Playing for Pizza (4 page)

“Is it possible that you might be the daddy?”

“Absolutely not. I was careful. You had to be.”

“Well, she can’t go public until she serves you with the papers, and if she can’t find you, then she can’t serve you.”

Rick knew all this. He’d been served before. “I’ll hide in Florida for a while. They can’t find me down there.”

“Don’t bet on it. These lawyers are pretty aggressive. They want some publicity. There are ways to track people.” A pause, then the clincher. “But, pal, they can’t serve you in Italy.”

“I’ve never been to Italy.”

“Then it’s time to go.”

“Let me sleep on it.”

“Sure.”

Rick dozed off quickly and slept hard for ten minutes when a nightmare jolted him from his nap. Credit cards leave a trail. Gas stations, motels, truck stops—every place was connected to a vast web of electronic information that zipped around the world in a split second, and surely some geek with a high-powered computer could tap in here and there and for a nice fee pick up the trail and send in the bloodhounds with a copy of Tiffany’s paternity suit. More headlines. More legal troubles.

He grabbed his unpacked bag and fled the motel. He drove another hour, very much under the influence, and found a dump with cheap rooms for cash, by the hour or by the night. He fell onto the dusty bed and was soon sound asleep, snoring loudly and dreaming of leaning towers and Roman ruins.

Chapter

4

Coach Russo read the
Gazzetta di Parma
while he waited patiently on a hard plastic chair inside the Parma train station. He hated to admit that he was a little nervous. He and his new quarterback had chatted once by phone, while he, the quarterback, was on a golf course somewhere in Florida, and the conversation left something to be desired. Dockery was reluctant to play for Parma, though the idea of living abroad for a few months was certainly appealing. Dockery seemed reluctant to play anywhere. The “Greatest Goat” theme had spread, and he was still the butt of many jokes. He was a football player and needed to play, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to see another football.

Dockery said he didn’t speak a word of Italian but had studied Spanish in the tenth grade. Great, thought Russo. No problem.

Sam had never coached a pro quarterback. His last one had played sparingly at the University of Delaware. How would Dockery fit? The team was excited to have such a talent, but would they accept him? Would his attitude poison the locker room? Would he be coachable?

The Eurostar from Milan coasted into the station, on time as always. Doors snapped open, passengers spilled out. It was mid-March and most were clad in dark heavy coats, still bundled from the winter and waiting for warmer weather. Then there was Dockery, fresh from south Florida with a ridiculous tan and dressed for summer drinks at the country club—cream-colored linen sports coat, lemon shirt with a tropical motif, white slacks that stopped at bronze sockless ankles, thin crocodile loafers more maroon than brown. He was wrestling with two perfectly matched and monstrous pieces of luggage on wheels, and his task was made almost impossible because he had slung over his back a bulky set of golf clubs.

The quarterback had arrived.

Sam watched the struggle and knew instantly that Dockery had never been on a train before. He finally walked over and said, “Rick. I’m Sam Russo.”

A half smile as he jolted things upward and managed to slide the golf clubs up his back. “Hey, Coach,” he said.

“Welcome to Parma. Let me give you a hand.” Sam grabbed one suitcase, and they began rolling through the station.

“Thanks. It’s pretty cold here.”

“Colder than Florida. How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

“Play a lot of golf, do you?”

“Sure. When does it get warm?”

“A month or so.”

“Lot of golf courses around here?”

“No, I’ve never seen one.” They were outside now, stopping at Sam’s boxy little Honda.

“This is it?” Rick asked as he glanced around and noticed all of the other very small cars.

“Throw those in the backseat,” Sam said. He popped the trunk and manhandled a suitcase into the tight space. There was no room for the other. It went into the rear seat, on top of the clubs. “Good thing I didn’t pack more,” Rick mumbled. They got in. At six feet two, Rick’s knees hit the dashboard. His seat refused to slide back because of the golf clubs.

“Pretty small cars over here, huh?” he observed.

“You got it. Gas is a buck twenty a liter.”

“How much a gallon?”

“They don’t use gallons. They use liters.” Sam shifted gears, and they moved away from the station.

“Okay, about how much a gallon?” Rick went on.

“Well, a liter is roughly a quart.”

