by John Grisham
than Rick. Nino’s glutes were in full panic, and Rick had long since decided to go with a quick snap, especially on the first drive. He did a quick “Down.” A beat. Hands under center, a hard slap because a feather touch sent the center into illegal motion, then, “Set.” A beat. Then, “Hut.”
For a split second, everything moved but the ball. The line fired forward, everyone growling and grunting, and Rick waited. When he finally got the ball, he did a quick pump to freeze the safety, then turned for the handoff. Franco lurched by, hissing at the linebacker he planned to maul. Sly got the ball deep in the backfield, faked toward the line, then cut wide for six yards before going out of bounds.
“Twenty-seven smash,” Rick called. Same play, but to the left. Gain of eleven, and the fans reacted with whistles and horns. Rick had never heard so much noise from a thousand fans. Sly ran right, then left, right, then left, and the offense crossed midfield. It stalled at the Bandits’ 40, and with a third and four Rick decided to toss one to Fabrizio. Sly was panting and needed a break.
“I right flex Z, 64 curl H swing,” Rick said in the huddle. Nino hissed out the translation. A curl to Fabrizio. His linemen were sweating now, and very happy. They were stuffing the ball into the heart of the defense, driving at will. After six plays, Rick was almost bored and looking forward to showing off his arm. After all, they weren’t paying him twenty grand for nothing.
The Bandits guessed right and sent everyone but the two safeties. Rick saw it coming and wanted to check off, but he also didn’t want to risk a busted play. Audibles were tricky enough in English. He dropped back three steps, hurried his pass, and fired a bullet to the spot Fabrizio was supposed to be curling into. A linebacker from the blind side hit Rick hard in the square of his back and they went down together. The pass was perfect, but for a ten-yarder it had too much velocity. Fabrizio went up, got both hands near it, then took it hard in the chest. The ball shot upward and was an easy interception for the strong-side safety.
Here we go again, Rick thought as he walked to the sideline. His first pass in Italy was an exact replica of his last one in Cleveland. The crowd was silent. The Bandits were celebrating. Fabrizio was limping to the bench, gasping for breath.
“Way too hard,” Sam said, leaving no doubt about blame.
Rick removed his helmet and knelt on the sideline. The quarterback for Naples, a small kid from Bowling Green, completed his first five passes and in less than three minutes had the Bandits in the end zone.
Fabrizio stayed on the bench, pouting and rubbing his chest as though ribs were cracked. The backup wide receiver was a fireman named Claudio, and Claudio caught about half of his passes in pregame warm-up and even fewer in practice. The Panthers’ second drive began at their 21. Two hand-offs to Sly picked up fifteen yards. He was fun to watch, from the safety of the backfield. He was quick and made wonderful cuts.
“When do I get the ball?” Franco asked in the huddle. Second and four, so why not? “Take it now,” Rick said, and called, “Thirty-two dive.”
“Thirty-two dive?” Nino asked in disbelief. Franco cursed him in Italian and Nino cursed back, and as they broke huddle, half the offense was grumbling about something.
Franco took the ball on a quick dive to the right, did not fumble, but instead showed an astounding ability to stay on his feet. A tackle hit him and he spun loose. A linebacker chopped his knees, but he kept his legs churning. A safety came up fast and Franco delivered a stiff-arm that would have impressed the great Franco Harris. He rumbled on, across midfield, bodies bouncing off, a cornerback riding him like a bull, and finally a tackle caught up with the mayhem and slapped his ankles together. Gain of twenty-four yards. As Franco strutted back to the huddle, he said something to Nino, who of course took full credit for the gain because it all came down to blocking.
Fabrizio jogged to the huddle, one of his famous quick recoveries. Rick decided to deal with him immediately. He called a play-action pass, with Fabrizio on a post pattern, and it worked beautifully. On first down, the defense collapsed on Sly. The strong safety bit hard, and Fabrizio was by him with ease. The pass was long and soft and perfectly on target, and when Fabrizio took it at a full sprint at the 15, he was all alone.
