by John Grisham
a towel. They were in the locker room, which doubled as the equipment room and tripled as the coaches’ offices. No one else was present. Practice was four hours away. As Matteo pounded furiously, Rick managed to drift away from the assault. He wrestled with the proper approach to suggest to Coach Russo that he preferred not to suffer through the conditioning drills anymore. No more wind sprints, push-ups, or sit-ups. He was in good shape, at least good enough for what was ahead. Too much running might injure a leg, pull a muscle, or something of that nature. In most pro camps the quarterbacks handled their own stretching and warm-ups and had their own little routines while everyone else grunted it out.
However, he was also fretting about how it would look to the team. Spoiled American quarterback. Too good for drills. Too soft for a little conditioning. The Italians seemed to thrive on dirt and sweat, and full pads were three days away.
Matteo settled onto his lower back and calmed down. The massage was working. The stiff, sore muscles were relaxing. Sam appeared and took a seat on the other training table. “I thought you were in shape,” he began pleasantly.
“I thought I was, too.” With an audience, Matteo returned to his jackhammer method.
“Pretty sore, huh?”
“A little. I don’t normally run too many wind sprints.”
“Get used to it. If you slack off, the Italians will think you’re just a pretty boy.”
That settled that. “I’m not the one who puked.”
“No, but you sure looked like it.”
“Thanks.”
“Just got a call from Franco. More trouble with the police, huh? You all right?”
“As long as I got Franco, the cops can arrest me for nothing every day.” He was sweating now, from the pain, and trying to appear nonchalant.
“We’ll get you a temporary license and some paperwork for the car. My mistake. Sorry about it.”
“No sweat. Franco’s got some cute secretaries.”
“Wait’ll you see his wife. He included us for dinner tomorrow night, me and Anna.”
“Great.”
Matteo flipped him over and began pinching his thighs. Rick almost screamed, but managed to keep a straight face. “Can we talk about the offense?” Rick asked.
“You’ve gone through the playbook?”
“It’s high school stuff.”
“Yes, it’s very basic. We can’t get too fancy here. The players have limited experience, and there’s not much practice time.”
“No complaints. I just have a few ideas.”
“Let’s go.”
Matteo backed away like a proud surgeon, and Rick thanked him. “Very nice job,” he said, limping away. Sly came bouncing in with wires running from his ears, trucker’s cap cocked to one side, and again wearing the Broncos sweatshirt. “Hey, Sly, how about a great massage over here!” Rick yelled. “Matteo’s wonderful.”
They exchanged jabs—Broncos versus Browns and so on—as Sly stripped to his boxers and stretched out on the table. Matteo cracked his knuckles, then plunged in. Sly grimaced, but bit his tongue.
Two hours before practice, Rick, Sly, and Trey Colby were on the field with Coach Russo, walking through the offensive plays. To Sam’s relief, his new quarterback had no interest in changing everything. Rick made suggestions here and there, tweaked some of the pass routes, and offered ideas about the running game. Sly reminded him more than once that the Panthers’ running game was quite simple—just give the ball to Sly and get out of the way.
Fabrizio appeared at the far end of the field, alone and determined to keep to himself. He began an elaborate stretching routine, one designed more for show than to loosen tight muscles.
“Well, he’s back for the second day,” Sly said as they watched him for a moment.
“What does that mean?” Rick asked.
“He hasn’t quit yet,” Trey said.
“Quit?”
“Yeah, he has the habit of walking off,” Sam said. “Could be a bad practice, maybe a bad game, could be nothing.”
“Why tolerate it?”
“He’s by far our best receiver,” Sam said. “Plus he plays for cheap.”
“Dude’s got some hands,” Trey said.
“And he can fly,” Sly said. “Faster than me.”
“Come on?”
“Nope. Beats me four steps in the forty.”
Nino arrived early, too, and after a round of buongiornos he stretched quickly, then began a long lap around the field.
“Why does his ass flinch like that?” Rick asked as they watched him jog away. Sly laughed much too loudly. Sam and Trey broke up, too, then Sly seized the opportunity to give a quick review of Nino’s overactive glutes. “He ain’t bad in practice, in shorts, but when he’s in full gear and we’re hitting, then everything gets tight, especially the muscles that run up his rear cheeks. Nino loves to hit, and sometimes he almost forgets to snap the ball because he’s thinking so hard about hitting the noseguard. And when he’s poised to hit, all bent over like that, then the glutes start quivering, and when you touch ’em, he damn near jumps out of his skin.”
“Perhaps we can run the shotgun,” Rick said, and they laughed even harder.
“Sure,” said Trey. “But Nino’s not too accurate. You’ll be chasing the ball all over the field.”
“We’ve tried it,” Sam said. “It’s a disaster.”
“We gotta speed up his snaps,” Sly said. “Sometimes I’m already in the hole before the quarterback gets the ball. He’s chasing me around, I’m looking for the damned ball. Nino’s off growling at some poor sucker.”
