straightened his passes.
“Well, it’s a very different culture. The women are beautiful, but much more reserved. It’s a very chauvinistic society. The men don’t marry until they’re thirty; they live at home with their mothers, who wait on them hand and foot, and when they get married, they expect their wives to do the same. The women are reluctant to get married. They need to work, so the women are having fewer kids. The birthrate here is declining rapidly.”
“I wasn’t exactly thinking about marriage and birthrates, Sly. I’m more curious about the nightlife, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, lots of girls, and pretty ones, but the language thing is a problem.”
“What about the cheerleaders?”
“What about them?”
“Are they cute, easy, available?”
“I wouldn’t know. We don’t have any.”
Rick held the ball, froze, looked hard at his tailback. “No cheerleaders?”
“Nope.”
“But my agent …” He stopped before he embarrassed himself. So his agent had promised something that couldn’t happen. What el
se was new?
Sly was laughing, a loud infectious laugh that said, “Joke’s on you, clown.”
“You came over here for the cheerleaders?” he said, high-pitched and mocking.
Rick fired a bullet, which Sly easily caught with his fingertips, then kept laughing. “Sounds like my agent. Tells the truth about half the time.”
Rick finally laughed at himself as he backed up another five yards. “What’s the game like here?” he asked.
“Absolutely delightful, because they can’t catch me. I averaged