Playing for Pizza Read online

  arm. Moon spent the past two seasons with the Packers and was “anxious to play every day.” And Rat Mullins refused to confirm or deny that the team was talking to Rick Dockery, who “when last seen was throwing gorgeous interceptions for the Cleveland Browns.”

  Rat was quoted as offering a gruff “No comment” to the Dockery rumor.

  Then, with a wink, the sportswriter passed along a little tidbit too rich to ignore. The use of parentheses gave him some distance from his own gossip:

  (For more on Dockery go to [email protected].)

  No comment? Rat is too afraid or too ashamed to comment? Rick asked this question out loud and got a stare or two. He slowly closed his laptop and went for a long hike through the concourse.

  · · ·

  When he boarded an Air Canada commuter flight two hours later, he was headed not to Regina but to Cleveland. There he took a cab downtown. The Cleveland Post building was a bland modern structure on Slate Avenue. Oddly, it was four blocks north of the community of Parma.

  Rick paid the cabdriver and told him to wait around the corner, a block away. On the sidewalk he paused only for a second to absorb the fact that he was really once again in Cleveland, Ohio. He could have made peace with the city, but the city was determined to torment him.

  If there was any hesitation about doing what he was about to do, he did not remember it later.

  In the front lobby there was a bronze statue of some unrecognizable person with a pretentious quotation about truth and freedom. A guard station was just beyond it. All guests were required to sign in. Rick was wearing a Cleveland Indians baseball cap, purchased moments earlier at the airport for thirty-two dollars, and when the guard said, “Yes, sir,” Rick was quick to respond, “Charley Cray.”

  “And your name?”

  “Roy Grady. I play for the Indians.”

  This pleased the guard greatly, and he slid the clipboard over for a signature. Roy Grady, according to the Indians’ Web site, was the newest member of the team’s pitching staff, a youngster just called up from AAA who so far had pitched in three innings with very mixed results. Cray would probably recognize the name, but maybe not the face.

  “Second floor,” the guard said with a big smile.

  Rick took the stairs because he planned to leave by them. The second-floor newsroom was what he expected—a vast open area crammed with cubicles and workstations and papers stacked everywhere. Around the edges were small offices, and Rick began to walk while looking for names by the doors. His heart was pounding and he found it hard to appear nonchalant.

  “Roy,” someone called from the side, and Rick stepped in his direction. He was about forty-five, balding, with a few long strands of oily gray hair sprouting from just over his ears, unshaven, cheap reading glasses halfway down his nose, overweight, and with the body type that never earned a letter in high school, never got a uniform, never got the cheerleader. A disheveled sports geek who couldn’t play the games and now made a living criticizing those who did. He was standing in the door of his small, cluttered office, frowning at Roy Grady, suspicious of something.

  “Mr. Cray?” Rick said, five feet away and closing fast.

  “Yes,” he answered with a sneer, then a look of shock.

  Rick shoved him quickly back into the office and slammed the door. He yanked off his cap with his left hand as he took Cray’s throat with his right. “It’s me, asshole, Rick Dockery, your favorite goat.” Cray’s eyes were wide, his glasses fell to the floor.

  There would be only one punch, Rick had decided after much thought. A hard right to the head, one that Cray could clearly see coming. No cheap shots, kicks in the crotch, nothing like that. Face-to-face, man-to-man, flesh to flesh, without the aid of any weapon. And, hopefully, no broken bones and no blood.

  It wasn’t a jab and it wasn’t a hook, just a hard right cross that had begun months ago and was now being delivered from across the ocean. With no resistance because Cray was too soft and too scared and spent too much time hiding behind his keyboard, the punch landed perfectly on the left chinbone, with a nice crunch that Rick would pleasantly remember many times in the weeks afterward. He dropped like a bag of old potatoes, and for a second Rick was tempted to kick him in the ribs.

  He had thought about what he might say, but nothing seemed to work. Threats wouldn’t be taken seriously—Rick was stupid enough to show up in Cleveland, surely he wouldn’t do it again. Cursing Cray would only make him happier, and whatever Rick said would soon be in print. So he left him there, crumpled on the floor, gasping in horror, semiconscious from the blow, and never, not for the slightest moment, did Rick feel sorry for the creep.

  He eased out of the office, nodded to a couple of reporters who looked remarkably similar to Mr. Cray, then found the stairs. He raced down to the basement, and after a few minutes of drifting found a door to a loading dock. Five minutes after the knockout, he was back in the cab.

  The return flight to Toronto was also on Air Canada, and when Rick landed on Canadian soil, he began to relax. Some three hours later he was bound for Rome.

  Chapter

  22

  A heavy rainstorm settled over Parma late Sunday morning. The rain fell straight and hard, and the clouds looked as though they might be around for a week. Thunder finally woke Rick, and the first sight caught by his swollen eyes was red toenails. Not the red toenails of that last gal in Milan, nor the pink or orange or brown ones of countless, nameless others. No sir. These were the meticulously manicured (not by the owner) and painted (Chanel Midnight Red) toenails of the elegant and sensual and quite naked Miss Livvy Galloway of Savannah, Georgia, by way of the Alpha Chi Omega sorority house in Athens and, of late, a crowded apartment in Florence. Now she was in a slightly less crowded apartment in Parma, on the third floor of an old building on a quiet street, far from her suffocating roommates and very far away from her warring family.

