Playing for Pizza (12 page)

The surprise was the dinner table, a slab of black marble resting on two massive urns on the patio, a small flower-lined terrace overlooking the center of town. The table was crowded with candles and silver and flowers and fine china and liters of red wine. The night air was clear and still, chilly only when a slight wind blew. From a hidden speaker, an opera could barely be heard.

Rick was given the best seat, the one with a clear view of the top of the duomo. Franco poured generous glasses of red wine, then offered a toast to their new friend. “A Super Bowl for Parma,” he said, almost lustfully, in closing.

Where am I? Rick asked himself. Usually in March he was hanging out in Florida, bumming a room off a friend, playing golf, lifting weights, running, trying to stay in shape while Arnie worked the phones in a desperate search for a team in need of an arm. There was always hope. The next call could mean the next contract. The next team could mean the big break. Each spring brought a fresh dream that he’d finally find his place—a team with a great offensive
line, a brilliant coordinator, talented receivers, everything. His passes would be on target. Defenses would crumble. The Super Bowl. Pro Bowl. Fat contract. Endorsements. Fame. Lots of cheerleaders.

It all seemed possible every March.

Where am I?

The first course, or the antipasto, was thickly sliced cantaloupe covered with thin slices of prosciutto. Franco poured more wine as he explained that this dish was very common throughout the Emilia-Romagna region, something Rick had heard more than once. But, of course, only the best prosciutto comes from Parma. Even Sam rolled his eyes at Rick.

After a few hearty bites, Franco asked, “So, Rick, do you like opera?”

To give an honest “Hell no” would be to insult everyone within a hundred miles at least, so Rick played it safe. “We don’t listen to a lot of it back home,” he said.

“Is very big here,” Franco said. Antonella smiled at Rick as she nibbled on a tiny bit of melon.

“We take you sometime, yes? We have Teatro Regio, the most beautiful opera house in the world,” Franco said.

“Parmesans are crazy about opera,” Anna said. She was sitting next to Rick, with Antonella directly across, and Franco, the judge, at the head of the table.

“And where are you from?” Rick asked Anna, anxious to change subjects.

“Parma. My uncle was a great baritone.”

“Teatro Regio is more magnificent than La Scala
in Milan,” Franco was announcing to no one in particular, so Sam decided to quibble. “No way,” he said. “La Scala is the greatest.”

Franco’s eyes widened as if he might attack. The rebuke sent him directly into Italian, and for a moment everyone listened in an uneasy silence. He finally composed himself and said, in English, “When did you go to La Scala?”

“Never,” Sam said. “Just saw some photos.”

Franco laughed loudly as Antonella left for the next course. “I take you to the opera,” Franco said to Rick, who just smiled and tried to think of something worse.

The next course, the
primo piatto
, was
anolini
, a small round pasta stuffed with parmigiano and beef and smothered in porcini mushrooms. Antonella explained that it was a very famous dish from Parma, and her description was in the most beautifully accented English Rick had ever heard. He really didn’t care how the pasta tasted. Just keep talking about it.

Franco and Sam were discussing opera, in English. Anna and Antonella were discussing children, in English. Finally Rick said, “Please, speak Italian. It’s much prettier.” And they did. Rick savored the food and wine and view. The dome of the cathedral was majestic in its lights, and the center of Parma was alive with traffic and pedestrians.

The
anolini
yielded to the
secondo piatto
, the main course, a roasted stuffed capon. Franco, several glasses deep into the wine, graphically described a capon as a male chicken who gets castrated—“Whack!”—when
only two months old. “Adds to the flavor,” Antonella said, leaving the impression, at least to Rick, that the rejected parts might actually be in the stuffing. After two tentative bites, though, it didn’t matter. Testicles or not, the capon was delicious.

He ate slowly, very amused at the Italians and their love of conversation at the table. At times they focused on him and wanted to know about his life, then they would drift back to their musical language and forget about him. Even Sam, from Baltimore and Bucknell, seemed more at ease chatting with the women in Italian. For the first time in his new home, Rick admitted to himself that learning a few words was not a bad idea. In fact, it was a great idea if he had any hope of scoring points with the girls.

After the capon, there was cheese and another wine, then dessert and coffee. Rick finally made a graceful departure a few minutes after midnight. He strolled through the night, back to his apartment, and fell asleep on his bed without undressing.