Rick pondered this as he gazed blankly out his window at the buildings along Strada Garibaldi. “Okay. How many quarts in a gallon?”

“Where’d you go to college?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Bucknell.”

“Never heard of it. They play football?”

“Sure, small stuff. Nothing like the Big Ten. Four quarts in a gallon, so a gallon here is about five bucks.”

“These buildings are really old,” Rick said.

“They don’t call it the old country for nothing. What was your major in college?”

“Phys ed. Cheerleaders.”

“Study much history?”

“Hated history. Why?”

“Parma goes back two thousand years and has an interesting history.”

“Parma,” Rick said as he exhaled and managed to slide down an inch or two, as if the very mention of the place meant defeat. He fished through a coat pocket and found his cell phone but didn’t open it. “What the hell am I doing in Parma, Italy?” he asked, though it was more of a statement.

Sam figured no response was best, so he decided to become a guide. “This is the downtown, the oldest section. First time in Italy?”

“Yep. What’s that?”

“It’s called Palazzo della Pilotta, started four hundred years ago, never finished, then bombed to hell and back by the Allies in 1944.”

“We bombed Parma?”

“We bombed everything, even Rome, but we laid off the Vatican. The Italians, as you might recall, had a leader named Mussolini, who cut a deal with Hitler. Not a good move, though the Italians never warmed up to the notion of war. They’re much better at food, wine, sports cars, fashion, sex.”

“Maybe I’ll like this place.”

“You will. And they love opera. To the right there is the Teatro Regio, the famous opera house. Ever see an opera?”

“Oh yeah, sure, we were raised on the stuff in
Iowa. Spent most of my childhood at the opera. Are you kidding? Why would I go to an opera?”

“There’s the duomo,” Sam said.

“The what?”

“Duomo, cathedral. Think of dome, you know, like Superdome, Carrier Dome.”

Rick did not respond, but instead went silent for a moment as if the memory of domes and stadiums and their related games made him uncomfortable. They were in the center of Parma with pedestrians scurrying about and cars bumper to bumper.

Sam finally continued: “Most Italian cities are sort of configured around a central square, called a piazza. This is Piazza Garibaldi, lots of shops and cafés and foot traffic. The Italians spend a lot of time sitting at the outdoor cafés sipping espresso and reading. Not a bad habit.”

“I don’t do coffee.”

“It’s time to start.”

“What do these Italians think of Americans?”

“They like us, I guess, not that they dwell on the subject. If they stop and think about it, they probably dislike our government, but generally they couldn’t care less. They are crazy about our culture.”

“Even football?”

“To some degree. There’s a great little bar over there. You want something to drink?”

“No, it’s too early.”

“Not alcohol. A bar here is like a small pub or coffee shop, a gathering place.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Anyway, the center of the city is where the action is. Your apartment is just a few streets over.”

“Can’t wait. Mind if I make a call?”

“Prego.”

“What?”

“Prego
. It means go right ahead.”

Rick punched the numbers while Sam worked his car through the late-afternoon traffic. When Rick glanced out his window, Sam quickly pushed a button on the radio and low-volume opera rose in the background. Whoever Rick needed to chat with was unavailable; no voice mail was left by the quarterback; phone slapped shut; returned to pocket.

Probably his agent, thought Sam. Maybe a girlfriend.

“You got a girl?” Sam asked.

“No one in particular. Lots of NFL groupies, but they’re dumb as rocks. You?”

“Married for eleven years, no kids.”

They crossed a bridge called the Ponte Verdi. “This is the Parma River. It divides the city.”

“Lovely.”

“Ahead of us is the Parco Ducale, the largest park in the city. It’s quite beautiful. Italians are big on parks and landscaping and such.”

“It’s pretty.”

“Glad you approve. It’s a great place to walk, take a girl, read a book, lie in the sun.”

“Never spent much time in parks.”

What a surprise.

They looped around, recrossed the river, and were
soon darting through narrow one-way streets. “You’ve now seen most of downtown Parma,” Sam said.

“Nice.”

A few blocks south of the park they turned onto a winding street, Via Linati. “There,” Sam said, pointing to a long row of four-story buildings, each painted a different color. “The second one, sort of a gold color, apartment’s on the third floor. It’s a nice part of town. Signor Bruncardo, the gent who owns the team, also owns a few buildings. That’s why you get to live downtown. It’s more expensive here.”

