Playing for Pizza

by John Grisham

  Tommy stood and proclaimed his love for everyone in the room. This was his last game, he said, and he desperately wanted to retire as a champion.

  Pietro walked to the center. This was not his last game, but he would be damned if his career would be determined by the boys from Bergamo. He boasted loudly that they would not score in the second half.

  As Franco was about to wrap things up, Rick stood beside him and raised his hand. With Franco translating, he said, “Win or lose, I thank you for allowing me to play on your team this season.” Halt. Translation. The room was still. His teammates hung on every word.

  “Win or lose, I am proud to be a Panther, one of you. Thank you for accepting me.”

  Translation.

  “Win or lose, I consider all of you to be not just my friends but my brothers.”

  Translation. Some appeared ready to cry.

  “I’ve had more fun here than in the other NFL. And we are not going to lose this game.” When he was finished, Franco bear-hugged him and the team cheered heartily. They clapped and slapped him on the back.

  Franco, eloquent as always, dwelled on history. No Parma team had ever won the Super Bowl, and the next hour would be their finest hour. They had thrashed Bergamo four weeks earlier, broken the mighty streak, sent them home in disgrace, and they could certainly beat them again.

  · · ·

  For Coach Russo and his quarterback, the first half had been perfect. Basic football—far removed from the complexities of the major college and pro games—can often be plotted like an ancient battle. A steady attack on one front can set the stage for a surprise on another. The same monotonous movements can lull the opponent to sleep. Early on, they had conceded the passing game. They had not been creative with the run. Bergamo had stopped everything, and was confident there was nothing left.

  On the second play of the second half, Rick faked left to Franco on a dive, faked a pitch left to Giancarlo, then sprinted right on a naked bootleg. Maschi, always quick to the ball, was far to the left and badly out of position. Rick ran hard for twenty-two yards and stepped out of bounds to avoid McGregor.

  Sam met him as he jogged back to the huddle. “That’ll work. Save it for later.”

  Three plays later, the Panthers punted again. Pietro and Silvio sprinted onto the field, looking for someone to maul. They stuffed the run three times. More punts filled the air as the third quarter ticked away and both teams slugged it out at midfield, much like two lumbering heavyweights in the center of the ring, taking shots, throwing leather, and never backing down.

  Early in the fourth, the Lions inched the ball all the way to the 19, their deepest penetration of the game, and on a fourth and five their kicker drilled an easy field goal.

  Down six points with ten minutes to go, the Panthers’ sideline rose to another level of panic and frenzy. Their fans followed along, and the atmosphere was electric.

  “Showtime,” Rick said to Sam as they watched the kickoff.

  “Yep. Don’t get hurt.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been knocked out by better men.”

  On first down, Rick pitched left to Giancarlo for five yards. On second, he faked the same pitch, kept the ball, and dashed wide around the right side, free and clear for twenty yards until McGregor came in low and hard. Rick lowered his head and met him in a sickening collision. Both scrambled to their feet; there was no time for cobwebs or rubbery knees.

  Giancarlo swept right and was decked by Maschi. Rick bootlegged left and picked up fifteen before McGregor hit his knees. The only strategy to offset quickness is misdirection, and the offense suddenly had a different look. Backs in motion, three receivers on one side, two tight ends, new plays, and new formations. Under center, in the wishbone, Rick faked to Franco, turned upfield, then flipped to Giancarlo just as Maschi hit him low. A perfect option, and Giancarlo sprinted for eleven yards. From the shotgun, another naked bootleg and Rick ran out of bounds at the 18.

  Maschi was guessing now, not simply reacting. He had more to think about. McGregor and The Professor had backed off Fabrizio a step or two, suddenly under pressure to stop the scrambling quarterback. Seven tough plays moved the ball to the 3, and on fourth and goal Filippo kicked an easy field goal. Bergamo led 6–3 with six minutes to go.

  Alex Olivetto huddled with the defense before the kickoff. He cursed and slapped helmets and had a fine time firing up the troops. Perhaps a bit too much. On second down, Pietro speared the quarterback and gave up fifteen precious yards on the personal foul. The drive stalled at midfield, and a great punt stopped rolling at the 5.

  Ninety-five yards to go in three minutes. Rick avoided Sam as he trotted onto the field. He saw fear in the huddle, and he told them to relax, no fumbles, no penalties, just hit hard and they would soon be in the end zone. No translation was needed.

  Maschi taunted him as they came to the line. “You can do it, Goat. Throw me a pass.” Instead, he pitched to Giancarlo, who clutched the ball tightly and hopped for five yards. On second down he rolled right, looked for Fabrizio across the middle, saw too many gold jerseys, and tucked the ball. Franco, bless his soul, broke from the pile and put a nasty block on Maschi. Rick picked up fourteen yards and got out of bounds. On first down he rolled right again, tucked the ball, and sprinted upfield. Fabrizio was loafing on a curl, useless as he had been throughout the game, and when Rick scrambled, he took off, sprinting at full throttle with McGregor and The Professor far behind. Rick stopped just inches from the line. Maschi was slashing in for the kill.

