The snaps were slow and soft, and Rick knew immediately that hours were needed to improve Nino's technique. A full step would be wasted waiting on the ball while tailbacks broke for their holes and receivers ran to their spots. On the third snap, Rick's fingers grazed Nino's zone ever so slightly, and evidently such a soft touch was far worse than an outright slap with the hands. Both cheeks arched painfully at the delicate contact. Rick glanced at Sam and quickly said, "Can you tell him to relax his ass?" Sam turned away to keep from laughing. "Is problem?" Nino asked. "Never mind," Rick said. Sam blew his whistle, called a play in English, then Italian. It was a simple tailback off-tackle to the right, Sly taking the handoff with Franco plowing through the hole first like a bulldozer. "The cadence?" Rick asked as the linemen settled into place. "Down, set, hut," Sam replied. "In English." Nino, who evidently held the unofficial position of offensive line coach, inspected the guards and tackles before squatting over the ball and preparing his glutes. Rick touched them as he yelled, "Down!" They flinched and Rick hurriedly added, "Set," then, "Hut." Franco grunted like a bear as he lunged from his three- point stance and lurched to the right. The line moved forward, bodies jolting upright, voices growling as if the hated Bergamo Lions were over there, and Rick waited an eternity for the ball to arrive from his center. He was half a step back when he finally grabbed it, turned, and thrust it at Sly, who had already run up the back of Franco.
Sam blew his whistle, yelled something in Italian, then, "Do it again." And again and again.
After ten snaps, Alberto stepped in to run the offense, and Rick found some water. He sat on his helmet and was soon drifting away to other teams, other fields. The drudgery of practice was the same everywhere, he decided. From Iowa to Canada to Parma and all those stops in between, the worst part of the game, in whatever language, was the numbing tedium of physical conditioning and the repetition of running play after play. It was late when Alex assumed authority again, and with his quick shrill whistle the forty-yard sprints began with a fury. The jokes and insults were gone. No one laughed or yelled as they ran down the field, slower with each whistle, but not so slow that Alex might get upset. After each sprint, they trotted back to the goal line, rested for a few seconds, then off again. Rick vowed to have a serious little chat with the head coach tomorrow. Real quarterbacks do not run wind sprints, he kept telling himself as he urged himself to get sick.
The Panthers had a delightful post-practice ritual--a late dinner of pizza and beer at Polipo's, a small restaurant on Via La Spezia on the edge of the city. By 11:30, most of the team had arrived, fresh from showers and anxious to officially kick off another season. Gianni, the owner, put them in a back corner so they wouldn't be too disruptive. They gathered around two long tables and all talked at once. Just minutes after they settled in, two waiters brought pitchers of beer and mugs, quickly followed by more waiters with the largest pizzas Rick had ever seen. He was at one end, with Sam on one side and Sly on the other. Nino rose to make a toast, first in rapid Italian, and everyone looked at Rick, then in slightly slower English. Welcome to our little town, Mr. Reek, we hope you find a home here and bring us a Super Bowl. An odd round of hollering followed, and they drained their glasses. Sam explained that Signor Bruncardo picked up the tab for these rather boisterous dinners, and treated the team at least once a week after practice. Pizza and pasta, some of the best spaghetti in town, without all the fuss and ceremony that Nino so fondly dispensed at Montana's. Cheap food, but delicious. Judge Franco stood with a fresh glass and launched into a windy speech about something.
"More of the same," Sam mumbled in English. "A toast to a great season, brotherhood, no injuries, et cetera. And of course to the great new quarterback." It was obvious Franco would not allow himself to be outdone by Nino. After they drank and cheered some more, Sam said, "Those two jockey for attention. They're permanent co- captains."
"Picked by the team?" "I suppose, but I've never seen an election, and this is my sixth season. It's their team, basically. They keep the boys motivated in the off-season. They're always recruiting new locals to take up the sport, especially ex--soccer players who've lost a step. They'll convert a rugby player every now and then. They yell and scream before the game, and some of their halftime tongue- lashings are beautiful. In the heat of battle, you want them in your foxhole." The beer flowed and the pizza disappeared. Nino called for order and introduced two new members of the team. Karl was a Danish math professor who'd settled in Parma with his Italian wife and taught at the university. He wasn't sure what position he might play but was anxious to select one. Pietro was a baby-faced fireplug, short and thick, a linebacker. Rick had noticed his quick feet in practice.
Franco led them in some mournful chant that not even Sam understood, then they burst into laughter and grabbed the beer pitchers. Waves of clamorous Italian rattled around the room, and after a few beers Rick was content to just sit and absorb the scene. He was an extra in a foreign film.
Shortly before midnight, Rick plugged in his laptop and e-mailed Arnie:
In Parma, arrived late yesterday, first practice today--food and wine are worth the visit--no cheerleaders Arnie, you promised me beautiful cheerleaders--no agents here so you'd hate the place--no golf anywhere, yet--any word from Tiffany and her lawyers--I remember Jason Cosgrove talking about her in the shower, with details, and he made eight mill last year--sic the lawyers on him--I ain't the daddy. Even the little kids speak Italian over here--why am I in Parma?-- could be worse I guess, could be in Cleveland. Later, RD
While Rick was asleep, Arnie returned the message:
Rick: Great to hear from you, delighted you're there and enjoying yourself. Treat it as an adventure. Not much happening here. No word from the lawyers, I'll suggest Cosgrove as the sperm donor. She's seven months along now. I know you hate the arena game but a GM called today and said he might get you fifty grand for next season. I said no. What about it?
Chapter 10
Waking at such a dreadful hour could only be accomplished with the aid of an alarm clock set at high volume. The steady, piercing beep penetrated the darkness and finally found its mark. Rick, who seldom used an alarm and had developed the pleasant routine of waking whenever his body was tired of sleep, flopped around under the sheets until he found an off switch. In the shock of the moment he thought of Officer Romo and was horrified of another non-arrest. Then he shook off the cobwebs and wild thoughts. As his heart rate began a gradual decline and he propped himself up on the pillows, he finally remembered why he'd set the alarm in the first place. He had a plan, and darkness was a crucial element. Since his off-season regimen had been nothing but golf, both legs felt broken to bits and his abs ached as if he'd been punched repeatedly. His arms, shoulders, back, even ankles and toes, were sore to the touch. He cursed Alex and Sam and the entire Panther organization, if it could be called that. He cursed football, and Arnie, and, beginning with the Browns, every team in reverse order that had given him the pink slip. As he conjured up vile thoughts about the game, he tried carefully to stretch a muscle or two, but the muscles were simply too sore.
Fortunately, he had laid off the beer at Polipo's, or at least he had stopped at a reasonable limit. His head was clearing with no signs of a hangover. If he could hurry and complete his mission as planned, he might be back under the covers in an hour or so. He passed on a shower--the pressure was startlingly weak and the hot water only passably lukewarm--and, forcing each movement with a grim determination, was outside on the street in less than ten minutes.