Playing for Pizza (11 page)

Finally the engine caught. He hit the gas and barely released the clutch, and the Fiat rolled forward, roaring in such a low gear but hardly moving. The police followed tightly, probably amused at the bucking and lunging ahead of them. After a block, they turned on the blue lights.

Rick managed to pull over in a loading zone in front of a row of shops. He turned the ignition off, pulled hard on the parking brake, then instinctively reached for the glove box. He had given no thought to Italian laws governing vehicle registration or driving privileges, nor had he assumed that the Panthers and specifically Signor Bruncardo would handle such matters. He had assumed nothing, thought of nothing, worried about nothing. He was a professional athlete who was once a high school and college star, and from that lofty perch small details had never mattered.

The glove box was empty.

A cop was tapping on his window, and he rolled it down. No power windows.

The cop said something, and Rick caught the word
“documenti.”
He snatched his wallet and thrust out his Iowa driver’s license. Iowa? He hadn’t lived in Iowa in six years, but then, he hadn’t established a home anywhere else. As the cop frowned at the plastic card, Rick sank a few inches lower as he remembered a phone call from his mother before Christmas. She had just received a notice from the state. His license had expired.

“Americano?”
the officer said. His tone was accusatory. His name badge declared him to be Aski.

“Yes,” Rick replied, though he could’ve handled a quick
“Sì.”
He did not, because even the slightest use of Italian prompted the speaker on the other end to assume the foreigner was fluent.

Aski opened the door and motioned for Rick to get out. The other officer, Dini, strutted up with a sneer, and they launched into a quick round of Italian. From their looks, Rick thought he might be beaten on the spot. They were in their early twenties, tall, and built like weight lifters. They could play defense for the Panthers. An elderly couple stopped on the sidewalk to witness the drama from ten feet away.

“Speak Italian?” Dini asked.

“No, sorry.”

Both rolled their eyes. A moron.

They separated and began a dramatic inspection of the crime scene. They studied the front license plates, then the rear. The glove box was opened, carefully, as if
it might just hold a bomb. Then the trunk. Rick grew bored with it and leaned against the left front fender. They huddled, consulted, and radioed headquarters, then the inevitable paperwork began with both officers scribbling furiously.

Rick was very curious about his crime. He was certain that registration laws had been broken, but he would plead not guilty to any moving violation. He thought about calling Sam, but his cell phone was next to his bed. When he saw the tow truck, he almost laughed.

After the Fiat disappeared, Rick was put into the rear seat of the police car and driven away. No handcuffs, no threats, everything nice and civilized. As they crossed the river, he remembered something in his wallet. He pulled out a business card he had taken from Franco’s office and handed it to Dini in the front seat. “My friend,” he said.

Giuseppe Lazzarino,
Giudice
.

Both cops seemed to know Judge Lazzarino quite well. Their tone, demeanor, and body language changed. Both talked at once in muffled voices, as if they didn’t want their prisoner to hear. Aski sighed heavily as Dini’s shoulders sagged. Across the river, they changed directions and for a few minutes seemed to go in circles. Aski called someone on the radio, but did not find whomever or whatever he wanted. Dini used his cell phone, but he, too, was disappointed. Rick sat low in the rear seat, laughing at himself and trying to enjoy the tour of Parma.

They parked him on the bench outside Franco’s
office, the same spot Romo had selected about twenty-four hours earlier. Dini reluctantly went inside, while Aski found a spot twenty feet down the hall, as if he had nothing to do with Rick. They waited as the minutes dragged by.

Rick was curious as to whether this qualified as a real arrest, or one of the Romo variety. How was one supposed to know? One more altercation with the police, and the Panthers and Sam Russo and Signor Bruncardo and his paltry contract could all take a hike. He almost missed Cleveland.

Loud voices, then the door swung open as his fullback charged through, Dini in tow. Aski bolted to attention.

“Reek, I am so sorry,” Franco thundered as he yanked him from the bench and smothered him with a bear hug. “I’m so sorry. There is a mistake, no?” The judge glared at Dini, who was studying his very shiny black boots and looked somewhat pale. Aski was a deer in headlights.

Rick tried to say something, but words failed him. In the doorway, Franco’s cute secretary watched the encounter. Franco unloaded a few words at Aski, then a sharp question for Dini, who tried to answer but thought better of it. Back to Rick. “Is no problem, okay?”

“Fine,” Rick said. “It’s okay.”