  It was that moment in every game when the quarterback, unprotected and vulnerable, sees an open receiver and has a split second to make a choice. Throw the pass and risk a bruising tackle, or yank the ball down and run for safety.

  Rick planted his feet and threw the ball as far as he possibly could. After the launch, Maschi’s helmet landed under his chin and almost broke his jaw. The pass was a tight spiral, so high and so long that the crowd gasped in disbelief. It had the hang time of a perfect punt, a few long seconds in which everyone froze.

  Everyone except Fabrizio, who was flying and trying to find the ball. At first, it was impossible to gauge where it might land, but they had practiced this Hail Mary a hundred times. “Just get to the end zone,” Rick always said. “The ball will be there.” As it began its descent, Fabrizio realized more speed was needed. He pumped even harder, his feet barely touching the grass. At the five-yard line, he left the ground, much like an Olympic long jumper, and sailed through the air, arms fully extended, fingers grasping for the ball. He touched leather at the goal line, hit the ground hard, bounced up like an acrobat, and waved the ball for the world to see.

  And everyone saw it but Rick, who was on all fours, rocking back and forth, trying to remember who he was. As a loud roar erupted, Franco picked him up and dragged him to the sideline, where his teammates mobbed him. Rick managed to stay on his feet, but not without assistance.

  Sam figured he was dead, but was too stunned by the catch to react to his quarterback.

  Flags flew as the celebration spilled onto the field. The officials finally restored order and marked off fifteen yards, then Filippo crushed an extra point that would have been good from midfield.

  Charley Cray would write:

  The ball traveled 76 yards in the air, without the slightest hint of a wobble, but the pass itself paled in greatness to the catch at the other end. I’ve witnessed great touchdowns, but frankly, sports fans, this one tops the list. A skinny Italian named Fabrizio Bonozzi saved Dockery from another humiliating defeat.

  Filippo stuck his supercharged foot into the kick-off, and it soared over the end zone. On a third and long, old Tommy spun around the left tackle and sacked the quarterback. His last play as a Panther was his greatest.

  On fourth and even longer, the Bergamo quarterback bobbled a bad shotgun snap and finally fell on the ball at the five-yard line. The Panthers’ sideline erupted again, and their fans managed to scream even louder.

  Wi
th fifty seconds on the clock, and with Rick on the bench sniffing ammonia, Alberto took over the offense and simply fell on the ball twice. Time expired, and the Panthers of Parma had their first Super Bowl trophy.

  Chapter

  31

  They gathered triumphantly at Mario’s, an old pizzeria in north-central Milan, twenty minutes from the stadium. Signor Bruncardo rented out the entire place for the celebration, an expensive proposition he might have regretted had they lost. But they certainly did not, and they arrived in buses and cabs, whooping as they walked in the front door and looking for beer. The players were given three long tables in the center of the room, and were soon surrounded by their admirers—wives, girlfriends, fans from Parma.

  A videotape was inserted, and on giant screens the game played on as waiters hauled in dozens of pizzas and gallons of beer.

  Everyone had a camera and a thousand photos were taken. Rick was a favorite target, and he was hugged and squeezed and pawed until his shoulders were sore. Fabrizio was also the center of attention, especially with the teenage girls. The Catch had already taken on legendary status.

  Rick’s neck, chin, jaws, and forehead were throbbing, and his ears still rang. Matteo, the trainer, gave him pain pills that didn’t mix with alcohol, so he laid off the beer. And he had no appetite.

  The video skipped the huddles, time-outs, and halftime, and as the end of the game approached, the noise died considerably. The operator switched to slow motion, and as Rick rolled out of the pocket and faked the run, the pizzeria was silent. The hit by Maschi was of highlight quality, and in the United States would have sent the talking heads into a drooling frenzy. The Monday morning cable shows would trumpet it as their “Hit of the Day” and run it every ten minutes. In Mario’s, though, there was a moment of silence for the dead as their quarterback held his ground, sacrificed his body, and launched his bomb. There were a few muted groans as Maschi knocked him senseless—all very clean and legal and astoundingly brutal.

  But there was rejoicing on the other end.

  The Catch was captured beautifully and permanently on film, and watching it for the second time, then the third, was almost as exhilarating as seeing it live. Fabrizio, atypically, acted as though it was no big deal, just another day at the office. Many more where that came from.