Nino was back, and he brought Fabrizio with him. Rick suggested they work from the shotgun, do a few patterns. His snaps were okay, not too errant, but awfully slow. Other Panthers arrived, and footballs were soon flying around the field as the Italians practiced their punting and passing.
Sam walked close to Rick and said, “Hour and a half before practice, and they can’t wait to start. Pretty refreshing, huh?”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“They love the game.”
· · ·
Franco and his small family lived on the top floor of a palazzo overlooking the Piazza della Steccata in the heart of the city. Everything was old—the worn marble staircase on the way up, the wooden floors, the tastefully cracked plaster walls, the portraits of ancient royals, the vaulted ceilings with lead chandeliers, the oversize leather sofas and chairs.
His wife, however, looked remarkably young. She was Antonella, a beautiful dark-haired woman who attracted second looks and outright stares. Even her heavily accented English left Rick wanting to hear more.
Their son was Ivano, age six, and their daughter was Susanna, age three. The children were allowed to hang around for the first half hour before heading off to bed. A nanny of some sort lurked in the background.
Sam’s wife, Anna, was also attractive, and as Rick sipped his Prosecco, he devoted his attention to the two ladies. He’d found a quick girlfriend in Florida, after fleeing Cleveland, but was content to vanish without a word to her when it was time to leave for Italy. He had seen beautiful women in Parma, but they all spoke a different language. There were no cheerleaders, and he had cursed Arnie many times for that lie. Rick was longing for female companionship, even the accented variety over a cocktail with the wives of friends. But the husbands stayed close, and at times Rick was lost in a world of Italian as the other four laughed at Franco’s punch lines. A tiny gray-haired woman in an apron passed through occasionally with a platter of appetizers—cured meats, parmigiano cheese, olives—then she disappeared into the narrow kitchen where dinner was being prepared.
The surprise was the dinner table, a slab of black marble resting on two massive urns on the patio, a small flower-lined terrace overlooking the center of town. The table was crowded with candles and silver and flowers and fine china and liters of red wine. The night air was clear and still, chilly only when a slight wind blew. From a hidde
n speaker, an opera could barely be heard.
Rick was given the best seat, the one with a clear view of the top of the duomo. Franco poured generous glasses of red wine, then offered a toast to their new friend. “A Super Bowl for Parma,” he said, almost lustfully, in closing.
Where am I? Rick asked himself. Usually in March he was hanging out in Florida, bumming a room off a friend, playing golf, lifting weights, running, trying to stay in shape while Arnie worked the phones in a desperate search for a team in need of an arm. There was always hope. The next call could mean the next contract. The next team could mean the big break. Each spring brought a fresh dream that he’d finally find his place—a team with a great offensive line, a brilliant coordinator, talented receivers, everything. His passes would be on target. Defenses would crumble. The Super Bowl. Pro Bowl. Fat contract. Endorsements. Fame. Lots of cheerleaders.
It all seemed possible every March.
Where am I?
The first course, or the antipasto, was thickly sliced cantaloupe covered with thin slices of prosciutto. Franco poured more wine as he explained that this dish was very common throughout the Emilia-Romagna region, something Rick had heard more than once. But, of course, only the best prosciutto comes from Parma. Even Sam rolled his eyes at Rick.
After a few hearty bites, Franco asked, “So, Rick, do you like opera?”
To give an honest “Hell no” would be to insult everyone within a hundred miles at least, so Rick played it safe. “We don’t listen to a lot of it back home,” he said.
“Is very big here,” Franco said. Antonella smiled at Rick as she nibbled on a tiny bit of melon.
“We take you sometime, yes? We have Teatro Regio, the most beautiful opera house in the world,” Franco said.
“Parmesans are crazy about opera,” Anna said. She was sitting next to Rick, with Antonella directly across, and Franco, the judge, at the head of the table.
“And where are you from?” Rick asked Anna, anxious to change subjects.
“Parma. My uncle was a great baritone.”
“Teatro Regio is more magnificent than La Scala in Milan,” Franco was announcing to no one in particular, so Sam decided to quibble. “No way,” he said. “La Scala is the greatest.”
Franco’s eyes widened as if he might attack. The rebuke sent him directly into Italian, and for a moment everyone listened in an uneasy silence. He finally composed himself and said, in English, “When did you go to La Scala?”
“Never,” Sam said. “Just saw some photos.”
Franco laughed loudly as Antonella left for the next course. “I take you to the opera,” Franco said to Rick, who just smiled and tried to think of something worse.
The next course, the primo piatto, was anolini, a small round pasta stuffed with parmigiano and beef and smothered in porcini mushrooms. Antonella explained that it was a very famous dish from Parma, and her description was in the most beautifully accented English Rick had ever heard. He really didn’t care how the pasta tasted. Just keep talking about it.
Franco and Sam were discussing opera, in English. Anna and Antonella were discussing children, in English. Finally Rick said, “Please, speak Italian. It’s much prettier.” And they did. Rick savored the food and wine and view. The dome of the cathedral was majestic in its lights, and the center of Parma was alive with traffic and pedestrians.