More fireworks. More chants. Rick grabbed a cup of water and enjoyed the racket. He savored his first touchdown pass in four years. It felt good, regardless of where he was.
· · ·
By halftime, he had two more touchdowns, and the Panthers were up 28–14. In the locker room, Sam bitched about the penalties—the offense had jumped four times—and he bitched about the zone coverage that had allowed 180 yards passing. Alex Olivetto carped at the defensive line because there was no pass rush, not a single sack. There was a lot of yelling and finger-pointing, and Rick just wanted everyone to relax.
A loss to Naples would ruin the season. With only eight games on the schedule, and with Bergamo poised to again run the table, there was no room for a bad day.
After twenty minutes of impressive abuse, the Panthers hustled back to the field. Rick felt like he’d suffered through another NFL halftime.
The Bandits tied the game with four minutes left in the third quarter, and the Parma sideline took on an intensity Rick had not seen in years. He was telling everyone, “Relax, just relax,” but Rick wasn’t sure he was understood. The players were looking to him, their great new quarterback.
After three quarters, it was obvious to both Sam and Rick that they needed more plays. The defense keyed on Sly every snap and double-covered Fabrizio. Sam was getting outfoxed by the very young Naples coach, a former assistant at Ball State. However, the offense was soon to discover a new weapon. On a third and four, Rick dropped back to pass but saw the left corner coming on a blitz. There was no one to block, so he faked a pass and watched the corner go sailing by. Then he dropped the ball, and for the next three seconds, an eternity, worked feverishly to pick it up. When it was retrieved, he had no choice but to run. And run he did, just like in the old days at Davenport South. He scooted around the pile, where the linebackers were preoccupied, and was immediately in the secondary. The crowd erupted, and Rick Dockery was off to the races. He faked out a corner, cut across to the center, just like Gale Sayers in the old footage, a real broken-field ace. The last person he expected help from was Fabrizio, but the kid came through. He managed to roll under the weak-side safety just long enough to allow Rick to sprint past, all the way to the promised land. When he crossed the goal line, he flipped the ball to the official, and couldn’t help but laugh at himself. He had just galloped seventy-two yards for a touchdown, the longest of his career. Not even in high school had he scored from so far away.
At the bench, he was grabbed by his teammates and offered all manner of congratulations, little of which he understood. Sly, through a wide smile, said, “That took forever.”
Five minutes later, the running quarterback struck again. Suddenly anxious to show off his moves, he scrambled out of the pocket and seemed ready for another jaunt downfield. The entire secondary broke coverage, and at the last second, two feet from the line of scrimmage, Rick zipped a bullet thirty yards across the middle to Fabrizio, who galloped untouched into the end zone.
Game over. Trey Colby picked off two passes late in the fourth quarter, and the Panthers won 48–28.
· · ·
They gathered at Polipo’s for all the beer and pizza they wanted, at Signor Bruncardo’s expense. The night went long, with bawdy drinking songs and dirty jokes. The Americans—Rick, Sly, Trey, and Sam—sat together at one end of a long table, and laughed at the Italians until the laughter was painful.
At 1:00 a.m., Rick e-mailed his parents:
Mom and Dad: Had our first game today, beat Naples (Bandits) by 3 touchdowns. 18 for 22, 310 yards, 4 td’s, one pick; also rushed for 98 yards, one td; kinda reminded me of the old high school days. Having fun. Love, Rick
And to Arnie:
Undefeated here in Parma; first game, 5 td’s, 4 by ai
r, one by ground. A real stud. No, I will not, under any circumstances, play arena football. Have you talked to Tampa Bay?
Chapter
13
The Bruncardo palazzo was a grand eighteenth-century edifice on Viale Mariotti, overlooking the river and a few blocks from the duomo. Rick made the walk in ten minutes. His Fiat was tucked away on a side street in a fine parking space, one he was reluctant to relinquish.
It was late Sunday afternoon, the day after the great victory over the Bandits, and though he had no plans for the evening, he certainly didn’t want to do what he was about to do. As he strolled up and down Viale Mariotti, trying to analyze the palazzo without looking stupid and searching desperately for its front door, he asked himself once again how he had been boxed into this corner.