  Rick closed his eyes and pulled her close, under the sheets.

  She had arrived late Thursday night on a train from Florence, and after a lovely dinner they retired to his room for a long session in bed, their first. And though Rick had certainly been ready for it, Livvy was just as eager. Originally, his plans for Friday had been to spend the day in bed or somewhere close to it. She, however, had radically different ideas. On the train she had read a book on Parma. It was time to study the city’s history.

  With a camera and her notes, they launched a tour of the city center, studiously inspecting the interiors of buildings Rick had hardly noticed in passing. The first was the duomo—Rick had peeked inside once out of curiosity—where Livvy took on a Zen-like meditative state as she dragged him from corner to corner. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking, but occasionally she offered helpful sentences such as “It’s one of the finest examples of Romanesque architecture in the Po valley.”

  “When was it built?” he always asked.

  “It was consecrated in 1106 by Pope Pasquale, then destroyed by an earthquake in 1117. They started again in 1130 and, typically, worked on it for three hundred years or so. Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “Truly.” He tried hard to sound engaged, but Rick had already learned that it didn’t take long for him to examine a cathedral. Livvy, however, was in another world. He tagged along, followed close, still thinking about their first night together, glancing occasionally at her fine rear end, and already planning an afternoon assault.

  In the center aisle, staring straight up, she said, “The dome was frescoed by Correggio in the 1520s. It depicts the Assumption of the Virgin. Breathtaking.” Far above them, in the vaulted ceiling, old Correggio had somehow managed to paint an extravagant scene of Mary surrounded by angels. Livvy looked at it as if she might be overcome with emotion. Rick looked at it with an aching neck.

  They shuffled through the main nave, the crypt, the numerous bays, and they studied the tombs of ancient saints. After an hour, Rick was desperate for sunshine.

  Next was the baptistery
, a handsome octagonal building near the duomo, and they stood motionless for a long time before the north portal, the Portal of the Virgin. Elaborate sculptures above the door portrayed events from the life of Mary. Livvy checked her notes but seemed to know the details.

  “Have you stopped here?” she asked.

  If he told the truth and answered no, then she would consider him a rube. If he lied and said yes, it wouldn’t matter anyway because Livvy was about to inspect another building. In truth, he had passed it a hundred times and knew that it was indeed a baptistery. He wasn’t certain exactly what a baptistery was used for nowadays, but nonetheless he pretended to.

  She was talking softly, almost to herself, as well she might have been. “Four tiers in red Verona marble. Started in 1196, a transition between Romanesque and Gothic.” She took some photos of the exterior, then led him inside, where they gawked at another dome. “Byzantine, thirteenth century,” she was saying. “King David, the flight from Egypt, the Ten Commandments.” He nodded along, his neck beginning to ache.

  “Are you Catholic, Rick?” she asked.

  “Lutheran. You?”

  “Nothing really. Family’s some strain of Protestant. I dig this stuff, though, the history of Christianity and the origins of the early Church. I love the art.”

  “There are plenty of old churches here,” he said. “All Catholic.”

  “I know.” And she did. Before lunch they toured the Renaissance church of San Giovanni Evangelista, still in the religious center of the city, as well as the church of San Francesco del Prato. According to Livvy, it was one of the “most remarkable examples of Franciscan Gothic architecture in Emilia.” To Rick, the only interesting detail was the fact that the beautiful church had once been used as a jail.

  At one, he insisted on lunch. They found a table at Sorelle Picchi on Strada Farini, and as he studied the menu, Livvy made more notes. Over anolini, the best in town in Rick’s opinion, and a bottle of wine, they talked about Italy and the places she’d been. Eight months in Florence, she had visited eleven of the country’s twenty regions, often traveling alone on weekends because her roommates were too lazy or apathetic or hungover. Her goal had been to see every region, but she was out of time. Exams were in two weeks, then her long holiday was over.

  Instead of a nap, they attacked the churches of San Pietro Apostolo and San Rocco, then wandered through the Parco Ducale. She took photos and notes and absorbed the history and art, while Rick gamely trudged on in a sleepwalk. He collapsed in the sunshine and warm grass of the park, with his head in her lap, while she studied a map of the city. When he awoke, he finally coaxed her back to his apartment for a proper nap.

  At Polipo’s Friday night after practice, Livvy was the star attraction. Their quarterback had found a lovely American girl, a former cheerleader at that, and the Italian boys were anxious to impress her. They sang bawdy songs and drained pitchers of beer.

  The story of Rick’s mad dash to Cleveland to punch out Charley Cray had taken on legendary status. The spin, started by Sam and inadvertently aided by Rick and his refusal to talk about the episode, had stayed fairly close to the facts. The glaring omission was that Rick left Parma to explore another contract, one that would require him to abandon the Panthers in mid-season, but no one in Italy knew this, nor would they ever.

