Playing for Pizza Page 5

  “The Italian Super Bowl. Can’t believe I missed it.”

  “A lot of people missed it. On the sports pages we go last, after swimming and motorbiking. The Super Bowl is televised, though. On one of the lesser channels.”

  Because he was still horrified at the thought of his friends learning that he was playing intramural ball in Italy, the prospect of no press and no televised games was quite appealing. Rick was not looking for glory in Parma, just a small paycheck while he and Arnie waited for a miracle back home. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was.

  “How often do we practice?”

  “We get the field Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, eight o’clock at night. These guys have real jobs.”

  “What kinds of jobs?”

  “Everything. Airline pilot, engineer, several truck drivers, property agent, contractors, one guy owns a cheese shop, another runs a bar, a dentist, two or three work in gyms. Two stonemasons, a couple of auto mechanics.”

  Rick considered this for a while. His thoughts were slow, the shock was wearing off. “What type of offense?”

  “We keep things basic. Power I, lots of motion and misdirection. Our quarterback last year couldn’t throw, so it really limited our attack.”

  “Your quarterback couldn’t throw?”

  “Well, he could, but not very well.”

  “We got a runner?”

  “Oh yes. Slidell Turner. Tough little black kid from Colorado State, drafted late by the Colts four years ago, got cut, just too small.”

  “How small?”

  “Five eight, 180. Too small for the NFL, but perfect for the Panthers. They have trouble catching him here.”

  “What the hell is a black kid from Colorado State doing here in Parma, Italy?”

  “Playing football, waiting for the phone call. Same as you.”

  “Do I have a receiver?”

  “Yes, Fabrizio, one of the Italians. Great set of hands, great feet, great big ego. Thinks he’s the greatest Italian footballer of all time. High maintenance, but not a bad boy.”

  “Can he catch me?”

  “I doubt it. It’ll take a lot of practice. Just don’t kill him the first day.”

  Rick jumped to his feet and said, “I’m cold. Let’s make a move.”

  “You wanna see the team room?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  There was a clubhouse just beyond the north end zone, and as they walked toward it, a train roared by, a stone’s throw away. Inside, the long flat building was adorned with dozens of posters advertising the corporate sponsors. Rugby occupied most of it, but the Panthers had a small room packed with lockers and equipment.

  “Whatta you think?” Sam asked.

  “It’s a locker room,” Rick said. He tried not to make comparisons, but for a moment couldn’t help but remember the lavish digs in the newer NFL stadiums. Carpet, wood-paneled lockers big enough for small cars, leather recliners built for linemen, private stalls in a shower room bigger than this. Oh well. He told himself he could endure anything for five months.

  “This is yours,” Sam said, pointing. Rick walked to his locker, an old metal cage, empty except for a white Panther helmet hanging from a hook. He had requested the number 8, and it was stenciled on the back of his helmet. Size seven and a half. Slidell Turner’s locker was to the right, and the name to the left was Trey Colby.

  “Who’s this?” Rick asked.

  “Colby is our free safety. Played at Ole Miss. Rooms with Slidell, the only two black guys on the team. We have only three Americans this year. Last year it was five, but they changed the rules again.”

  On a table in the center there were neat stacks of game jerseys and pants. Rick inspected them carefully. “Good stuff,” he declared.

  “Glad you approve.”

  “You mentioned dinner. I’m not sure which meal my body needs, but food would be welcome.”

  “I have just the place. It’s an old trattoria owned by two brothers. Carlo runs the kitchen and does the cooking. Nino handles the front and makes sure everyone is well fed. Nino is also your center, and don’t be surprised when you meet him. Your center in high school was probably bigger, but he’s tough on the field, and his idea of a good time is knocking people around for two hours once a week. He’s also the offensive translator. You call the plays in English, then Nino does a quick version in Italian, then you break huddle. As you walk to the line, you pray that Nino got the translation right. Most of the Italians can understand the basics in English, and they’re quick to go with their first impulse. Often they don’t wait for Nino. On some plays the entire team breaks in different directions and you have no idea what’s going on.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Run like hell.”

  “This should be fun.”

  “It can be. But these guys take it serious, especially in the heat of the battle. They love to hit, both before the whistle and after. They cuss and fight, then they hug and go drink together. A player by the name of Paolo might join us for dinner. His English is very good. And there might be one or two others. They’re anxious to meet you. Nino will take care of the food and wine, so don’t worry with the menu. It will be delicious, trust me.”

  Chapter

  6

  They drove near the university and parked on one of the endless narrow streets. It was dark now, and packs of students drifted by in noisy conversations. Rick was subdued, so Sam handled the dialogue. “A trattoria, by definition, is an unassuming family-owned place with great local dishes and wines, generous portions, not too expensive. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes.” They were walking quickly along a sidewalk. “Are you going to feed me or talk me to death?”