Chapter

12

On a beautiful Saturday in April, a perfect spring day in the Po valley, the Bandits from Naples left home at 7:00 a.m. on a train headed north for the season’s opening game. They arrived in Parma just before 2:00 p.m. Kickoff was at 3:00. The return train would leave at 11:40, and the team would arrive in Naples around 7:00 a.m. on Sunday, twenty-four hours after leaving.

Once in Parma, the Bandits, thirty of them, took a bus to Stadio Lanfranchi and hauled their gear to a cramped dressing room just down the hall from the Panthers. They changed quickly and scattered around the field, stretching and following the usual pregame rituals.

·  ·  ·

Two hours before kickoff all forty-two Panthers were in their locker room, most burning nervous energy and anxious to hit someone. Signor Bruncardo surprised them with new game jerseys—black with shiny silver numbers and the word “Panthers” across the chest.

Nino smoked a pregame cigarette. Franco chatted
with Sly and Trey. Pietro, the middle linebacker who was improving by the day, was meditating with his iPod. Matteo scurried around, rubbing muscles, taping ankles, repairing equipment.

A typical pregame, thought Rick. Smaller locker room, smaller players, smaller stakes, but some things about the game were always the same. He was ready to play. Sam addressed the team, offered a few observations, then turned them loose.

When Rick stepped onto the field ninety minutes before kickoff, the stands were empty. Sam had predicted a big crowd—“maybe a thousand.” The weather was great, and the day before the
Gazzetta di Parma
ran an impressive story about the Panthers’ first game and especially about their new NFL quarterback. Rick’s handsome face, in color, had been splashed across half a page. Signor Bruncardo had pulled some strings and thrown some weight around, according to Sam.

Walking onto a field in an NFL stadium, or even one in the Big Ten, was always a nerve-racking experience. The pregame jitters were so bad in the locker room that the players fled as soon as they were allowed. Outside, engulfed by enormous decks of seats and thousands of fans, and cameras and bands and cheerleaders and the seemingly endless mob of people who somehow had access to the field, players spent the first few moments adjusting to the barely controlled chaos.

Walking onto the grass of Stadio Lanfranchi, Rick couldn’t help but chuckle at the latest stop in his career.

A frat boy limbering up for a flag football game would’ve been more nervous.

After a few minutes of stretching and calisthenics, led by Alex Olivetto, Sam gathered the offense on the five-yard line and began running plays. He and Rick had selected twelve that they would run the entire game, six on the ground and six in the air. The Bandits were notoriously weak in the secondary—not a single American back there—and the year before the Panthers’ quarterback had thrown for two hundred yards.

Of the six running plays, five went to Sly. Franco’s only touch would be a dive play on short yardage, and only when the game was won. Though he loved to hit, he also had the habit of fumbling. All six pass plays went to Fabrizio.

After an hour of warm-ups, both teams retreated to their dressing rooms. Sam huddled the Panthers for a rousing speech, and Coach Olivetto pumped them up with a ferocious assault on the city of Naples.

Rick didn’t understand a word, but the Italians certainly did. They were ready for war.

·  ·  ·

The Bandits’ kicker was another ex–soccer player with a big foot, and his opening drive sailed through the end zone. As Rick trotted onto the field for the first series, he tried to remember the last game he started. It was in Toronto, a hundred years ago.

The home stands were packed now, and the fans knew how to make noise. They waved large
hand-painted banners and yelled in unison. Their racket had the Panthers looking for blood. Nino especially was out of his mind.

They huddled, and Rick called, “Twenty-six smash.” Nino translated, and they headed for the line. In an I formation, with Franco four yards behind him at fullback and Sly seven yards deep, Rick quickly scanned the defense and saw nothing that worried him. The smash was a deep handoff to the right side that allowed the tailback flexibility to read the blocking and pick a hole. The Bandits had five down linemen and two linebackers, both smaller than Rick. Nino’s glutes were in full panic, and Rick had long since decided to go with a quick snap, especially on the first drive. He did a quick “Down.” A beat. Hands under center, a hard slap because a feather touch sent the center into illegal motion, then, “Set.” A beat. Then, “Hut.”

