by John Grisham
Fabrizio then left the field, too. He was last seen jogging toward the locker room.
With no running game and no passing game, Rick’s offense was left with few options. Franco punched the ball into the middle of the pileup over and over, quite heroically.
Late in the fourth quarter, trailing 34–0, Rick sat alone on the bench and watched the defense struggle valiantly to save face. Pietro and Silvio, the two psycho linebackers, hit like wild men and screamed at their defense to kill whoever had the ball.
If Rick had ever felt worse late in a football game, he could not remember when. He got himself benched on the last possession. “Take a break,” Sam hissed at him, and Alberto jogged to the huddle. The drive took ten plays, all on the ground, and consumed four minutes. Franco pounded into the middle, and Andreo, Sly’s replacement, swept right and left with little speed, few moves, but a gritty determination. Playing for nothing but pride, the Panthers finally scored with ten seconds to go when Franco lurched his way into the end zone. The extra point was blocked.
The bus ride home was slow and painful. Rick was given a seat by himself and suffered alone. The coaches sat in the front and seethed. Someone with a cell phone got the news that Bergamo had beaten Naples 42–7, in Naples, and this made a bad day even worse.
Chapter
16
Mercifully, the Gazzetta di Parma did not mention the game. Sam read the sports page early Monday morning and for once was happy to be lost in the land of soccer. He flipped through the paper while parked on the curb outside the Hotel Palace Maria Luigia waiting for Hank and Claudelle Withers from Topeka. He’d spent last Saturday showing them the highlights of the Po valley, and now they wanted a full day seeing more.
He wished he could’ve spent Sunday with them as well, and skipped Milan.
His cell phone rang. “Hello.”
“Sam, it’s Rick.”
Sam skipped a beat, thought some terrible things, then said, “What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m a guide today. Why?”
“You gotta minute?”
“No, as I said, I’m working now.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside the Hotel Palace Maria Luigia.”
“Be there in five minutes.”
Minutes later Rick turned the corner, running hard and sweating as if he’d been at it for an hour. Sam slowly removed himself from the car and leaned against a fender.
Rick pulled alongside, stopped on the sidewalk, took a couple of deep breaths, and said, “Nice car.” He pretended to admire the black Mercedes.
Sam had little to say, so he said, “It’s a rental.”
Another deep breath, a step closer. “Sorry about yesterday,” Rick said, eyeball-to-eyeball with his coach.
“It might be a party for you,” Sam growled. “But it’s my job.”
“You have the right to be pissed.”
“Oh thank you.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Damned right it won’t. You show up again in bad shape and I’ll bench your ass. I’d rather lose with Alberto and a little dignity than lose with some prima donna with a hangover. You were pretty disgusting.”
“Go ahead. Unload. I got it coming.”
“You lost more than a game yesterday. You lost your team.”
“They weren’t exactly ready to play.”
“True, but don’t pass the buck. You’re the key, whether you like it or not. They feed off you, or at least they did.”
Rick watched a few cars pass, then backed away. “I’m sorry, Sam. It won’t happen again.”
“We’ll see.”
Hank and Claudelle emerged from the hotel and said good morning to their guide. “Later,” Sam hissed at Rick, then got in the car.
· · ·
Gabriella’s Sunday had been as disastrous as Rick’s. In the final performance of Otello, she had been flat and uninspired, according to her own critique, and, evidently, according to the audience as well. She reluctantly explained things over a light lunch, and though Rick wanted to know if they had actually booed her again, he did not ask. She was cheerless and preoccupied, and Rick tried to lighten her mood by describing his pathetic game in Milan. Misery loves company, and he was certain his performance was much worse than hers.
It didn’t work. Halfway through the meal she informed him, sadly, that she was leaving in a few hours for Florence. She needed to go home, to get away from Parma and the pressure of the stage.
“You promised to stay another week,” he said, trying not to sound desperate.
“No, I must go.”
“I thought you wanted to see a football game.”
“I did, but now I don’t. I’m sorry, Rick.”
He stopped eating and tried to appear supportive, and nonchalant. But he was an easy read.
“I’m sorry,” she said, but he doubted her sincerity.
“Is it Carletto?”
“No.”
“I think it is.”
“Carletto is always there, somewhere. He’s not going away. We’ve been together too long.”
