by John Grisham
Giancarlo fell on the ball and Rick chose to run out the clock. As they left the field for halftime, Rick glanced at the Bergamo bench and saw McGregor walking gingerly with a trainer, much like a boxer who’d been flattened.
“Did you try to kill him?” Livvy would ask later, not in disgust but certainly not in admiration.
“Yes,” Rick answered.
· · ·
McGregor did not answer the bell, and the second half quickly became the Fabrizio show. The Professor stepped over and immediately got burned on a post. If he played tight, Fabrizio ran by him. If he played loose, which he preferred to do, Rick tossed the ten-yarders that quickly added up. The Panthers scored twice in the third quarter. In the fourth, the Lions engaged the strategy of a double-team, half of it being The Professor, who was by then quite winded and by any means overmatched, and the other half being an Italian who was not only too small but too slow. When Fabrizio outran them on a fly and hauled in a long, beautiful pass that Rick had launched from midfield, the score was 35–14, and the celebrating began.
The Parma fans lit fireworks, chanted nonstop, waved huge soccer-style banners, and someone tossed the obligatory smoke bomb. Across the field, the Bergamo fans were still and bewildered. If you win sixty-seven in a row, you’re never supposed to lose. Winning becomes automatic.
A loss in a tight game would be heartbreaking enough, but this was a romp. They rolled up their banners, packed their stuff. Their cute little cheerleaders were silent and very sad.
Many of the Lions had never lost, and as a whole they did so gracefully. Maschi, surprisingly, was a good-natured soul who sat on the grass with his shoulder pads off and chatted with several of the Panthers long after the game was over. He admired Franco for the brutal hit, and when he heard about the “Kill Maschi” play, he took it as a compliment. And he admitted that the long winning streak had created too much pressure, too many expectations. In a way, there was relief in getting it out of the way. They would meet again soon, Parma and Bergamo, probably in the Super Bowl, and the Lions would return to form. That was his promise.
Normally, the Americans from both teams met after the game for a quick hello. It was nice to hear from home and compare notes on players each had met along the way. But not today. Rick resented the “Goat” calling and hustled off the field. He showered and changed quickly, celebrated just long enough, then hurried away with Livvy in tow.
He’d been dizzy in the fourth quarter, and a headache was settling in at the base of his skull. Too many blows to the head. Too much football.
Chapter
26
They slept till noon in their tiny room in a small albergo near the beach, then gathered their towels, sunscreen, water bottles, and paperbacks and stumbled, still groggy, to the edge of the Adriatic Sea, where they set up camp for the afternoon. It was early June and hot, the tourist season fast approaching, but the beach was not yet crowded.
“You need sun,” Livvy said as she covered herself with oil. Her top came off, leaving nothing but a few strings where they were absolutely necessary.
“I guess that’s why we’re here at the beach,” he said. “And I haven’t seen a single tanning salon in Parma.”
“Not enough Americans.”
They’d left Parma after the Friday practice and the Friday pizza at Polipo’s. The drive to Ancona took three hours, then another half hour south along the coast to the Conero Peninsula, and finally to the small resort town of Sirolo. It was after 3:00 a.m. when they checked in. Livvy had booked the room, found the directions, and knew where the restaurants were. She loved the details of travel.
A waiter finally noticed them and trudged over for a tip. They ordered sandwiches and beer and waited a good hour for both. Livvy kept her nose stuck in a paperback while Rick managed to drift in and out of consciousness, or if fully awake he would shift to his right side and admire her, topless and sizzling in the sun.
Her cell phone buzzed from somewhere deep in the beach bag. She grabbed it, stared at the caller ID, and decided not to answer. “My father,” she said with distaste, then returned to her mystery.
Her father had been calling, as had her mother and sister. Livvy was ten days past due from her year of study abroad and had dropped more than one hint that she might not come home. Why should she? Things were much safer in Italy.
Though she was still guarded with some of the details, Rick had learned the basics. Her mother’s family was a strain of Savannah blue bloods, miserable people, according to Livvy’s succinct descriptions, and they had never accepted her father, because he was from New England. Her parents had met at the University of Georgia, the family school. Their wedding had been hotly opposed in private by her family, and this had only inspired her mother to go on with it. There was infighting at many levels, and the marriage was doomed from the beginning.
The fact that he was a prominent brain surgeon who earned lots of money meant little to his in-laws, who actually had very little cash but had been forever blessed with the status of “family money.”
Her father worked brutal hours and was thoroughly consumed by his career. He ate at the office, slept at the office, and evidently was soon enjoying the companionship of nurses at the office. This went on for years, and in retribution her mother began seeing younger men. Much younger. Her sister, and only sibling, was in therapy by the age of ten. “A totally dysfunctional family” was Livvy’s assessment.
She couldn’t wait to leave for boarding school at fourteen. She picked one in Vermont, as far away as possible, and for four years dreaded the holidays. Summers were spent in Montana, where she worked as a camp counselor.
For this summer, upon her return from Florence, her father had arranged an internship with a hospital in Atlanta where she would work with brain-damaged accident victims. He planned for her to be a doctor, no doubt a great one like himself. She had no plans, except those that would take her far from the routes chosen by her parents.