Sam. Sam had applied the pressure, with help from Franco.
He finally found the doorbell, and an ancient butler appeared without a smile and reluctantly allowed him to enter. The butler, dressed in black with tails, quickly scanned Rick for proper attire and appeared not to approve. Rick thought he looked rather nice. Ink-colored navy jacket, dark slacks, real socks, black loafers, white shirt, and tie, all purchased from one of the stores Sam had suggested. He almost felt like an Italian. He followed the old goat through a great hall with high frescoed ceilings and shiny marble floors. They stopped at a long parlor, and Signora Bruncardo came rushing forth. She spoke sultry English. Her name was Silvia. She was attractive, heavily made-up, nicely nipped and tucked, very thin, and her thinness was accented by a sparkling black gown that was as tight as skin. She was about forty-five, twenty years younger than her husband, Rodolfo Bruncardo, who soon appeared and shook hands with his quarterback. Rick had the immediate impression that he kept her on a short leash, and for good reason. She had the look. Anytime, anywhere.
With a thick accent, Rodolfo said in English that he was so sorry for not having met Rick sooner. But business had kept him out of town, and so on. He was a very busy man with lots of deals. Silvia watched with large brown eyes that were easy to dwell on. Mercifully, Sam appeared with Anna, and the conversation became easier. They talked about yesterday’s win and, more important, the article on the Sunday sports page. NFL star Rick Dockery had led the Panthers to a smashing win in their home opener, and the color photo was of Rick crossing the goal line with his first rushing touchdown in a decade.
Rick said all the right things. He loved Parma. The apartment and car were wonderful. The team was a blast. Couldn’t wait to win the Super Bowl. Franco and Antonella entered the room and the embracing rituals were carried out. A waiter stopped by with glasses of chilled Prosecco.
It was a small party—the Bruncardos, Sam and Anna, Franco and Antonella, and Rick. After drinks and appetizers, they left on foot, the ladies in gowns and high heels and minks, the men in dark suits, everybody speaking Italian at once. Rick smoldered quietly, cursing Sam and Franco and old man Bruncardo for the absurdity of the evening.
He’d found a book in English on the region of Emilia-Romagna, and though most of it was about food and wine, there was a generous section on opera. Very slow reading.
· · ·
The Teatro Regio was built in the early nineteenth century by one of Napoleon’s former wives, Maria Luisa, who preferred life in Parma because it kept her far away from the emperor. Five levels of private boxes look down on the audience, the orchestra, and the expansive stage. Parmesans consider it the finest opera house in the world, and they also consider opera their birthright. They are acute listeners and fierce critics, and a performer who leaves with applause is prepared to face the world. A faulty performance or a missed note often leads to noisy disapproval.
The Bruncardo box was on the second level, stage left, excellent seats, and as the party settled in, Rick was awed by the ornate interior and the seriousness of the evening. The well-dressed crowd below them buzzed with nervous anticipation. Someone waved. It was Karl Korberg, the large Dane who taught at the university and was trying to play left offensive tackle. He had missed no fewer than five clean blocks against the Bandits. Karl was wearing a fashionable tuxedo, and his Italian wife looked splendid. Rick admired the ladies from above.
Sam stayed at his elbow, anxious to help the novice through his first performance. “These people are crazy about opera,” he whispered. “They’re fanatics.”
“And you?” Rick whispered back.
“This is the place to be. Believe it or not, in Parma opera is more popular than soccer.”
“And more popular than the Panthers?”
Sam laughed and nodded at a stunning brunette passing just under them.
“How long will this last?” Rick asked, gawking.
“Couple of hours.”
“Can’t we just skip out at intermission and go have dinner?”
“Sorry. And dinner will be superb.”
“I have no doubt.”
Signor Bruncardo handed over a program. “I found one in English,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“You might want to give it a glance,” Sam said. “Opera is sometimes hard to follow, at least from a plot angle.”
“I thought it was just a bunch of fat people singing at full blast.”