  The evil Charley Cray had traveled to their Italy to write nasty things about their team and their quarterback. He had insulted them, and Rick tracked him down, at what appeared to be considerable expense, decked him, then hustled back to Parma, where he was safe. Damned right he was safe. Anybody coming after Reek on their turf would get hurt.

  The fact that Rick was now a fugitive added a level of daring and romance that the Italians found irresistible. In a country where laws are flaunted and those who flaunt them are often glamorized, the pursuit by the police was the dominant topic whenever two or more Panthers got together. In a crowded room they buzzed with the story, often adding their own details.

  In truth, Rick was not being pursued. There was a warrant for his arrest for simple assault, a misdemeanor, and, according to his new lawyer in Cleveland, no one was chasing him with handcuffs. The authorities knew where he was, and if he ever came to Cleveland again, he’d be prosecuted.

  Still, Rick was on the run, and the Panthers had to protect him, both on the field and off.

  · · ·

  Saturday proved to be as educational as Friday. Livvy led him through the Teatro Regio, a place he was extremely proud to have already seen, then the Diocesan Museum, the church of San Marcellino, the chapel of San Tommaso Apostolo. For lunch they ate a pizza on the grounds of the Palazzo della Pilotta.

  “I will not set foot in another church,” Rick announced in defeat. He was stretched out on the grass, soaking in the sunshine.

  “I’d like to see the National Gallery,” she said as she curled next to him, tanned legs everywhere.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Lots of paintings, from all over Italy.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, then the archaeological museum.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll be tired then. We go to bed, take a nap, think about dinner.”

  “I have a game tomorrow. Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  · · ·

  After two days of diligent tourism, Rick was ready for football, rain or not. He couldn’t wait to drive past the old churches, go to the field, put on a uniform, then get it muddy and maybe even hit someone.

  “But it’s raining,” Livvy cooed from under the sheets.

  “Too bad, cheerleader. The show must go on.”

  She rolled over and flung a leg across his stomach. “No,” he said with conviction. “Not before a game. My knees are weak anyway.”

  “I thought you were the stud quarterback.”

  “Just the quarterback for now.”

  She removed the leg and swung it off the bed. “So who are the Panthers playing today?” she asked, standing, turning, enticing.

  “The Gladiators of Rome.”

  “What a name. Can they play?”

  “They’re pretty good. We need to go.”

  He parked her under the canopy on the home side, one of fewer than ten fans there an hour before the game. She was covered in a poncho and huddled under an umbrella, more or less waterproof in the driving rain. He almost felt sorry for her. Twenty minutes later he was on the field in full uniform, stretching, bantering with his teammates, and keeping an eye on Livvy. He was in college again, or maybe in high school, anxious to play for the love of the game, for the glory of winning, but also for a very cute girl up in the stands.

  The game was a mudbowl; the rain never stopped. Franco fumbled twice in the first quarter, and Fabrizio dropped two slippery passes. The Gladiators got bogged down as well. With a minute to go before the half, Rick scrambled out of the pocket and sprinted thirty yards for the first score of the game. Fabrizio bobbled the snap and the score was 6–0 at the half. Sam, who had not had the chance to bitch and yell at them for two weeks, unloaded in the locker room and everyone felt better.

  By the fourth quarter, water was standing in large puddles across the field, and the game became a slugfest at the line of scrimmage. On a second and two, Rick faked to Franco, faked to Giancarlo, the third-string tailback, and lofted a long soft pass to Fabrizio, flying downfield on a post. He bobbled it, then snatched it and ran twenty yards untouched. With a two-touchdown lead, Sam began blitzing on every play, and the Gladiators couldn’t get a first down. They racked up five for the entire game.

  · · ·

  Rick said good-bye to Livvy at the train station Sunday night, then watched the Eurostar pull away with both sadness and relief. He had not realized the extent of his loneliness. He had been reasonably certain that he greatly missed the companionship of a woman, but Livvy made him feel like a college boy again. At the same time, she was not exactly low maintenance. She demanded his attention a
nd had a strong streak of hyperactivity. He needed some rest. Late Sunday e-mail from his mother:

  Dear Ricky: Your father has decided that he will not make the trip to Italy after all. He is quite angry with you and that stunt in Cleveland—the game was bad enough but now reporters are calling all the time asking about the assault and battery. I despise these people. I’m beginning to understand why you slugged that poor man in Cleveland. But you could’ve stopped by and said hello while you were here. We haven’t seen you since Christmas. I would try to come alone but my diverticulosis might be flaring up. Best if I stay close. Please tell me you’ll be home in a month or so. Are they really going to arrest you? Love, Mom

  She treated her diverticulosis like an active volcano—always down there in the colon awaiting an eruption in the event she was expected to do something she really didn’t want to do. She and Randall had made the mistake five years earlier of traveling to Spain with a group of retirees, and they were still bitching about the cost, the air travel, the rudeness of all Europeans, the shocking ignorance of people who cannot speak English.

  Rick really didn’t want them in Italy.

  E-mail back to his mother:

  Dear Mom: I’m so sorry you guys can’t make it over, but the weather has been awful. I am not going to be arrested. I have lawyers working on things—it was just a misunderstanding. Tell Dad to relax—everything will be fine. Life is good here but I sure am