The divorce trial was scheduled for late September, with a lot of money at stake. Her mother was demanding that she testify on her behalf, specifically about an incident three years earlier when Livvy surprised her father at the hospital and caught him groping a young female doctor. Her father was playing the money card. The divorce had been raging for almost two years, and Savannah couldn’t wait for the public showdown between the great doctor and the prominent socialite.
Livvy was desperate to avoid it. She did not want her senior year of college wrecked by a sleazy brawl between her parents.
Rick was given this background in brief narratives, almost reluctantly, usually whenever her phone rang and she was forced to deal with her family. He listened patiently and she was grateful to have a sounding board. Back in Florence, her roommates were too absorbed with their own lives.
He was thankful for his rather dull parents and their simple lives in Davenport.
Her phone rang again. She grabbed it, grunted, then took off down the beach with the phone stuck to her head. Rick watched and admired every step. Other men adjusted themselves in beach chairs to have a look.
He guessed it was her sister because she took the call and quickly walked away, as if to spare him the details. He wouldn’t know, though. When she returned, she said, “Sorry,” then rearranged herself in the sun and began reading.
· · ·
Fortunately for Rick, the Allies leveled Ancona at the end of the war, and thus it was light on castles and palazzi. According to Livvy’s collection of guidebooks, there was only an old cathedral worth looking at, and she was not keen to see it. Sunday, they slept late again, skipped the sightseeing, and finally found the football field.
The Panthers arrived by bus at 1:30. Rick was alone in the locker room waiting for them. Livvy was alone in the bleachers reading an Italian Sunday newspaper.
“Glad you could make it,” Sam growled at his quarterback.
“So you’re in your usual happy mood, Coach.”
“Oh yes. A four-
hour bus ride always makes me happy.”
The great victory over Bergamo had yet to wear off, and Sam, as usual, was expecting a disaster against the Dolphins of Ancona. An upset, and the Panthers would miss the play-offs. He had pushed them hard Wednesday and Friday, but they were still reveling in their stunning disruption of the Great Streak. The Gazzetta di Parma ran a front-page story, complete with a large action shot of Fabrizio racing down the field. There was another story on Tuesday, one that featured Franco, Nino, Pietro, and Giancarlo. The Panthers were the hottest team in the league, and they were winning big with real Italian footballers. Only their quarterback was American. And so on.
But Ancona had won only a single game, and lost six, most by wide margins. The Panthers were flat, as expected, but they had also slaughtered Bergamo, and that in itself was intimidating. Rick and Fabrizio hooked up twice in the first quarter, and Giancarlo cartwheeled and belly flopped for two more touchdowns in the second. Early in the fourth, Sam cleared the bench and Alberto took over on offense.
The regular season came to an end with the ball at midfield, both teams huddled over it like a rugby scrum, as the clock ticked down to the final seconds. The players ripped off their dirty jerseys and pads, and spent half an hour shaking hands and making promises about next year. The Ancona tailback was from Council Bluffs, Iowa, and had played at a small college in Minnesota. He had seen Rick play seven years earlier in a big Iowa-Wisconsin game, and they had a delightful time replaying it. One of Rick’s better college efforts. It was nice to talk to someone with the same accent.
They chatted about players and coaches they had known. The tailback had a flight the next day and couldn’t wait to get home. Rick, of course, would stay through the play-offs, and beyond that had no plans. They wished each other well and promised to catch up later.
Bergamo, evidently anxious to start a new streak, beat Rome by six touchdowns and finished the season at 7–1. Parma and Bologna tied for second at 6–2 and would play each other in the semifinals. The big news of the day was the upset at Bolzano. The Rhinos from Milan scored on the final play and sneaked into the play-offs.
· · ·
They worked on their tans for another day, then grew tired of Sirolo. They drifted north, stopping for a day and a night at the medieval village of Urbino. Livvy had now seen thirteen of the twenty regions, and was hinting strongly at a prolonged tour that would include the other seven. But with an expired visa, how far could she go?
She preferred not to talk about it. And she did a remarkable job ignoring her family, as long as they ignored her. As they drove along the back roads of Umbria and Tuscany, she studied the maps and had a knack for finding tiny villages and wineries and ancient palazzi. She knew the history of the regions—the wars and conflicts, the rulers and their city-states, the influence of Rome and its decline. She could glance at a small village cathedral and say, “Baroque, late seventeenth century,” or, “Romanesque, early twelfth century,” and for good measure she might add, “But the dome was added a hundred years later by a classical architect.” She knew the great artists, and not just their work but also their hometowns and training and eccentricities and all the important details of their careers. She knew Italian wine and made sense of the endless variety of grapes from the regions. If they were really thirsty, she would find a hidden winery. They would do a quick tour, then settle in for a free sample.
They finally made it back to Parma, late Wednesday afternoon, in time for a very long practice. Livvy stayed at the apartment (“home”) while Rick dragged himself to Stadio Lanfranchi to prepare once again for the Bologna Warriors.
