by John Grisham
of the offense. Nino arrived late for the party. Sam informed him they were switching to a shotgun formation for the rest of the season, and he worked frantically on his snaps. With time, they improved to the point that Rick wasn’t chasing them around the backfield.
Wednesday night, in full pads, Rick spread the receivers, Trey and Claudio, and began firing passes everywhere. Slants, hooks, posts, curls—every pattern worked. He threw to Claudio often enough to keep the defense honest, and every tenth play he stuck the ball in Franco’s gut for a little violence at the line. Trey was unstoppable. After an hour of sprinting up and down the field, he needed a break. The offense, almost shut out by a weak Milan team three days earlier, now seemed capable of scoring at will. The team rallied from its slumber and came alive. Nino began trashtalking the defense, and he and Pietro were soon cussing back and forth. Someone threw a punch, a quick brawl ensued, and when Sam broke it up, he was the happiest guy in Parma. He saw what every coach wanted—emotion, fire, and anger!
He made them quit at 10:30. The locker room was chaos; the air was full of dirty socks, dirty jokes, insults, threats of stealing girlfriends. Things were back to normal. The Panthers were ready for war.
· · ·
The call came on Sam’s cell. The man identified himself as a lawyer and had something to do with athletics and marketing. He spoke rapid Italian, and over the phone it sounded even more urgent. Sam often survived by reading lips and hand gestures.
The lawyer finally got to the point. He represented Fabrizio, and Sam at first thought the kid was in trouble. Not hardly. The lawyer was also a sports agent, with many soccer and basketball players on his roster, and he wanted to negotiate a contract for his client.
Sam’s jaw dropped an inch or two. Agents? Here in Italy?
There goes the game.
“That son of a bitch walked off the field in the middle of a game,” Sam said in the rough Italian equivalent.
“He was upset. He is sorry. It’s obvious you can’t win without him.”
Sam bit his tongue, counted to five. Keep cool, he told himself. A contract meant money, something no Italian Panther had ever sought. There were rumors that some of the Italians in Bergamo got paid, but it was unheard-of in the rest of the league.
Play along, Sam thought. “What kind of contract do you have in mind?” he asked, rather businesslike.
“He’s a great player, you know. Probably the best Italian ever, don’t you think? I value him at two thousand euros a month.”
“Two thousand,” Sam repeated.
Then the usual agent’s trick. “And we are talking to other teams.”
“Good. Keep talking. We’re not interested.”
“He might consider less, but not much.”
“The answer is no, pal. And tell the kid to stay away from our field. He might get a leg broke.”
· · ·
Charley Cray of the Cleveland Post slithered into Parma late Saturday afternoon. One of his many readers had stumbled across the Panthers’ Web site and was intrigued by the news that the Greatest Goat on Cray’s list was hiding in Italy.
The story was simply too good to ignore.
Sunday, Cray got in a cab at his hotel and tried to explain where he wanted to go. The driver was not familiar with “football americano” and had no idea where the field was. Great, thought Cray. The cabbies can’t even find the field. The story was growing richer by the hour.
He finally arrived at Stadio Lanfranchi thirty minutes before kickoff. He counted 145 people in the stands, 40 Panthers in black and silver, 36 Warriors in white and blue, one black face on each team. At kick-off, he estimated the crowd at 850.
Late that night, he finished his story and zipped it around the world to Cleveland, in plenty of time for the Monday morning sports special. He could not remember having so much fun. It read:
BIG CHEESE IN THE PIZZA LEAGUE
(PARMA, ITALY). In his miserable NFL career, Rick Dockery completed 16 passes for 241 yards, and that was with six different teams over four years. Today, playing for the Panthers of Parma in Italy’s version of the NFL, Dockery exceeded those numbers. In the first half!
21 completions, 275 yards, 4 touchdowns, and, the most unbelievable stat of all—no interceptions.
Is this the same quarterback who single-handedly threw away the AFC title game? The same no-name signed by the Browns late last season for reasons still unknown and now considered the Greatest Goat in the history of pro football?
Yes, this is Signor Dockery. And on this lovely spring day in the Po valley he was simply masterful—throwing beautiful spirals, standing bravely in the pocket, reading the defense (word used loosely), and, believe it or not, scrambling for yardage when necessary. Rick Dockery has finally found his game. He’s The Man playing with a bunch of overgrown boys.