For a split second, everything moved but the ball. The line fired forward, everyone growling and grunting, and Rick waited. When he finally got the ball, he did a quick pump to freeze the safety, then turned for the handoff. Franco lurched by, hissing at the linebacker he planned to maul. Sly got the ball deep in the backfield, faked toward the line, then cut wide for six yards before going out of bounds.

“Twenty-seven smash,” Rick called. Same play, but to the left. Gain of eleven, and the fans reacted with whistles and horns. Rick had never heard so much noise from a thousand fans. Sly ran right, then left, right, then left, and the offense crossed midfield.
It stalled at the Bandits’ 40, and with a third and four Rick decided to toss one to Fabrizio. Sly was panting and needed a break.

“I right flex Z, 64 curl H swing,” Rick said in the huddle. Nino hissed out the translation. A curl to Fabrizio. His linemen were sweating now, and very happy. They were stuffing the ball into the heart of the defense, driving at will. After six plays, Rick was almost bored and looking forward to showing off his arm. After all, they weren’t paying him twenty grand for nothing.

The Bandits guessed right and sent everyone but the two safeties. Rick saw it coming and wanted to check off, but he also didn’t want to risk a busted play. Audibles were tricky enough in English. He dropped back three steps, hurried his pass, and fired a bullet to the spot Fabrizio was supposed to be curling into. A linebacker from the blind side hit Rick hard in the square of his back and they went down together. The pass was perfect, but for a ten-yarder it had too much velocity. Fabrizio went up, got both hands near it, then took it hard in the chest. The ball shot upward and was an easy interception for the strong-side safety.

Here we go again, Rick thought as he walked to the sideline. His first pass in Italy was an exact replica of his last one in Cleveland. The crowd was silent. The Bandits were celebrating. Fabrizio was limping to the bench, gasping for breath.

“Way too hard,” Sam said, leaving no doubt about blame.

Rick removed his helmet and knelt on the sideline.
The quarterback for Naples, a small kid from Bowling Green, completed his first five passes and in less than three minutes had the Bandits in the end zone.

Fabrizio stayed on the bench, pouting and rubbing his chest as though ribs were cracked. The backup wide receiver was a fireman named Claudio, and Claudio caught about half of his passes in pregame warm-up and even fewer in practice. The Panthers’ second drive began at their 21. Two hand-offs to Sly picked up fifteen yards. He was fun to watch, from the safety of the backfield. He was quick and made wonderful cuts.

“When do I get the ball?” Franco asked in the huddle. Second and four, so why not? “Take it now,” Rick said, and called, “Thirty-two dive.”

“Thirty-two dive?” Nino asked in disbelief. Franco cursed him in Italian and Nino cursed back, and as they broke huddle, half the offense was grumbling about something.

Franco took the ball on a quick dive to the right, did not fumble, but instead showed an astounding ability to stay on his feet. A tackle hit him and he spun loose. A linebacker chopped his knees, but he kept his legs churning. A safety came up fast and Franco delivered a stiff-arm that would have impressed the great Franco Harris. He rumbled on, across midfield, bodies bouncing off, a cornerback riding him like a bull, and finally a tackle caught up with the mayhem and slapped his ankles together. Gain of twenty-four yards. As Franco strutted back to the huddle, he said
something to Nino, who of course took full credit for the gain because it all came down to blocking.

Fabrizio jogged to the huddle, one of his famous quick recoveries. Rick decided to deal with him immediately. He called a play-action pass, with Fabrizio on a post pattern, and it worked beautifully. On first down, the defense collapsed on Sly. The strong safety bit hard, and Fabrizio was by him with ease. The pass was long and soft and perfectly on target, and when Fabrizio took it at a full sprint at the 15, he was all alone.

More fireworks. More chants. Rick grabbed a cup of water and enjoyed the racket. He savored his first touchdown pass in four years. It felt good, regardless of where he was.

·  ·  ·

By halftime, he had two more touchdowns, and the Panthers were up 28–14. In the locker room, Sam bitched about the penalties—the offense had jumped four times—and he bitched about the zone coverage that had allowed 180 yards passing. Alex Olivetto carped at the defensive line because there was no pass rush, not a single sack. There was a lot of yelling and finger-pointing, and Rick just wanted everyone to relax.