“The car, it is not yours?”

“Uh, no. I think Signor Bruncardo owns it.”

Franco’s eyes widened and his spine stiffened. “Bruncardo’s?”

Both Aski and Dini partially collapsed at the news. They stayed on their feet but couldn’t breathe. Franco shot some harsh Italian at them, and Rick caught at least two “Bruncardo’s.”

Two gentlemen who appeared to be lawyers—dark suits, thick briefcases, important airs—approached. For their benefit, and Rick’s and his staff’s, Judge Lazzarino proceeded to blister the two young cops with the fervor of an angry drill sergeant.

Rick immediately felt sorry for them. After all, they had treated him with more respect than a common street criminal could expect. When the tongue-lashing was over, Aski and Dini scattered, never to be seen again. Franco explained that the car was being retrieved that very moment and would be returned to Rick immediately. No need to tell Signor Bruncardo. More apologies. The two lawyers finally drifted into the judge’s office, and the secretaries returned to work.

Franco apologized again, and to show his sincere regret at the way Rick had been welcomed in Parma, he insisted on dinner the following night at his home. His wife—very pretty, he said—was an excellent cook. He would not take no for an answer.

Rick accepted the invitation, and Franco then explained that he had an important meeting with some lawyers. They would see each other at dinner. Farewell.
“Ciao.”

Chapter

11

The team trainer was a wiry, wild-eyed college boy named Matteo who spoke terrible English and spoke it rapidly. After several efforts, he finally made his point—he wanted to give their great new quarterback a rubdown. He was studying something that had something else to do with a new theory of massage. Rick desperately needed a rubdown. He stretched out on one of the two training tables and told Matteo to have a go. After a few seconds, the kid was hacking at his hamstrings and Rick wanted to scream. But you can’t complain during a massage—it was a rule that had never been violated in the history of professional football. Regardless of how much things might hurt, big tough footballers do not complain during rubdowns.

“Is good?” Matteo said between breaths.

“Yes, slow down.”

It didn’t survive the translation, and Rick buried his face in a towel. They were in the locker room, which doubled as the equipment room and tripled as the coaches’ offices. No one else was present. Practice was four hours away. As Matteo pounded furiously, Rick managed to drift away from the assault. He
wrestled with the proper approach to suggest to Coach Russo that he preferred not to suffer through the conditioning drills anymore. No more wind sprints, push-ups, or sit-ups. He was in good shape, at least good enough for what was ahead. Too much running might injure a leg, pull a muscle, or something of that nature. In most pro camps the quarterbacks handled their own stretching and warm-ups and had their own little routines while everyone else grunted it out.

However, he was also fretting about how it would look to the team. Spoiled American quarterback. Too good for drills. Too soft for a little conditioning. The Italians seemed to thrive on dirt and sweat, and full pads were three days away.

Matteo settled onto his lower back and calmed down. The massage was working. The stiff, sore muscles were relaxing. Sam appeared and took a seat on the other training table. “I thought you were in shape,” he began pleasantly.

“I thought I was, too.” With an audience, Matteo returned to his jackhammer method.

“Pretty sore, huh?”

“A little. I don’t normally run too many wind sprints.”

“Get used to it. If you slack off, the Italians will think you’re just a pretty boy.”

That settled that. “I’m not the one who puked.”

“No, but you sure looked like it.”

“Thanks.”

“Just got a call from Franco. More trouble with the police, huh? You all right?”

“As long as I got Franco, the cops can arrest me for nothing every day.” He was sweating now, from the pain, and trying to appear nonchalant.

“We’ll get you a temporary license and some paperwork for the car. My mistake. Sorry about it.”

“No sweat. Franco’s got some cute secretaries.”

“Wait’ll you see his wife. He included us for dinner tomorrow night, me and Anna.”

“Great.”

Matteo flipped him over and began pinching his thighs. Rick almost screamed, but managed to keep a straight face. “Can we talk about the offense?” Rick asked.

“You’ve gone through the playbook?”

“It’s high school stuff.”

“Yes, it’s very basic. We can’t get too fancy here. The players have limited experience, and there’s not much practice time.”

“No complaints. I just have a few ideas.”

“Let’s go.”

Matteo backed away like a proud surgeon, and Rick thanked him. “Very nice job,” he said, limping away. Sly came bouncing in with wires running from his ears, trucker’s cap cocked to one side, and again wearing the Broncos sweatshirt. “Hey, Sly, how about a great massage over here!” Rick yelled. “Matteo’s wonderful.”