  “I’m trying to ease you into Italian culture.”

  “Just find me a pizza.”

  “Where was I?”

  “A trattoria.”

  “Yes, as opposed to a restaurant, which is usually more elegant and expensive. Then there’s the osteria, which traditionally was a dining room in an inn but now can mean almost anything. And the bar, which we’ve covered. And the enoteca, which usually doubles as a wine shop and offers snacks and smaller dishes. I think that covers it all.”

  “So no one goes hungry in Italy.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  A small sign for Café Montana hung over the door. Through the front window they could see a long room with empty tables, all covered with starched and pressed white cloths and adorned with blue plates, linens, and massive wine goblets.

  “We’re a bit early,” Sam said. “The place gets busy around eight. But Nino is waiting.”

  “Montana?” Rick said.

  “Yes, after Joe. The quarterback.”

  “No.”

  “Dead serious. These guys love their football. Carlo played years ago but ruined a knee. Now he just cooks. Legend has it that he holds all kinds of records for personal fouls.”

  They stepped inside, and whatever Carlo was preparing back in the kitchen hit them hard. The aroma of garlic and rich meat sauces and frying pork hung like smoke over the front room, and Rick was ready to eat. A fire was burning in a wall pit halfway back.

  From a side door, Nino bounded into the room and began kissing Sam. A mighty embrace, then a manly, noisy peck somewhere near the right cheek, same for the left, then he grabbed Rick’s right hand with both of his and said, “Rick, my quarterback, welcome to Parma.” Rick shook hands firmly but was prepared to step backward if the kissing continued. It did not.

  The accent was thick, but the words were clear. Rick was more like Reek.

  “My pleasure,” Rick said.

  “I am center,” Nino announced proudly. “But be careful with your hands. My wife, she is jealous.” At which Nino and Sam doubled over in horse laughter, and Rick awkwardly followed suit.

  Nino was less than six feet tall, thick and fit, probably around 210 pounds. As he laughed at his own humor, Rick quickly sized him up and realized it could be a ver
y long season. A five-foot-ten center?

  Nor was he a youngster. Nino had wavy dark hair with the first shades of gray at the temples. He was in his mid-thirties. But there was a strong chin and a definite glow of wildness, a man who loved to brawl.

  I’ll have to scramble for my life, Rick thought to himself.

  Carlo rumbled in from the kitchen in his starched white apron and chef’s hat. Now, here is the center. Six feet two, at least 250 pounds, broad shoulders. But a slight limp. He greeted Rick warmly, a quick embrace, no kissing. His English was far below Nino’s, and after a few words he ditched it and switched to Italian, leaving Rick to tread water.

  Sam was quick to step in. “He says welcome to Parma and to their restaurant. They have never been so excited to have a real American Super Bowl hero playing for the Panthers. And he hopes you will eat and drink many times at their little café.”

  “Thank you,” Rick said to Carlo. Their hands were still entangled. Carlo resumed his chatter and Sam was ready. “He says the owner of the team is his friend and often eats at Café Montana. And that all of Parma is thrilled to have the great Rick Dockery wearing the black and silver.” Pause.

  Rick said thanks again, smiled as warmly as possible, and repeated to himself the words “Super Bowl.” Carlo finally released him and began yelling at the kitchen.

  As Nino led them to their table, Rick whispered to Sam, “Super Bowl. Where did that come from?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t get the translation right.”

  “Great. You said you’re fluent.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “All of Parma? The great Rick Dockery? What have you been telling these people?”

  “The Italians exaggerate everything.”

  Their table was near the fireplace. Nino and Carlo both pulled out chairs for their guests, and before Rick settled into his seat, three young waiters in perfect whites descended upon them. One had a large platter of food. One had a magnum of sparkling wine. One had a basket of breads and two bottles—olive oil and vinegar. Nino snapped his fingers and pointed, and Carlo barked at one of the waiters, who returned fire, and off they went to the kitchen, arguing every step of the way.

  Rick stared at the platter. In the center was a large chunk of straw-colored hard cheese, and surrounding it in precise loops were what appeared to be cold cuts. Deep, rich cured meats, unlike anything Rick had ever seen. As Sam and Nino chattered in Italian, a waiter quickly uncorked the wine and filled three glasses. He then stood at attention, starched towel over his arm.

  Nino passed around the glasses, then held his high. “A toast, to the great Reek Dockery, and to a Super Bowl win for the Parma Panthers.” Sam and Rick took a sip while Nino drained half of his. “Is Malvasia Secco,” he said. “From a winemaker close by. Everything tonight is from Emilia. The olive oil, the balsamic vinegar, wine, and food, everything from right here,” he said proudly, thumping his chest with an impressive fist. “The best food in the world.”

