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, diat 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.