Playing for Pizza (18 page)

It was more pleasant to ignore football and stare at magazines.

A nurse called them and led them to the third floor to a semiprivate room where Trey was being arranged for the night. His left leg was covered in a massive plaster cast. Tubes ran from his arm and nose. “He’ll sleep all night,” another nurse said.

She went on to explain that the doctor said everything had gone fine, no complications, a fairly routine compound fracture. She found a blanket and a pillow, and Rick settled into a vinyl chair next to the bed. Sam promised to hustle back early Monday morning to check on things.

A curtain was pulled, and Rick was left alone with the last black Panther, a very sweet country kid from rural Mississippi who would now be shipped home to his mother like broken merchandise. Trey’s right leg was uncovered, and Rick studied it. The ankle was very thin, much too thin to withstand the violence of SEC football. He was too skinny and had trouble keeping his weight up, though he had been voted third-team all-conference his senior year at Ole Miss.

What would he do now? What was Sly doing now? What would any of them do once they faced the reality that the game was over?

The nurse eased in around one and turned down the lights. She handed Rick a small blue pill and said, “To sleep.” Twenty minutes later he was knocked out as cold as Trey.

·  ·  ·

Sam brought coffee and croissants. They found two chairs in the hall and huddled over their breakfast. Trey had made some racket an hour earlier, enough to arouse the nurses.

“Just had a quick meeting with Mr. Bruncardo,” Sam was saying. “He likes to start the week with a seven o’clock ass chewing on Monday morning.”

“And today’s your day.”

“Evidently. He doesn’t make any money off the Panthers, but he certainly doesn’t like to lose money either. Or games. A rather substantial ego.”

“That’s rare for an owner.”

“He had a bad day. His minor-league soccer team lost. His volleyball team lost. And his beloved Panthers, with a real NFL quarterback, lost for the second time in a row. Plus, I think he’s losing money on every team.”

“Maybe he needs to stick to real estate, or whatever else he does.”

“I didn’t give him any advice. He wants to know about the rest of our season. And, he says he’s not spending more money.”

“It’s very simple, Sam,” Rick said, placing his coffee cup on the floor. “In the first half yesterday we scored four touchdowns with no sweat. Why? Because I had a receiver. With my arm and a good set of hands, we are unstoppable and we won’t lose again. I guarantee we can score forty points every game, hell, every half.”

“Your receiver is in there with a broken leg.”

“True. Get Fabrizio. The kid is great. He’s faster than Trey and has better hands.”

“He wants money. He has an agent.”

“A what!”

“You heard me. Got a call last week from some slimy lawyer here who says he represents the fabulous Fabrizio and they want a contract.”

“Football agents here in Italy?”

“Afraid so.”

Rick scratched his unshaven face and pondered this disheartening news. “Has any Italian ever received money?”

“Rumor says some of the Bergamo boys are paid, but I’m not sure.”

“How much does he want?”

“Two thousand euros a month.”

“How much will he take?”

“Don’t know. We didn’t get that far.”

“Let’s negotiate, Sam. Without him, we’re dead.”

“Bruncardo ain’t spending more money, Rick, listen to me. I suggested we haul in another American player and he went through the roof.”

“Take it out of my salary.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m serious. I’ll chip in a thousand euros a month for four months to get Fabrizio.”

Sam sipped his coffee with a frown and studied the floor. “He walked off the field in Milan.”

“Sure he did. He’s a brat, okay, we all know that. But you and I are about to walk off the field five more times with our tails tucked if we don’t find someone who can catch a football. And, Sam, he can’t walk off if he’s under contract.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

“Pay him, and I’ll bet he acts like a pro. I’ll spend hours with him and we’ll be so finely tuned no one can stop us. You get Fabrizio, and we won’t lose again. I guarantee it.”

A nurse nodded in their direction, and they
hurried in to see Trey. He was awake and very uncomfortable. He tried to smile and crack a joke, but he needed medication.

·  ·  ·

Arnie called late Monday afternoon. After a brief discussion of the merits of arena football, he moved on to the real reason for the call. He hated to pass along bad news, he said, but Rick should know about it. Check out the
Cleveland Post
online, Monday sports section. Pretty ugly stuff.

Rick read it, let fly the appropriate expletives, then went for a long walk through the center of old Parma, a town he suddenly appreciated like never before.

How many low points can one career have? Three months after he fled Cleveland, they were still eating his carcass.

·  ·  ·

Judge Franco handled matters for the team. The negotiations took place at a sidewalk café along the edge of Piazza Garibaldi, with Rick and Sam seated nearby having a beer and dying of curiosity. The judge and Fabrizio’s agent ordered coffee.

Franco knew the agent and didn’t like him at all. Two thousand euros was out of the question, Franco explained. Many of the Americans don’t earn that much. And it was a dangerous precedent to start paying the Italians because, obviously, the team barely broke even anyway. More payroll and they might as well close shop.

Franco offered five hundred euros for three months—April, May, and June. If the team advanced to the Super Bowl in July, then a one-thousand-euro bonus.

The agent smiled politely while dismissing the offer as much too low. Fabrizio is a great player and so on. Sam and Rick nursed their beers but couldn’t hear a word. The Italians haggled back and forth in animated conversation—each seemingly shocked at the other’s position, then both snickering over some minor point. The negotiations seemed to be polite but tense, then suddenly there was a handshake and Franco snapped his fingers at the waiter. Bring two glasses of champagne.

Fabrizio would play for eight hundred euros a month.

Signor Bruncardo appreciated Rick’s offer to help with the contract, but he declined it. He was a man of his word, and he would not downsize a player’s salary.

·  ·  ·

By practice time Wednesday night, the team knew the details of Fabrizio’s return. To quell resentment, Sam arranged for Nino, Franco, and Pietro to meet with their star receiver beforehand and explain a few matters. Nino handled most of the discussion and promised, with no small amount of detail, to break bones if Fabrizio pulled another stunt and abandoned the team. Fabrizio happily agreed to everything, including the broken bones. There would be no
problems. He was very excited about playing again and would do anything for his beloved Panthers.

Franco then addressed the team in the locker room before practice and confirmed the rumors. Fabrizio was indeed getting paid. This didn’t sit well with most of the Panthers, though no one voiced disapproval. A few were indifferent—if the kid can get some money, why not?

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.