Chapter 18
Rick and Sam waited like expectant fathers at the end of a hallway on the second floor of the hospital. It was 11:30 Sunday night, and Trey had been in surgery since just after 8:00 p.m. The play was a thirty- yard pass at midfield, near the Panthers' bench. Sam heard the crack of the fibula. Rick did not. He did, however, see the blood and the bone fragment protruding through the sock. They said little as they killed time by reading magazines. Sam was of the opinion that they could still qualify for the playoffs if they won the remaining five games, a tough chore since Bergamo lay ahead. And Bolzano was strong again; they had just lost to Bergamo by two points. But winning seemed unlikely with so little offense left, and with no American in the secondary to stifle the passing game. It was more pleasant to ignore football and stare at magazines. A nurse called them and led them to the third floor to a semiprivate room where Trey was being arranged for the night. His left leg was covered in a massive plaster cast. Tubes ran from his arm and nose. "He'll sleep all night," another nurse said. She went on to explain that the doctor said everything had gone fine, no complications, a fairly routine compound fracture. She found a blanket and a pillow, and Rick settled into a vinyl chair next to the bed. Sam promised to hustle back early Monday morning to check on things. A curtain was pulled, and Rick was left alone with the last black Panther, a very sweet country kid from rural Mississippi who would now be shipped home to his mother like broken merchandise. Trey's right leg was uncovered, and Rick studied it. The ankle was very thin, much too thin to withstand the violence of SEC football. He was too skinny and had trouble keeping his weight up, though he had been voted third-team all-conference his senior year at Ole Miss.
What would he do now? What was Sly doing now? What would any of them do once they faced the reality that the game was over? The nurse eased in around one and turned down the lights. She handed Rick a small blue pill and said, "To sleep." Twenty minutes later he was knocked out as cold as Trey.
Sam brought coffee and croissants. They found two chairs in the hall and huddled over their breakfast. Trey had made some racket an hour earlier, enough to arouse the nurses. "Just had a quick meeting with Mr. Bruncardo," Sam was saying. "He likes to start the week with a seven o'clock ass chewing on Monday morning."
"And today's your day."
"Evidently. He doesn't make any money off the Panthers, but he certainly doesn't like to lose money either. Or games. A rather substantial ego."
"That's rare for an owner."
"He had a bad day. His minor-league soccer team lost. His volleyball team lost. And his beloved Panthers, with a real NFL quarterback, lost for the second time in a row. Plus, I think he's losing money on every team."
"Maybe he needs to stick to real estate, or whatever else he does."
"I didn't give him any advice. He wants to know about the rest of our season. And, he says he's not spending more money."
"It's very simple, Sam," Rick said, placing his coffee cup on the floor. "In the first half yesterday we scored four touchdowns with no sweat. Why? Because I had a receiver. With my arm and a good set of hands, we are unstoppable and we won't lose again. I guarantee we can score forty points every game, hell, every half."
"Your receiver is in there with a broken leg."
"True. Get Fabrizio. The kid is great. He's faster than Trey and has better hands."
"He wants money. He has an agent."
"A what!"
"You heard me. Got a call last week from some slimy lawyer here who says he represents the fabulous Fabrizio and they want a contract."
"Football agents here in Italy?"
"Afraid so." Rick scratched his unshaven face and pondered this disheartening news. "Has any Italian ever received money?"
"Rumor says some of the Bergamo boys are paid, but I'm not sure."
"How much does he want?"
"Two thousand euros a month."
"How much will he take?"
"Don't know. We didn't get that far."
"Let's negotiate, Sam. Without him, we're dead."
"Bruncardo ain't spending more money, Rick, listen to me. I suggested we haul in another American player and he went through the roof."
"Take it out of my salary."
"Don't be stupid."
"I'm serious. I'll chip in a thousand euros a month for four months to get Fabrizio." Sam sipped his coffee with a frown and studied the floor. "He walked off the field in Milan."
"Sure he did. He's a brat, okay, we all know that. But you and I are about to walk off the field five more times with our tails tucked if we don't find someone who can catch a football. And, Sam, he can't walk off if he's under contract."
"Don't bet on it."
"Pay him, and I'll bet he acts like a pro. I'll spend hours with him and we'll be so finely tuned no one can stop us. You get Fabrizio, and we won't lose again. I guarantee it." A nurse nodded in their direction, and they hurried in to see Trey. He was awake and very uncomfortable. He tried to smile and crack a joke, but he needed medication.
Arnie called late Monday afternoon. After a brief discussion of the merits of arena football, he moved on to the real reason for the call. He hated to pass along bad news, he said, but Rick should know about it. Check out the Cleveland Post online, Monday sports section. Pretty ugly stuff. Rick read it, let fly the appropriate expletives, then went for a long walk through the center of old Parma, a town he suddenly appreciated like never before. How many low points can one career have? Three months after he fled Cleveland, they were still eating his carcass. Judge Franco handled matters for the team. The negotiations took place at a sidewalk cafe along the edge of Piazza Garibaldi, with Rick and Sam seated nearby having a beer and dying of curiosity. The judge and Fabrizio's agent ordered coffee. Franco knew the agent and didn't like him at all. Two thousand euros was out of the question, Franco explained. Many of the Americans don't earn that much. And it was a dangerous precedent to start paying the Italians because, obviously, the team barely broke even anyway. More payroll and they might as well close shop.
Franco offered five hundred euros for three months--April, May, and June. If the team advanced to the Super Bowl in July, then a one- thousand-euro bonus. The agent smiled politely while dismissing the offer as much too low. Fabrizio is a great player and so on. Sam and Rick nursed their beers but couldn't hear a word. The Italians haggled back and forth in animated conversation--each seemingly shocked at the other's position, then both snickering over some minor point. The negotiations seemed to be polite but tense, then suddenly there was a handshake and Franco snapped his fingers at the waiter. Bring two glasses of champagne. Fabrizio would play for eight hundred euros a month. Signor Bruncardo appreciated Rick's offer to help with the contract, but he declined it. He was a man of his word, and he would not downsize a player's salary.
By practice time Wednesday night, the team knew the details of Fabrizio's return. To quell resentment, Sam arranged for Nino, Franco, and Pietro to meet with their star receiver beforehand and explain a few matters. Nino handled most of the discussion and promised, with no small amount of detail, to break bones if Fabrizio pulled another stunt and abandoned the team. Fabrizio happily agreed to everything, including the broken bones. There would be no problems. He was very excited about playing again and would do anything for his beloved Panthers.