“How much opera did you see in Iowa?”
The lights dimmed slightly and the crowd settled down. Rick and Anna were given the two tiny velvet seats at the front of the box, very near the ledge, with perfect views of the stage. Tucked in closely behind them were the rest.
Anna pulled out a pencil-like flashlight and pointed it at Rick’s program. She said softly, “This is a performance of Otello, a very famous opera written by Giuseppe Verdi, a local, from Busseto.”
“Is he here?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “Verdi died a hundred years ago. He was the world’s greatest composer when he lived. Have you read much Shakespeare?”
“Oh sure.”
“Good.” The lights went dimmer. Anna flipped through the program, then aimed the light at page four. “This is the summary of the story. Give it a quick look. The opera is in Italian, of course, and it might be a bit hard to follow.”
Rick took the light, glanced at his watch, and did as he was told. As he read, the crowd, quite noisy in anticipation, settled down and everyone found a seat. When the theater was dark, the conductor marched out and received a rousing ovation. The orchestra came to attention, then began playing.
The curtain rose slowly to a silent, still audience. The stage was elaborately decorated. The setting was the island of Cyprus, a crowd was waiting for a ship, and on the ship was Otello, their governor, who’d been off fighting somewhere, with great success. Otello was suddenly on the stage singing something like “Celebrate, Celebrate,” and the entire town joined in the chorus.
Rick read quickly while trying not to miss the spectacle before him. The costumes were elaborate; the makeup thick and dramatic; the voices truly sensational. He tried to remember the last time he had watched live theater. There’d been a girlfriend at Davenport South who starred in the senior play ten years earlier. A long time ago.
Otello’s young wife, Desdemona, appeared in Scene 3, and the spectacle took a different turn. Desdemona was stunning—long dark hair, perfect features, deep brown eyes that Rick could see clearly from eighty feet. She was petite and thin, and fortunately her costume was tight and revealed marvelous curves.
He scanned the program and found her name—Gabriella Ballini, soprano.
Not surprisingly, Desdemona soon attracted the attention of another man, Roderigo, and all manner of backstabbing and scheming began. Near the end of Act 1, Otello and Desdemona sang a duet, a high-powered romantic back-and-forth that sounded fine to Rick and those in the Bruncardo box, but others were bothered by it. Up in the fifth level, the cheap seats, several spectators actually booed.
Rick had been booed many times, in many places, and the booing had been easy to shake off, no doubt helped by the sheer magnitude of football stadi
ums. A few thousand fans booing was just part of the game. But in a tightly packed theater with only a thousand seats, five or six rowdy fans booing heartily sounded like a hundred. What cruelty! Rick was shocked by it, and as the curtain dropped on Act 1, he watched Desdemona standing stoically with her head held high, as if she were deaf.
“Why did they boo?” Rick whispered to Anna as the lights came on.
“The people here are very critical. She has been struggling.”
“Struggling? She sounded great.” And looked great, too. How could they boo someone so gorgeous?
“They think she missed a couple of notes. They are pigs. Let’s go.”
They were on their feet as the entire audience stood for a stretch. “So far, you like?” Anna asked.
“Oh yes,” Rick said, and he was being truthful. The production was so elaborate. He had never heard such voices. But he was baffled by the boo birds in the top level. Anna explained: “There are only about one hundred seats available to the public, and they are up there,” she said, waving at the top. “Very tough fans up there. They are serious about opera and quick to show their enthusiasm but also their displeasure. This Desdemona was a controversial selection, and she has not won over the crowd.”
They were outside the box, taking a glass of Prosecco and saying hello to people Rick would never see again. The first act lasted for forty minutes, and the break after it lasted for twenty. Rick began to wonder how late dinner might be.
In Act 2, Otello began to suspect his wife was fooling around with a man named Cassio, and this caused great conflict, which, of course, was played out in dazzling song. The bad guys convinced Otello that Desdemona was being unfaithful, and Otello, with a hair-trigger temper, finally vowed to kill his wife.
Curtains, another twenty-minute break between acts. Is this