  Sam leaned over. “This is the Parma province of Emilia-Romagna, one of the regions.”

  Rick nodded and took another sip. On the flight over he had flipped through a guidebook and knew where he was, sort of. There are twenty regions in Italy, and according to his quick review almost all claimed to have the greatest food and wine in the country.

  Now for the food.

  Nino took another gulp, then leaned in, all ten fingertips touching, the professor set to deliver a lecture he’d given many times. With a casual wave at the cheese he said, “Of course you know the greatest cheese of all. Parmigiano-Reggiano. You say Parmesan. The king of cheese, and made right here. Only real parmigiano comes from our little town. This one is made by my uncle four kilometers from where you are sitting. The best.”

  He kissed the tips of his fingers, then gracefully shaved off a few slices, leaving them on the platter as the lecture continued. “Next,” he said, pointing to the first loop, “is the world-famous prosciutto. You say Parma ham. Made only here, from special pigs raised on barley and oats and the milk left over from making the parmigiano. Our prosciutto is never cooked,” he said gravely, wagging a finger for a second in disapproval. “But cured with salt, fresh air, and lots of love. Eighteen months it’s cured.”

  He deftly took a small slice of brown bread, dipped it in olive oil, then layered it with a slice of prosciutto and a shaving of parmigiano. When it was perfect, he handed it to Rick and said, “A little sandwich.” Rick took it in one large bite, then closed his eyes and savored the moment.

  For someone who still enjoyed McDonald’s, the tastes were astounding. The flavors coated every taste bud in his mouth and made him chew as slowly as possible. Sam was slicing more for himself, and Nino was pouring wine. “Is good?” Nino asked Rick.

  “Oh yes.”

  Nino thrust another bite at his quarterback, then continued, pointing, “And then we have culatello, from the pig’s leg, pulled off the bone, only the best parts, then covered in salt, white wine, garlic, lots of herbs, and rubbed by hand for many hours before stuffed into a pig’s bladder and cured for fourteen months. The summer air dries it, the wet winters keep it tender.” As he spoke, both hands were in constant motion—pointing, drinking, slicing more cheese, carefully mixing the balsamic vinegar into the bowl of olive oil. “These are the best pigs, for the culatello” he said, with another frown. “Small black pigs with a few red patches, carefully selected and fed only natural foods. Never locked up, no. These pigs roam free and eat acorns and chestnuts.” He referred to the creatures with such deference it was difficult to believe they were about to eat one.

  Rick was craving a bite of culatello, a meat he’d never before encountered. Finally, with a pause in the narrative, Nino handed over another small slice of bread, layered with a thick round of culatello and topped with parmigiano.

  “Is good?” he asked, as Rick chomped away and held his hand out for more.

  The wineglasses were refilled.

  “The olive oil is from a farm just down the road,” Nino was saying. “And the balsamic vinegar is from Modena, forty kilometers to the east. Home of Pavarotti, you know. The best balsamic vinegar comes from Modena. But we have better food in Parma.”

  The final loop, at the edge of the platter, was Felino salami, made practically on the premises, aged for twelve months, and without a doubt the best salami in all of Italy. After serving it to Sam and Rick, Nino suddenly dashed to the front, where others were arriving. Finally alone, Rick took a knife and began carving off huge chunks of the parmigiano. He covered his plate with the meats, cheese, and breads, and ate like a refugee.

  “Might want to pace yourself,” Sam cautioned. “This is just the antipasto, the warm-up.”

  “Helluva warm-up.”

  “Are you in shape?”

  “More or less. I’m at 225, about 10 over. I’ll burn it off.”

  “Not tonight, you won’t.”

  Two large young men, Paolo and Giorgio, joined them. Nino presented them to their quarterback while insulting them in Italian, and when all the embracing and greetings were out of the way, they plunked down and stared at the antipasto. Sam explained that they were linemen who could play both sides of the ball if necessary. Rick was encouraged because they were in their mid-twenties, well over six feet tall, thick-chested, and seemingly capable of throwing people around.

  Glasses were filled, cheese sliced, prosciutto attacked with a vengeance.

  “When did you arrive?” Paolo asked with only a trace of an accent.

  “This afternoon,” Rick said.

  “Are you excited?”

  Rick managed to say, “Sure,” with some conviction. Excited about the next course, excited about meeting Italian cheerleaders.

  Sam explained that Paolo had a degree from Texas A&M and worked for his family’s company, one that made small tractors and farm implements.

  “So you’re an Aggie,” Rick said.

  “Yes,” Paolo said proudly. “I love Te
xas. That’s where I found football.”

  Giorgio just smiled as he ate and listened to the conversation. Sam said that he was studying English, then whispered that looks