Playing for Pizza Page 16
It will take time, Sam said to Rick. Winning changes everything. If we win the Super Bowl, they’ll worship Fabrizio.
Sheets of paper had been quietly passed around the locker room. Rick had hoped the poison from Charley Cray might somehow remain in the United States, but he was wrong, thanks to the Internet. The story had been seen and copied and was now being read by his teammates.
At Rick’s request, Sam addressed the matter and told the team to ignore it. Just the sloppy work of a sleazy American reporter looking for a headline. But it was unsettling for the players. They loved football and played the game for fun, so why should they be ridiculed?
Most, though, were more concerned about their quarterback. It was unfair to run him out of the league and out of the country, but to follow him to Parma seemed especially cruel.
“I’m sorry, Rick,” Pietro said as they filed out of the locker room.
Of the two teams in Rome, the Lazio Marines were usually the weaker. They had lost their first three games by an average of twenty points and had shown little spunk in doing so. The Panthers were hungry for a win, and so the five-hour bus ride south was not unpleasant at all. It was the last Sunday in April, overcast and cool, perfect for a football game.
The field, somewhere in the vast outskirts of the ancient city, miles and centuries away from the Colosseum and other splendid ruins, gave little evidence of being used for anything other than practice in the rain. The turf was thin and patchy, with hard sections of gray dirt. The yard lines had been striped by someone either drunk or crippled. Two sections of crooked bleachers held maybe two hundred fans.
Fabrizio earned his April salary in the first quarter. Lazio had not seen him on tape, had no idea who he was, and by the time they scrambled their secondary, he had caught three long passes and the Panthers were up 21–0. With such a lead, Sam began blitzing on every play, and the Marines’ offense crumbled. Their quarterback, an Italian, felt the pressure before each snap.
Working solely from the shotgun, and with superb protection, Rick read the coverage, called Fabrizio’s route by hand signals, then settled comfortably into the pocket and waited for the kid to jiggle and juke and pop wide open. It was target practice. By halftime, the Panthers were up 38–0, and life was suddenly good again. They laughed and played in the tiny locker room and completely ignored Sam when he tried to complain about something. By the fourth quarter, Alberto was running the offense, and Franco was thundering down the field. All forty players got their uniforms caked with dirt.
On the bus back home they resumed their verbal assaults on the Bergamo Lions. As the beer flowed and the drinking songs grew louder, the mighty Panthers were downright cocky in their predictions of their first Super Bowl.
· · ·
Charley Cray had been in the bleachers, sitting among the Lazio faithful, watching his second game of football americano. His coverage of last week’s game against Bologna had been so well received in Cleveland that his editor asked him to stay on for a week and do it again. Tough work, but someone had to do it. He’d spent five wonderful days in Rome at the paper’s expense, and now he needed to justify his little vacation with another takedown of his favorite goat.
His story read:
MORE ROMAN RUINS
(ROME, ITALY). Behind the surprisingly accurate arm of Rick Dockery, the ferocious Panthers of Parma rallied from a two-game losing streak and stomped the living daylights out of the winless Marines of Lazio here today in another crucial matchup in Italy’s version of the NFL. The final: 62–12.
Playing on what appeared to be a reclaimed gravel pit, and before 261 nonpaying fans, the Panthers and Dockery racked up almost 400 yards of passing in the first half alone. Skillfully picking apart a defensive secondary that was slow, confused, and thoroughly afraid to hit, Mr. Dockery strutted his stuff with his rifle arm and the marvelous moves of a gifted receiver, Fabrizio Bonozzi. At least twice, Mr. Bonozzi faked so deftly that the deep safety lost a shoe. Such is the level of play here in NFL Italy.
By the third quarter, Mr. Bonozzi appeared to be exhausted from scoring so many long touchdowns. Six, to be exact. And the great Dockery appeared to have a sore arm from throwing so much.
Browns fans will be astonished to learn that, for the second week in a row, Dockery failed to throw the ball to the other team. Amazing, isn’t it? But I swear. I saw it all.
With the win, the Panthers are back in the hunt for the Italian championship. Not that anyone here in Italy really cares.
Browns fans can only thank God that such leagues exist. They allow riffraff like Rick Dockery to play the game far away from where it matters.
Why, oh why, didn’t Dockery discover this league a year ago? I almost weep when I ponder this painful question. Ciao.