Exactly, much too long. Dump the creep and let’s have some fun. Rick bit his tongue and decided not to beg. They had been together for seven years, and their relationship was certainly complicated. Wedging into the middle of it, or even working the edges, would get him burned. He inched his plate away and folded his hands. Her eyes were wet, but she was not crying.
She was a wreck. She had reached the point onstage where her career was teetering on the brink. Rick suspected Carletto offered more threats than support, though how could he ever know for sure?
And so it ended like most of the other quick romances he’d botched along the way. A hug on the sidewalk, an awkward kiss, a tear or two from her, good-byes, promises to call, and, finally, a fleeting wave of the hand. As he watched her disappear down the street, though, he longed to race after her and beg like a fool. He prayed she would stop, and quickly turn around, and come running back.
He walked a few blocks, trying to knock off the numbness, and when that didn’t work, he changed into running gear and jogged to Stadio Lanfranchi.
· · ·
The locker room was empty, except for Matteo the trainer, who did not offer a massage. He was sufficiently pleasant, but something was missing from his usual jovial self. Matteo wanted to study sports medicine in the United States and for this reason gave Rick loads of unwanted attention. Today the kid was preoccupied and soon disappeared.
Rick stretched out on the training table, closed his eyes, and thought about the girl. Then he thought about Sam, and his plan to catch him early before practice and, tail wagging, try once more to repair the damage. He thought about the Italians and almost dreaded the cold shoulders. But as a race, they were not prone to keep their feelings bottled up, and he figured that after a few testy encounters and harsh words they would all hug and be pals again.
“Hey, buddy,” someone whispered and jolted him from his zone. It was Sly, wearing jeans and a jacket and headed somewhere.
Rick sat up and dangled his feet off the table. “What’s up?”
“You seen Sam?”
“He’s not here yet. Where you going?”
Sly leaned on the other training table, folded his arms, frowned, and in a low voice said, “Home, Ricky, I’m headed home.”
“You’re quitting?”
“Call it whatever. We all quit at some point.”
“You can’t just walk out, Sly, after two games. Come on!”
“I’m packed and the train leaves in an hour. My lovely wife will be waiting at the airport in Denver when I get there tomorrow. I gotta go, Ricky. It’s over. I’m tired of chasing a dream that’ll never happen.”
“I think I understand that, Sly, but you’re walking out in the middle of a season. You’re leaving me with a backfield in which no one runs the forty in under five seconds, except me, and I’m not supposed to run.”
Sly was nodding, his eyes glancing around. He’d obviously hoped to sneak in, have a few words with Sam, then sneak out. Rick wanted to choke him because the thought of handing off to Judge Franco twenty times a game was not appealing.
“I got no choice, Rick,” he said, even softer, even sadder. “My wife called this morning, pregnant and very surprised to be pregnant. She’s fed up. She wants a real husband, at home. And what am I doing over here anyway? Chasing girls in Milan like I’m still in college? We’re kidding ourselves.”
“You committed to play this season. You’re leaving us with no running game, Sly. That’s not fair.”
“Nothing’s fair.”
The decision was made, and bickering wouldn’t change anything. As Yanks, they’d been forced together in a foreign land. They had survived together and had fun doing so, but they would never be close friends.
“They’ll find somebody else,” Sly said, standing straight, ready to bolt. “They pick up players all the time.”
“During the season?”
“Sure. You watch. Sam’ll have a tailback by Sunday.”
Rick relaxed a little.
“You coming home in July?” Sly asked.
“Sure.”
“You gonna try out somewhere?”
“I don’t know.”
“You get to Denver, give me a call, okay?”
“Sure.”
A quick manly hug, and Sly was gone. Rick watched him dart through the side door, and he knew he would never see him again. And Sly would never again see Rick, or Sam, or any of the Italians. He would vanish from Italy and never return.
An hour later, Rick broke the news to Sam, who’d had a very long day with Hank and Claudelle. Sam actually threw a magazine against the wall while unloading the expected stream of profanities, and when he settled down, he said, “You know any running backs?”
“Yes, a great one. Franco.”
“Ha-ha. Americans, preferably college players who run real fast.”
“Not right offhand.”
“Can you call your agent?”
“I could, but he hasn’t been real prompt returning my calls. I think he has unofficially dumped me.”
“You’re on a roll.”
“I’m having a very good day, Sam.”