They exchanged jabs—Broncos versus Browns and so on—as Sly stripped to his boxers and stretched out on the table. Matteo cracked his knuckles, then plunged in. Sly grimaced, but bit his tongue.

Two hours before practice, Rick, Sly, and Trey Colby were on the field with Coach Russo, walking through the offensive plays. To Sam’s relief, his new quarterback had no interest in changing everything. Rick made suggestions here and there, tweaked some of the pass routes, and offered ideas about the running game. Sly reminded him more than once that the Panthers’ running game was quite simple—just give the ball to Sly and get out of the way.

Fabrizio appeared at the far end of the field, alone and determined to keep to himself. He began an elaborate stretching routine, one designed more for show than to loosen tight muscles.

“Well, he’s back for the second day,” Sly said as they watched him for a moment.

“What does that mean?” Rick asked.

“He hasn’t quit yet,” Trey said.

“Quit?”

“Yeah, he has the habit of walking off,” Sam said. “Could be a bad practice, maybe a bad game, could be nothing.”

“Why tolerate it?”

“He’s by far our best receiver,” Sam said. “Plus he plays for cheap.”

“Dude’s got some hands,” Trey said.

“And he can fly,” Sly said. “Faster than me.”

“Come on?”

“Nope. Beats me four steps in the forty.”

Nino arrived early, too, and after a round of
buongiornos
he stretched quickly, then began a long lap around the field.

“Why does his ass flinch like that?” Rick asked as they watched him jog away. Sly laughed much too loudly. Sam and Trey broke up, too, then Sly seized the opportunity to give a quick review of Nino’s overactive glutes. “He ain’t bad in practice, in shorts, but when he’s in full gear and we’re hitting, then everything gets tight, especially the muscles that run up his rear cheeks. Nino loves to hit, and sometimes he almost forgets to snap the ball because he’s thinking so hard about hitting the noseguard. And when he’s poised to hit, all bent over like that, then the glutes start quivering, and when you touch ’em, he damn near jumps out of his skin.”

“Perhaps we can run the shotgun,” Rick said, and they laughed even harder.

“Sure,” said Trey. “But Nino’s not too accurate. You’ll be chasing the ball all over the field.”

“We’ve tried it,” Sam said. “It’s a disaster.”

“We gotta speed up his snaps,” Sly said. “Sometimes I’m already in the hole before the quarterback gets the ball. He’s chasing me around, I’m looking for the damned ball. Nino’s off growling at some poor sucker.”

Nino was back, and he brought Fabrizio with him. Rick suggested they work from the shotgun, do a few patterns. His snaps were okay, not too errant, but awfully slow. Other Panthers arrived, and footballs were soon flying around the field as the Italians practiced their punting and passing.

Sam walked close to Rick and said, “Hour and a
half before practice, and they can’t wait to start. Pretty refreshing, huh?”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“They love the game.”

·  ·  ·

Franco and his small family lived on the top floor of a palazzo overlooking the Piazza della Steccata in the heart of the city. Everything was old—the worn marble staircase on the way up, the wooden floors, the tastefully cracked plaster walls, the portraits of ancient royals, the vaulted ceilings with lead chandeliers, the oversize leather sofas and chairs.

His wife, however, looked remarkably young. She was Antonella, a beautiful dark-haired woman who attracted second looks and outright stares. Even her heavily accented English left Rick wanting to hear more.

Their son was Ivano, age six, and their daughter was Susanna, age three. The children were allowed to hang around for the first half hour before heading off to bed. A nanny of some sort lurked in the background.

Sam’s wife, Anna, was also attractive, and as Rick sipped his Prosecco, he devoted his attention to the two ladies. He’d found a quick girlfriend in Florida, after fleeing Cleveland, but was content to vanish without a word to her when it was time to leave for Italy. He had seen beautiful women in Parma, but they all spoke a different language. There were no cheerleaders, and he had cursed Arnie many times for that
lie. Rick was longing for female companionship, even the accented variety over a cocktail with the wives of friends. But the husbands stayed close, and at times Rick was lost in a world of Italian as the other four laughed at Franco’s punch lines. A tiny gray-haired woman in an apron passed through occasionally with a platter of appetizers—cured meats, parmigiano cheese, olives—then she disappeared into the narrow kitchen where dinner was being prepared.