Before a noisy crowd of fewer than a thousand, and on a rugby pitch 90 yards long, the Panthers of Parma hosted the Warriors of Bologna. Either team would be a 20-point underdog against Slippery Rock, but who cares? Under Italian rules, each team can have up to three Americans. Dockery’s favorite receiver today was Trey Colby, a rather thin young man who once played at Ole Miss and could not, under any defensive scheme, manage to get himself covered by the Bologna secondary.
Colby ran wild and free. He caught three touchdowns in the first 10 minutes!
The other Panthers are rowdy young men who picked up the sport as a hobby later in life. Not a single one could start for a class 5A high school in Ohio. They are white, slow, small, and play football because they can’t play soccer or rugby.
(By the way, rugby, basketball, volleyball, swimming, motorbiking, and cycling all rank far above football americano in this part of the world.)
But the Warriors were no pushovers. Their quarterback played at Rhodes (where?—Memphis, D-3) and their tailback once carried the ball (58 times in 3 years) for Rutgers. Ray Montrose is his name and today he ran for 200 yards and 3 touchdowns, including the game winner with a minute to go.
That’s right, even here in Parma, Dockery can’t escape the ghosts of his past. Up 27–7 at halftime, he once again managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. But, in all fairness, it wasn’t entirely his fault. On the first play of the second half, Trey Colby went high for an errant pass (surprise, surprise) and landed badly. He was hauled off the field with a compound fracture somewhere in his lower left leg. The offense sputtered, and Mr. Montrose began marching up and down the field. The Warriors put together a dramatic drive as time ran out and won 35–34.
Rick Dockery and his Panthers have lost their last two, and with only five games remaining their chances of making the play-offs look slim. There is an Italian Super Bowl in July, and evidently the Panthers thought Dockery could get them there.
They should have asked Browns fans. We would tell them to ditch this bum now and find a real quarterback, one from a junior college. And quick, before Dockery starts firing passes to the other team.
We know what this gunslinger can really do. Poor Parma Panthers.
Chapter
18
Rick and Sam waited like expectant fathers at the end of a hallway on the second floor of the hospital. It was 11:30 Sunday night, and Trey had been in surgery since just after 8:00 p.m. The play was a thirty-yard pass at midfield, near the Panthers’ bench. Sam heard the crack of the fibula. Rick did not. He did, however, see the blood and the bone fragment protruding through the sock.
They said little as they killed time by reading magazines. Sam was of the opinion that they could still qualify for the play-offs if they won the remaining five games, a tough chore since Bergamo lay ahead. And Bolzano was strong again; they had just lost to Bergamo by two points. But winning seemed unlikely with so little offense left, and with no American in the secondary to stifle the passing game.
It was more pleasant to ignore football and stare at magazines.
A nurse called them and led them to the third floor to a semiprivate room w
here Trey was being arranged for the night. His left leg was covered in a massive plaster cast. Tubes ran from his arm and nose. “He’ll sleep all night,” another nurse said.
She went on to explain that the doctor said everything had gone fine, no complications, a fairly routine compound fracture. She found a blanket and a pillow, and Rick settled into a vinyl chair next to the bed. Sam promised to hustle back early Monday morning to check on things.
A curtain was pulled, and Rick was left alone with the last black Panther, a very sweet country kid from rural Mississippi who would now be shipped home to his mother like broken merchandise. Trey’s right leg was uncovered, and Rick studied it. The ankle was very thin, much too thin to withstand the violence of SEC football. He was too skinny and had trouble keeping his weight up, though he had been voted third-team all-conference his senior year at Ole Miss.
What would he do now? What was Sly doing now? What would any of them do once they faced the reality that the game was over?
The nurse eased in around one and turned down the lights. She handed Rick a small blue pill and said, “To sleep.” Twenty minutes later he was knocked out as cold as Trey.
· · ·
Sam brought coffee and croissants. They found two chairs in the hall and huddled over their breakfast. Trey had made some racket an hour earlier, enough to arouse the nurses.
“Just had a quick meeting with Mr. Bruncardo,” Sam was saying. “He likes to start the week with a seven o’clock ass chewing on Monday morning.”
“And today’s your day.”
“Evidently. He doesn’t make any money off the Panthers, but he certainly doesn’t like to lose money either. Or games. A rather substantial ego.”
“That’s rare for an owner.”
“He had a bad day. His minor-league soccer team lost. His volleyball team lost. And his beloved Panthers, with a real NFL quarterback, lost for the second time in a row. Plus, I think he’s losing money on every team.”