Chapter
19
The bus rolled into the parking lot at Stadio Lanfranchi a few minutes after three on Monday morning. Most of the players were due at work in a few hours. Sam yelled to wake up everyone, then dismissed the team with a week off. Next weekend was a bye. They stumbled off the bus, unpacked their gear, and headed home. Rick gave a ride to Alberto, then drove through downtown Parma without seeing another car. He parked at a curb three blocks from his apartment.
Twelve hours later he awoke to the buzzing of his cell phone. It was Arnie, abrupt as always. “Déjà vu, pal. Have you seen the Cleveland Post?”
“No. Thank God we don’t get it over here.”
“Go online, check it out. That worm was in Rome yesterday.”
“No.”
“Afraid so.”
“Another story?”
“Oh yes, and just as nasty.”
Rick rubbed his hair and tried to remember the crowd at Lazio. A very small crowd, scattered throughout some old bleachers. No, he didn’t take the time to study faces, and, anyway, he had no idea what Charley Cray looked like. “Okay, I’ll read it.”
“Sorry, Rick. This is really uncalled for. If I thought it would help, I’d call the paper and raise hell. But they’re having way too much fun. It’s best to ignore it.”
“If he shows up in Parma again, I’ll break his neck. I’m in tight with a judge.”
“Atta boy. Later.”
Rick found a diet soda, took a quick cool shower, then turned on his computer. Twenty minutes later he was zipping through traffic in his Punto, shifting effortlessly, smoothly, like a real Italian. Trey’s apartment was just south of the center, on the second floor of a semimodern building designed to cram a lot of people into as few square meters as possible.
Trey was on the sofa with his leg propped up on pillows. The small den resembled a landfill—dirty dishes, empty pizza cartons, a few beer and soda cans. The TV was running old Wheel of Fortune shows, and a stereo in the bedroom was playing old Motown.
“Brought you a sandwich,” Rick said, placing a bag on the cluttered coffee table. Trey waved the remote and the TV went mute.
“Thanks.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Great,” he said with a hard frown. A nurse stopped by three times a day to tend to his needs and bring the painkillers. He had been very uncomfortable and complained about the pain. “How’d we do?”
“Easy game, beat ’em by fifty points.”
Rick settled himself into a chair and tried to ignore the debris.
“So you didn’t miss me.”
“Lazio is not very good.”
The easy smile and carefree attitude were gone, replaced by a sour mood and truckload of self-pity. That’s what a compound fracture will do to a young athlete. The career, however Trey defined it, was over, and the next phase of life was beginning. Like most young athletes, Trey had given little thought to the next step. When you’re twenty-six years old, you’ll play forever.
“Is the nurse taking care of you?” Rick asked.
“She’s good. I get a new cast Wednesday, and leave Thursday. I need to get home. I’m going crazy here.”
They watched the silent TV sc
reen for a long time. Rick had stopped by daily since Trey left the hospital, and the tiny apartment was growing smaller. Maybe it was the trash piling up, or the unwashed laundry, or the windows closed tight and covered. Maybe it was just Trey sinking further into his gloominess. Rick was happy to hear he would be leaving so soon.
“I never got hurt on defense,” Trey said, staring at the TV. “I’m a defensive back, never got hurt. Then you put me on offense, and here I am.” He tapped the cast hard for dramatic effect.
“You’re blaming me for your injury?”
“I never got hurt on defense.”
“That’s a bunch of crap. You saying only offensive players get hurt?”
“I’m just talking about me.”
Rick was bristling and ready to bark, but he took a breath, swallowed hard, looked at the cast, then let it pass. After a few minutes, he said, “Let’s go to Polipo’s for pizza tonight?”
“No.”
“Would you like for me to bring you a pizza?”
“No.”
“A sandwich, a steak, anything?”
“No.” And with that, Trey lifted the remote, punched a button, and a happy little housewife purchased a vowel.
Rick eased from the chair and quietly left the apartment.
He sat in the late-afternoon sunshine at an outdoor table and drank a Peroni from a frosty mug. He puffed on a Cuban cigar and watched the ladies walk by. He felt very alone and wondered what on earth he might do for an entire week to keep himself occupied.
Arnie called again, this time with some excitement in his voice. “The Rat is back,” he announced triumphantly. “Got hired yesterday by Saskatchewan, head coach. First call he made was to me. He wants you, Rick, right now.”