Chapter
27
The oldest Panther was Tommaso, or simply Tommy. He was forty-two and had been playing for twenty years. It was his intention, shared much too often in the locker room, to retire only after Parma won its first Super Bowl. A few of his teammates thought he was long past retirement age, and his desire to hang on was just another good reason for the Panthers to hurry and win the big one.
Tommy played defensive end and was effective for about a third of any game. He was tall and weighed around two hundred pounds, but sort of quick off the ball and a decent pass rusher. On running plays, though, he was no match for a charging lineman or fullback, and Sam was careful how he used Tommy. There were several Panthers, the older guys, who needed only a few snaps per game.
Tommy was a career civil servant of some variety, with a nice secure job and thoroughly hip apartment in the center of town. Nothing was old but the building. Inside the apartment, Tommy had carefully removed any concession to age and history. The furniture was glass, chrome, and leather, the floors were unpolished blond oak, the walls were covered with baffling contemporary art, and arranged nicely throughout was every conceivable high-tech entertainment apparatus.
His lady for the evening, certainly not a wife, fit in superbly with the decor. Her name was Maddalena, as tall as Tommy but a hundred pounds lighter and at least fifteen years younger. As Rick said hello to her, Tommy hugged and pecked Livvy and acted as though he might just lead her away to the bedroom.
Livvy had caught the attention of the Panthers, and why not? A beautiful, young American girl living with their quarterback, right there in Parma. Being red-blooded Italians, they could not help but wiggle their way closer. There had always been invitations to dinner, but since her arrival Rick was really in demand.
Rick managed to pry Livvy away and began admiring Tommy’s collection of trophies and football memorabilia. There was a photo of Tommy with a young football team. “In Texas,” Tommy said. “Near Waco. I go every year in August to practice with the team.”
“High school?”
“Sì. I take my vacation, and do what you call two-a-days. No?”
“Oh yes. Two-a-days, always in August.” Rick was stunned. He had never met anyone who voluntarily submitted himself to the horrors of August two-a-days. And by August the Italian season was over, so why bother with all that brutal conditioning?
“I know, it’s crazy,” Tommy was saying.
“Yes, it is. You still go?”
“Oh no. Three years ago I quit. My wife, the second one, did not approve.” At this, he cast his eyes warily at Maddalena for some reason, then continued: “She left, but I was too old. Those boys are just seventeen, too young for a forty-year-old man, don’t you think?”
“No doubt.”
Rick moved on, still flabbergasted at the thought of Tommy, or anyone, spending his vacation in the Texas heat running wind sprints and slamming into blocking sleds.
There was a rack of perfectly matched leather notebooks, each about an inch thick, with a year embossed in gold, one for each of Tommy’s twenty seasons. “This is the first,” Tommy said. Page one was a glossy Panther game schedule, with the scores added by hand. Four wins, four losses. Then game programs, newspaper articles, and pages of photographs. Tommy pointed to himself in a group shot and said, “That’s me, number 82 back then even, thirty pounds bigger.” He looked huge, and Rick almost said some of that bulk would be welcome now. But Tommy was a fashionista, dapper and always looking good. No doubt losing the extra weight had much to do with his love life.
They flipped through a few of the yearbooks, and the seasons began to blur. “Never a Super Bowl,” Tommy said more than once. He pointed to an empty space in the center of a bookshelf and said, “This is the special place, Reek. This is where I put a big picture of my Panthers just after we win the Super Bowl. You will be here, Reek, no?”
“Definitely.”
He flung an arm around Rick’s shoulder and led him to the dining area, where drinks were waiting—just two pals arm in arm. “We are worried, Reek,” he was saying, suddenly very serious.
A pause. “Worried about what?”
“This game. We are so close.” He unwrapped himself and poured two glasses of white wine. “You are a great football player, Reek. The best ever in Parma, maybe in all of Italy. A real NFL quarterback. Can you
tell us, Reek, that we will win the Super Bowl?”
The women were on the patio looking at flowers in a window box.
“No one is that smart, Tommy. The game is too unpredictable.”
“But you, Reek, you’ve seen so much, so many great players in magnificent stadiums. You know the real game, Reek. Surely you know if we can win.”
“We can win, yes.”
“But do you promise?” Tommy smiled and thumped Rick on the chest. Come on, buddy, just between the two of us. Tell me what I want to hear.
“I believe strongly that we will win the next two games, thus the Super Bowl. But, Tommy, only a fool would promise that.”
“Mr. Joe Namath guaranteed it. What, in Super Bowl III or IV?”
“Super Bowl III. And I’m not Joe Namath.”
Tommy was so thoroughly nontraditional that he did not provide parmigiano cheese and prosciutto ham to nibble on while they waited on dinner. His wine came from Spain. Maddalena served salads of spinach and tomato, then small portions of a baked cod dish that would never be found in a cookbook from Emilia-Romagna. Not a trace of pasta anywhere. Dessert was a dry, brittle biscuit, dark as in chocolate but practically tasteless.
For the first time in Parma, Rick left a table hungry. After weak coffee and prolonged good-byes, they left and stopped for a large gelato on the walk home. “He’s a creep,” Livvy said. “His hands were all over me.”
“Can’t blame him for that.”