  When the pizza was gone and the game was off, the crowd settled in for a few formalities. After a long speech by Signor Bruncardo and a short one by Sam, the two posed with the Super Bowl trophy in the greatest moment in Panthers history. When the drinking songs began, Rick knew it was time to leave. A long night was about to become much longer. He eased from the pizzeria, found a cab, and returned to the hotel.

  · · ·

  Two days later, he met Sam for lunch at Sorelle Picchi, on Strada Farini, his neighborhood. They had some business to discuss, but first they rehashed the game. Since Sam wasn’t working, they split a bottle of Lambrusco with their stuffed pasta.

  “When are you going home?” Sam asked.

  “No plans. I’m in no hurry.”

  “That’s unusual. Normally, the Americans book a flight the day after the last game. You’re not homesick?”

  “I need to see my folks, but ‘home’ is a fuzzy concept these days.”

  Sam chewed slowly on a spoonful of pasta. “You thought about next year?”

  “Not really.”

  “Can we talk about it?”

  “We can talk about anything. You’re buying lunch.”

  “Signor Bruncardo is buying lunch, and he’s in a very good mood these days. He loves to win, loves the press, the pictures, the trophies. And he wants to repeat things next year.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  Sam refilled both glasses. “Your agent, what’s his name?”

  “Arnie.”

  “Arnie. Is he still in the picture?”

  “No.”

  “Good, so we can talk business?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bruncardo is offering twenty-five hundred euros a month, for twelve months, plus the apartment and the car for a year.”

  Rick took a long pull on his wine and studied the red checkered tablecloth.

  Sam continued: “He’d rather give you the money than spend it on more Americans. He asked me if we can win again next year with the same team. I said yes. You agree?”

  Rick nodded his agreement with a smirk.

  “So he’s sweetening your deal.”

  “That’s not a bad contract,” Rick said, thinking less about the salary and more about the apartment that was now apparently needed by two people. He also thought about Silvio, who worked on the family farm, and Filippo, who drove a cement truck. They would kill for such a deal, and they practiced and played as hard as Rick.

  But they were not quarterbacks, were they?

  Another sip of wine, and he thought about the $400,000 Buffalo paid him when he signed six years earlier, and he thought about Randall Framer, a teammate at Seattle who was given $85 million to throw passes for seven more years. Everything is relative.

  “Look, Sam, six months ago they carried me off the field in Cleveland. I woke up twenty-four hours later in a hospital. My third concussion. The doctor suggested I give up football. My mother begged me to quit. Last Sunday, I woke up in the dressing room. I stayed on my feet, walked off the field, I suppose I celebrated with everybody else. But I don’t remember it, Sam, I was knocked out again. Number four. I don’t know how many more I can survive.”

  “I understand.”

  “I took some shots this season. It’s still football, and Maschi hit me as hard as anybody in the NFL.”

  “Are you quitting?”

  “I don’t know. Give me some time to think, to clear my head. I’m going to a beach for a few weeks.”

  “Where?”

  “My travel consultant has decided on Apulia, way down south, the heel of the Italian boot. Been there?”

  “No. This would be Livvy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the visa thing?”

  “She’s not worried.”

  “Are you kidnapping her?”

  “It’s a joint kidnapping.”

  · · ·

  They boarded the train early and sat in the heat as other passengers hurried on. Livvy sat across from him, her shoes already kicked off, her feet in his lap. Orange polish. Short skirt. Miles of legs.

  She was unfolding a schedule of train routes in southern Italy. She had asked for his input, his thoughts, wishes, and when he offered little, she was pleased. They would spend a week in Apulia, then ferry to Sicily for ten days, then catch a boat to the island of Sardinia. As August approached, they would head north, away from the vacationers and the heat, and explore the mountains of the Veneto and Friuli. She wanted to see the cities of Verona, Vicenza, and Padua. She wanted to see it all.

  They would stay in hostels and cheap hotels, using his passport only until her little visa problem was fixed. Franco was hard at work on that challenge.

  They would take trains and ferries, cabs only when necessary. She had plans, alternative plans, and more plans. Rick’s only deal breaker had been his demand that two cathedrals per day was the limit. She negotiated but finally relented.

  But there were no plans beyond August. Any thoughts about her family sent her into a funk, so she was trying to forget the mess back home. While she spoke less and less about her parents, she talked more about delaying her last year of college.

  Fine with Rick. As he massaged her feet, he told himself that he would follow those legs anywhere. The train was half-full. Other men couldn’t help but gawk as they shuffled by. Livvy was off in southern Italy, wonderfully oblivious to the attention her bare feet and tanned legs were getting.

  As the Eurostar moved away from the platform, Rick watched through his window, and waited. They soon passed Stadio Lanfranchi, less than two hundred feet from the north end zone, or whatever it was called in the rugby rule book.

  He allowed hims
elf a smile of deep satisfaction.

  Books by John Grisham