The anolini yielded to the secondo piatto, the main course, a roasted stuffed capon. Franco, several glasses deep into the wine, graphically described a capon as a male chicken who gets castrated—“Whack!”—when only two months old. “Adds to the flavor,” Antonella said, leaving the impression, at least to Rick, that the rejected parts might actually be in the stuffing. After two tentative bites, though, it didn’t matter. Testicles or not, the capon was delicious.
He ate slowly, very amused at the Italians and their love of conversation at the table. At times they focused on him and wanted to know about his life, then they would drift back to their musical language and forget about him. Even Sam, from Baltimore and Bucknell, seemed more at ease chatting with the women in Italian. For the first time in his new home, Rick admitted to himself that learning a few words was not a bad idea. In fact, it was a great idea if he had any hope of scoring points with the girls.
After the capon, there was cheese and another wine, then dessert and coffee. Rick finally made a graceful departure a few minutes after midnight. He strolled through the night, back to his apartment, and fell asleep on his bed without undressing.
Chapter
12
On a beautiful Saturday in April, a perfect spring day in the Po valley, the Bandits from Naples left home at 7:00 a.m. on a train headed north for the season’s opening game. They arrived in Parma just before 2:00 p.m. Kickoff was at 3:00. The return train would leave at 11:40, and the team would arrive in Naples around 7:00 a.m. on Sunday, twenty-four hours after leaving.
Once in Parma, the Bandits, thirty of them, took a bus to Stadio Lanfranchi and hauled their gear to a cramped dressing room just down the hall from the Panthers. They changed quickly and scattered around the field, stretching and following the usual pregame rituals.
· · ·
Two hours before kickoff all forty-two Panthers were in their locker room, most burning nervous energy and anxious to hit someone. Signor Bruncardo surprised them with new game jerseys—black with shiny silver numbers and the word “Panthers” across the chest.
Nino smoked a pregame cigarette. Franco chatted with Sly and Trey. Pietro, the middle linebacker who was improving by the day, was meditating with his iPod. Matteo scurried around, rubbing muscles, taping ankles, repairing equipment.
A typical pregame, thought Rick. Smaller locker room, smaller players, smaller stakes, but some things about the game were always the same. He was ready to play. Sam addressed the team, offered a few observations, then turned them loose.
When Rick stepped onto the field ninety minutes before kickoff, the stands were empty. Sam had predicted a big crowd—“maybe a thousand.” The weather was great, and the day before the Gazzetta di Parma ran an impressive story about the Panthers’ first game and especially about their new NFL quarterback. Rick’s handsome face, in color, had been splashed across half a page. Signor Bruncardo had pulled some strings and thrown some weight around, according to Sam.
Walking onto a field in an NFL stadium, or even one in the Big Ten, was always a nerve-racking experience. The pregame jitters were so bad in the locker room that the players fled as soon as they were allowed. Outside, engulfed by enormous decks of seats and thousands of fans, and cameras and bands and cheerleaders and the seemingly endless mob of people who somehow had access to the field, players spent the first few moments adjusting to the barely controlled chaos.
Walking onto the grass of Stadio Lanfranchi, Rick couldn’t help but chuckle at the latest stop in his career.
A frat boy limbering up for a flag football game would’ve been more nervous.
After a few minutes of stretching and calisthenics, led by Alex Olivetto, Sam gathered the offense on the five-yard line and began running plays. He and Rick had selected twelve that they would run the entire game, six on the ground and six in the air. The Bandits were notoriously weak in the secondary—not a single American back there—and the year before the Panthers’ quarterback had thrown for two hundred yards.
Of the six running plays, five went to Sly. Franco’s only touch would be a dive play on short yardage, and only when the game was won. Though he loved to hit, he also had the habit of fumbling. All six pass plays went to Fabrizio.
After an hour of warm-ups, both teams retreated to their dressing rooms. Sam huddled the Panthers for a rousing speech, and Coach Olivetto pumped them up with a ferocious assault on the city of Naples.
Rick didn’t understand a word, but the Italians certainly did. They were ready for war.
· · ·
The Bandits’ kicker was another ex–soccer player with a big foot, and his opening d
rive sailed through the end zone. As Rick trotted onto the field for the first series, he tried to remember the last game he started. It was in Toronto, a hundred years ago.
The home stands were packed now, and the fans knew how to make noise. They waved large hand-painted banners and yelled in unison. Their racket had the Panthers looking for blood. Nino especially was out of his mind.
They huddled, and Rick called, “Twenty-six smash.” Nino translated, and they headed for the line. In an I formation, with Franco four yards behind him at fullback and Sly seven yards deep, Rick quickly scanned the defense and saw nothing that worried him. The smash was a deep handoff to the right side that allowed the tailback flexibility to read the blocking and pick a hole. The Bandits had five down linemen and two linebackers, both smaller