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 wresded 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 warmups 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'U 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 al ready 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 dose 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 con tent 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.