Chapter
17
At 8:00 Monday evening, the Panthers began arriving at the field. The mood was quiet and gloomy. They were embarrassed by the loss, and the news that half the offense had just fled town did not help their spirits. Rick sat on a stool in front of his locker, his back to everyone, his head buried in the playbook. He could feel the stares and the resentment, and he knew he had been terribly wrong. Maybe it was just a club sport, but winning meant something. Commitment meant even more.
He slowly flipped the pages, looking blankly at the Xs and Os. Whoever created them assumed the offense had a tailback who could run and a receiver who could catch. Rick could deliver the ball, but if there was no one on the other end, the stats simply recorded another incompletion.
Fabrizio had not been seen. His locker was empty.
Sam got their attention and had a few measured words for the team. No sense yelling. His players felt bad enough. Yesterday’s game was over, and there was another in six days. He delivered the news about Sly, though the gossip had made the rounds.
Their next opponent was Bologna, traditionally a strong team that usually played in the Super Bowl. Sam talked about the Warriors and made them sound rather fierce. They had easily won their first two games with a punishing ground attack led by a tailback named Montrose, who had once played at Rutgers. Montrose was new to the league, and his legend was growing by the week. Yesterday, against the Rome Gladiators, he carried the ball twenty-eight times for over three hundred yards and four touchdowns.
Pietro vowed, loudly, to break his leg, and this was well received by the team.
After a halfhearted pep talk, the team filed out of the locker room and jogged onto the field. The day after a game, most of the players were stiff and sore. Alex worked them gently through some light stretching and exercises, then they divided into offense and defense.
Rick’s suggestion for a new offense was to move Trey from free safety to wide receiver, and throw him the ball thirty times a game. Trey had speed, great hands, quickness, and he’d played wideout in high school. Sam was cool to the idea, primarily because it came from Rick and at the moment he was barely talking to his quarterback. Halfway through the workout, though, Sam issued an open call for anyone who might consider playing receiver. Rick and Alberto tossed easy passes to a dozen prospects for half an hour, after which Sam called Trey over and made the switch. His presence on offense left a huge gap on defense.
“If we can’t stop them, maybe we can outscore them,” Sam mumbled as he scratched his cap.
“Let’s go watch film,” he said, and then blew his whistle.
Monday night film meant cold beer and some laughs, exactly what the team needed. Bottles of Peroni, the national favorite, were handed out, and the mood lightened considerably. Sam chose to ignore the Rhinos tape and dwell on Bologna. On defense, the Warriors were big across the front and had a strong safety who had played two years of arena ball and hit really hard. A headhunter.
Just what I need, thought Rick as he pulled a long gulp of beer. Another concussion. Montrose looked a step or two slow, the Rome defenders much slower, and Pietro and Silvio soon dismissed him as a threat. “We shall crush him,” Pietro said in plain English.
The beer flowed until after eleven, when Sam turned off the projector and dismissed them with the usual promise of a rough practice on Wednesday. Rick and Trey hung around, and when all the Italians had left, they opened another bottle with Sam.
“Mr. Bruncardo is reluctant to bring in another running back,” Sam said.
“Why?” Trey asked.
“Not sure, but I think it’s money. He’s really upset with the loss yesterday. If we can’t compete for the Super Bowl, why burn any more cash? This is not exactly a moneymaker for him anyway.”
“Why does he do it?” Rick asked.
“Excellent question. They have some funny tax laws here in Italy, and he gets big write-offs for owning a sports team. Otherwise, it would not make sense.”
“The answer is Fabrizio,” Rick said.
“Forget him.”
“I’m serious. With Trey and Fabrizio we have two great receivers. No team in the league can afford two Americans in the secondary, so they can’t cover us. We don’t need a tailback. Franco can grunt out fifty yards a game and keep the defense honest. With Trey and Fabrizio, we play pitch and catch for four hundred yards.”
“I’m tired of that kid,” Sam said, and Fabrizio was no longer discussed.
Later, in a pub, Rick and Trey raised a glass to Sly and cursed him at the same time. Though neither would admit it, they were homesick and envied Sly for calling it quits.
· · ·
Tuesday afternoon, Rick and Trey, along with Alberto, the dutiful understudy, met Sam at the field and for three hours worked on precision routes, timing, hand signals, and a general overhaul