“And these guys really play for free?” Rick said, mulling something that had stuck from a prior conversation.

“The Americans get paid—you and two others—only three this year. No one makes as much as you. Yes, the Italians play for the sport of it. And the postgame pizza.” A pause, then he added, “You’re gonna love these guys.” It was his first effort at bolstering team spirit. If the quarterback wasn’t happy, then there would be many problems.

He somehow wedged his Honda into a space half its size, and they loaded up the luggage and golf clubs. There was no elevator, but the stairwell was wider than normal. The apartment was furnished and had three rooms—a bedroom, a den, a small kitchen. Because his new quarterback was coming from the NFL, Signor Bruncardo had sprung for new paint, rugs, curtains, and den furniture. There was even some splashy contemporary art on the walls.

“Not bad,” Rick said, and Russo was relieved. He
knew the realities of urban real estate in Italy—most of the apartments were small and old and expensive. If the quarterback was disappointed, then Signor Bruncardo would be, too. Things would get complicated.

“On the market, it would be two thousand euros a month,” Sam said, trying to impress.

Rick was carefully placing his golf clubs on the sofa. “Nice place,” he said. He couldn’t count the number of apartments he’d passed through in the last six years. The constant moving, often in a hurry, had deadened any appreciation of square footage, decor, and furnishings.

“Why don’t you change clothes and I’ll meet you downstairs,” Sam said.

Rick glanced down at his white slacks and brown ankles and almost said, “Oh, I’m fine.” But then he took the hint and said, “Sure, give me five minutes.”

“There’s a café two blocks down on the right,” Sam said. “I’ll be at a table outside having a coffee.”

“Sure, Coach.”

Sam ordered coffee and opened his newspaper. It was damp and the sun had dipped behind the buildings. The Americans always went through a brief period of culture shock. The language, cars, narrow streets, smaller lodgings, the confinement of the cities. It was overwhelming, especially to the middle-and lower-class guys who’d traveled little. In his five years as coach of the Parma Panthers, Sam had met exactly one American player who’d ever been to Italy before joining the team.

Two of Italy’s national treasures usually warmed them up—food and women. Coach Russo did not meddle with the latter, but he knew the power of Italian cooking. Mr. Dockery was facing a four-hour dinner and had no idea what was coming.

Ten minutes later he arrived, cell phone in hand of course, and looked much better. Navy blazer, faded jeans, dark socks, and shoes.

“Coffee?” Sam asked.

“Just a Coke.”

Sam talked to the waiter.

“So you speak the lingo, huh?” Rick said, stuffing the phone in a pocket.

“I’ve lived here for five years. My wife is Italian. I told you that.”

“Do the other Yanks pick up the language?”

“A few words, especially items on a menu.”

“Just curious as to how I’m supposed to call plays in the huddle?”

“We do it in English. Sometimes the Italians get the plays; sometimes they don’t.”

“Just like in college,” Rick said, and they both laughed. He gulped his Coke, then said, “Me, I’m not bothering with the language. Too much trouble. When I played in Canada, there was a lot of French. Didn’t slow us down. Everyone spoke English, too.”

“Not everyone speaks English here, I can assure you of that.”

“Yes, but everyone speaks American Express and greenbacks.”

“Maybe. It’s not a bad idea to study the language. Life’s easier and your teammates will love you.”

“Love? Did you say love? I haven’t loved a teammate since I was in college.”

“This is like college, a big fraternity with guys who like to put on the gear, brawl for a couple of hours, then go drink beer. If they accept you, and I’m sure they will, then they’ll kill for you.”

“Do they know about, uh, you know, my last game?”

“I haven’t asked them, but I’m sure some do. They love football and watch a lot of games. But don’t worry, Rick. They’re delighted you’re here. These guys have never won the Italian Super Bowl, and they’re convinced this is the year.”

Three signorinas walked by and required their attention. When they were out of sight, Rick gazed at the street and seemed lost in another world. Sam liked him and felt sorry for him. He had endured an avalanche of public ridicule never before seen in professional football, and here he was in Parma, alone and confused. And running. Parma was where he belonged, at least for now.