Sure, Coach. A thousand plays. No problem. How many playbooks? How many assistant coaches? How many teams? How many stops along the way in a frustrating career that had now led him to a small town in northern Italy? He drank a beer at a sidewalk cafe and couldn't shake the lonely feeling that this was not where he was supposed to be. He shuffled through the wine shop, terrified a clerk might ask him if there was anything in particular he needed. The cute girl stocking the reds was gone. And then he was back, staring at the five-speed Fiat, clutch and all. He didn't even like the color, a deep copper he'd never seen. It was in a row of similar cars parked tightly together, less than a foot between bumpers, on a one-way street with a fair amount of traffic. Any effort to drive away would require him to ease forward and back, forward and back, at least a half dozen times as he inched the front wheels into the street. Perfect coordination of the clutch, stick, and accelerator would be essential. It would be a challenge in an automatic. Why did these people park so close together? The key was in his pocket. Maybe later. He walked to his apartment and took a nap.
Rick changed quickly into the Panther practice uniform-- black shirt, silver shorts, white socks. Each player bought his own shoes, and Rick had hauled over three pairs of the game-day Nikes the Browns had so freely dispensed. Most NFL players had shoe contracts. Rick had never been offered one.
He was alone in the locker room, flipping through the play book, when Sly Turner bounced in, all smiles and wearing a bright orange Denver Broncos sweatshirt. They introduced themselves, shook hands politely, and before long Rick said, "You wearing that for a reason?"
"Yep, love my Broncos," Sly said, still smiling. "Grew up near Denver, went to Colorado State."
"That's nice. I hear I'm a popular guy in Denver."
"We love you, man."
"Always needed to be loved. Are we gonna be pals, Sly?"
"Sure, just give me the ball twenty times a game."
"Done." Rick removed a shoe from his locker, slowly put it on his right foot, and began lacing it. "You get drafted?"
"Seventh round by the Colts, four years ago. Last player cut. One year in Canada, two years in arena ball." The smile was gone and Sly was undressing. He looked much shorter than five feet eight, but he was solid muscle. "And here last year, right?"
"Right. It ain't that bad. Kinda fun, if you keep your sense of humor. The guys on the team are wonderful. If not for them, I'd never come back."
"Why are you here?"
"Same reason you're here. Too young to give up the dream. Plus, I got a wife and kid now and I need the money."
"The money?" "Sad, ain't it? A professional football player making ten thousand bucks for five months' work. But, like I said, I ain't ready to quit." He finally pulled off the orange sweatshirt and replaced it with a Panther practice jersey. "Let's go loosen up," Rick said, and they left the locker room and walked onto the field.
"My arm's pretty stiff," Rick said as he made a weak throw. "You're lucky you're not crippled," Sly said. "Thanks."
"What a hit. I was at my brother's, yelling at the TV. Game was over, then Marroon goes out with an injury. Eleven minutes to go, everything was hopeless, then--" Rick held the ball for a second. "Sly, really, I'd rather not replay it. Okay?"
"Sure. Sorry."
"Is your family here?" Rick asked, quickly changing the subject. "No, back in Denver. My wife's a nurse, good job. She told me I got one more year of football, then the dream is over. You got a wife?"
"No, not even close."
"You'll like it here."
"Tell me about it." Rick walked back five yards and straightened his passes. "Well, it's a very different culture. The women are beautiful, but much more reserved. It's a very chauvinistic society. The men don't marry until they're thirty; they live at home with their mothers, who wait on them hand and foot, and when they get married, they expect their wives to do the same. The women are reluctant to get married. They need to work, so the women are having fewer kids. The birthrate here is declining rapidly."
"I wasn't exactly thinking about marriage and birthrates, Sly. I'm more curious about the nighdife, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, lots of girls, and pretty ones, but the language thing is a problem."
"What about the cheerleaders?"
"What about them?"
"Are they cute, easy, available?"
"I wouldn't know. We don't have any." Rick held the ball, froze, looked hard at his tailback. "No cheerleaders?"
"Nope."
"But my agent..." He stopped before he embarrassed himself. So his agent had promised something that couldn't happen. What else was new? Sly was laughing, a loud infectious laugh that said, "Joke's on you, clown."
"You came over here for the cheerleaders?" he said, high pitched and mocking. Rick fired a bullet, which Sly easily caught with his fingertips, then kept laughing. "Sounds like my agent. Tells the truth about half the time." Rick finally laughed at himself as he backed up another five yards. "What's the game like here?" he asked. "Absolutely delightful, because they can't catch me. I averaged two hundred yards a game last year. You'll have a great time, if you can remember to throw to our players instead of the other team."
"Cheap shot." Rick zipped another bullet; again it was easily caught by Sly, who in return lobbed it back. The unwritten rule held firm--never throw a hard pass to a quarterback. Jogging up from the locker room was the other black Panther, Trey Colby, a tall, gangly kid too skinny for football. He had an easy smile, and in less than a minute said to Rick, "Are you okay, man?"
"Doing well, thanks."
"I mean, the last time I saw you, you were on a stretcher and--"
"I'm fine, Trey. Let's talk about something else."
Sly was enjoying the moment. "He'd rather not talk about it.
I've already tried," he said. For an hour they played catch and talked about players they knew back home.
Chapter 9
The Italians were in a festive mood. For the first practice they arrived early and loud. They bickered over who got which locker, complained about the wall decor, yelled at the equipment boy for a multitude of offenses, and vowed all manner of revenge against Bergamo. They continually insulted and ridiculed one another as they slowly changed into their practice shorts and jerseys. The locker room was cramped and rowdy and felt more like a fraternity house. Rick absorbed it all. There were about forty of them, ranging from kids who looked like teenagers to a few aging warriors pushing forty. There were some solid bodies; in fact most seemed to be in excellent shape. Sly said they lifted in the off-season and pushed each other in the weight room. But the contrasts were startling, and Rick, as much as he tried not to, couldn't avoid a few silent comparisons. First, with the exception of Sly and Trey, all faces were white. Every NFL team he'd "visited" along the way had been at least 70 percent black. Even at Iowa, hell, even in Canada, the teams were 50-50. And though there were some big boys in the room, there were no 300-pounders. The Browns had eight players at 310 or more, and only two under 200. A few of the Panthers would stretch to hit 175. Trey said they were excited about their new quarterback, but cautious about approaching him. To help matters, Judge Franco assumed a position on Rick's right, and Nino took charge of the left.