“Saskatchewan?”
“You got it. Eighty grand.”
“I thought Rat hung it up years ago.”
“He did, moved to a farm in Kentucky, shoveled horse shit for a few years, got bored. Saskatchewan fired everybody last week, and they’ve coaxed Rat out of retirement.”
Rat Mullins had been hired by more pro teams than Rick. Twenty years earlier he had created a wacky machine-gun offense that passed on every play and sent waves of receivers racing in all directions. He became notorious, for a spell, but over the years fell out of favor when his teams couldn’t win. He had been the offensive coordinator for Toronto when Rick played there, and the two had been close. If Rat had been the head coach, Rick would’ve started every game and thrown fifty times.
“Saskatchewan,” Rick mumbled as he flashed back to the city of Regina and the vast wheat plains around it. “How far is that from Cleveland?”
“A million miles. I’ll buy you an atlas. Look, they draw fifty thousand a game, Rick. It’s great football, and they’re offering eighty grand. Right now.”
“I don’t know,” Rick said.
“Don’t be silly, kid. I’ll have it up to a hundred by the time you get here.”
“I can’t just walk away, Arnie, come on.”
“Of course you can.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s a no-brainer. This is your comeback. It starts right now.”
“I have a contract here, Arnie.”
“Listen to me, kid. Think about your career. You’re twenty-eight years old, and this opportunity won’t come again. Rat wants you in the pocket with that great arm of yours firing bullets all over Canada. It’s beautiful.”
Rick chugged his beer and wiped his mouth.
Arnie was on a roll. “Pack your bags, drive to the train station, park the car, leave the keys on the seat, and say adios. What’re they gonna do, sue you?”
“It’s not right.”
“Think about yourself, Rick.”
“I am.”
“I’ll call you in two hours.”
Rick was watching television when Arnie called again. “They’re at ninety grand, kid, and they need an answer.”
“Has it stopped snowing in Saskatchewan?”
“Sure, it’s beautiful. First game’s in six weeks. The mighty Roughriders, played for the Grey Cup last year, remember? Great organization and they’re ready to roll, pal. Rat’s standing on his head to get you there.”
“Let me sleep on it.”
“You’re thinking too much, kid. This ain’t complicated.”
“Let me sleep on it.”
Chapter
20
Sleep, though, was impossible. He rambled through the night, watched television, tried to read, and tried to shake the numbing guilt that consumed any thought of running away. It would be so easy, and could be done in such a way that he would never be forced to face Sam and Franco and Nino and all the rest. He could flee at dawn and never look back. At least that’s what he told himself.
At 8:00 a.m. he drove to the train station, parked the Fiat, and walked inside. He waited an hour for his train.
· · ·
Three hours later he arrived in Florence. A cab took him to the Hotel Savoy, overlooking the Piazza della Repubblica. He checked in, left his bag in the room, and found a table outside at one of the many cafés around the bustling piazza. He punched the number for Gabriella’s cell, got a recording in Italian, but decided not to leave a message.
Halfway through lunch, he called her again. She seemed reasonably pleased to hear his voice, a little surprised maybe. A few stutters here and there but she warmed up considerably as they chatted. She was at work, though she didn’t explain what she was doing. He suggested they meet for a drink at Gilli’s, a popular café across from his hotel and, according to his guidebook, a great place for a late-afternoon drink. Sure, she eventually said, at 5:00 p.m.
He drifted along the streets around the piazza, flowing with the crowd, admiring the ancient buildings. At the duomo, he was almost crushed by a mob of Japanese tourists. He heard English, and lots of it, all coming from packs of what appeared to be American college students, almost all of whom were female. He browsed the shops on the Ponte Vecchio, the ancient bridge over the Arno River. More English. More college girls.
When Arnie called, he was having an espresso and studying his guidebook at a café at the Piazza della Signoria, near the Uffizi, where mobs of tourists waited to see the world’s greatest collection of paintings. He had decided he would not tell Arnie where he was.
“Sleep well?” Arnie began.
“Like a baby. It’s not going to work, Arnie. I’m not walking out in the middle of the season. Maybe next year.”
“There won’t be a next year, kid. It’s now or never.”
“There’s always next year.”
“Not for you. Rat’ll find another quarterback, don’t you understand?”
“I understand better than you, Arnie. I’ve made the circuit.”
“Don’t be stupid, Rick. Trust me on this.”