“Maybe he needs to stick to real estate, or whatever else he does.”
“I didn’t give him any advice. He wants to know about the rest of our season. And, he says he’s not spending more money.”
“It’s very simple, Sam,” Rick said, placing his coffee cup on the floor. “In the first half yesterday we scored four touchdowns with no sweat. Why? Because I had a receiver. With my arm and a good set of hands, we are unstoppable and we won’t lose again. I guarantee we can score forty points every game, hell, every half.”
“Your receiver is in there with a broken leg.”
“True. Get Fabrizio. The kid is great. He’s faster than Trey and has better hands.”
“He wants money. He has an agent.”
“A what!”
“You heard me. Got a call last week from some slimy lawyer here who says he represents the fabulous Fabrizio and they want a contract.”
“Football agents here in Italy?”
“Afraid so.”
Rick scratched his unshaven face and pondered this disheartening news. “Has any Italian ever received money?”
“Rumor says some of the Bergamo boys are paid, but I’m not sure.”
“How much does he want?”
“Two thousand euros a month.”
“How much will he take?”
“Don’t know. We didn’t get that far.”
“Let’s negotiate, Sam. Without him, we’re dead.”
“Bruncardo ain’t spending more money, Rick, listen to me. I suggested we haul in another American player and he went through the roof.”
“Take it out of my salary.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m serious. I’ll chip in a thousand euros a month for four months to get Fabrizio.”
Sam sipped his coffee with a frown and studied the floor. “He walked off the field in Milan.”
“Sure he did. He’s a brat, okay, we all know that. But you and I are about to walk off the field five more times with our tails tucked if we don’t find someone who can catch a football. And, Sam, he can’t walk off if he’s under contract.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“Pay him, and I’ll bet he acts like a pro. I’ll spend hours with him and we’ll be so finely tuned no one can stop us. You get Fabrizio, and we won’t lose again. I guarantee it.”
A nurse nodded in their direction, and they hurried in to see Trey. He was awake and very uncomfortable. He tried to smile and crack a joke, but he needed medication.
· · ·
Arnie called late Monday afternoon. After a brief discussion of the merits of arena football, he moved on to the real reason for the call. He hated to pass along bad news, he said, but Rick should know about it. Check out the Cleveland Post online, Monday sports section. Pretty ugly stuff.
Rick read it, let fly the appropriate expletives, then went for a long walk through the center of old Parma, a town he suddenly appreciated like never before.
How many low points can one career have? Three months after he fled Cleveland, they were still eating his carcass.
· · ·
Judge Franco handled matters for the team. The negotiations took place at a sidewalk café along the edge of Piazza Garibaldi, with Rick and Sam seated nearby having a beer and dying of curiosity. The judge and Fabrizio’s agent ordered coffee.
Franco knew the agent and didn’t like him at all. Two thousand euros was out of the question, Franco explained. Many of the Americans don’t earn that much. And it was a dangerous precedent to start paying the Italians because, obviously, the team barely broke even anyway. More payroll and they might as well close shop.
Franco offered five hundred euros for three months—April, May, and June. If the team advanced to the Super Bowl in July, then a one-thousand-euro bonus.
The agent smiled politely while dismissing the offer as much too low. Fabrizio is a great player and so on. Sam and Rick nursed their beers but couldn’t hear a word. The Italians haggled back and forth in animated conversation—each seemingly shocked at the other’s position, then both snickering over some minor point. The negotiations seemed to be polite but tense, then suddenly there was a handshake and Franco snapped his fingers at the waiter. Bring two glasses of champagne.
Fabrizio would play for eight hundred euros a month.
Signor Bruncardo appreciated Rick’s offer to help with the contract, but he declined it. He was a man of his word, and he would not downsize a player’s salary.
· · ·
By practice time Wednesday night, the team knew the details of Fabrizio’s return. To quell resentment, Sam arranged for Nino, Franco, and Pietro to meet with their star receiver beforehand and explain a few matters. Nino handled most of the discussion and promised, with no small amount of detail, to break bones if Fabrizio pulled another stunt and abandoned the team. Fabrizio happily agreed to everything, including the broken bones. There would be no problems. He was very excited about playing again and would do anything for his beloved Panthers.
Franco then addressed the team in the locker room before practice and confirmed the rumors. Fabrizio was indeed getting paid. This didn’t sit well with most of the Panthers, though no one voiced disapproval. A few were indifferent—if the kid can get some money, why not?