Franco then addressed the team in the locker room before practice and confirmed the rumors. Fabrizio was indeed getting paid. This didn't sit well with most of the Panthers, though no one voiced disapproval. A few were indifferent--if the kid can get some money, why not? It will take time, Sam said to Rick. Winning changes everything. If we win the Super Bowl, they'll worship Fabrizio. Sheets of paper had been quietly passed around the locker room. Rick had hoped the poison from Charley Cray might somehow remain in the United States, but he was wrong, thanks to the Internet. The story had been seen and copied and was now being read by his teammates. At Rick's request, Sam addressed the matter and told the team to ignore it. Just the sloppy work of a sleazy American reporter looking for a headline. But it was unsettling for the players. They loved football and played the game for fun, so why should they be ridiculed? Most, though, were more concerned about their quarterback. It was unfair to run him out of the league and out of the country, but to follow him to Parma seemed especially cruel. "I'm sorry, Rick," Pietro said as they filed out of the locker room.
Of the two teams in Rome, the Lazio Marines were usually the weaker. They had lost their first three games by an average of twenty points and had shown little spunk in doing so. The Panthers were hungry for a win, and so the five-hour bus ride south was not unpleasant at all. It was the last Sunday in April, overcast and cool, perfect for a football game.
The field, somewhere in the vast outskirts of the ancient city, miles and centuries away from the Colosseum and other splendid ruins, gave little evidence of being used for anything other than practice in the rain. The turf was thin and patchy, with hard sections of gray dirt. The yard lines had been striped by someone either drunk or crippled. Two sections of crooked bleachers held maybe two hundred fans. Fabrizio earned his April salary in the first quarter. Lazio had not seen him on tape, had no idea who he was, and by the time they scrambled their secondary, he had caught three long passes and the Panthers were up 21-0. With such a lead, Sam began blitzing on every play, and the Marines' offense crumbled. Their quarterback, an Italian, felt the pressure before each snap. Working solely from the shotgun, and with superb protection, Rick read the coverage, called Fabrizio's route by hand signals, then settled comfortably into the pocket and waited for the kid to jiggle and juke and pop wide open. It was target practice. By halftime, the Panthers were up 38-0, and life was suddenly good again. They laughed and played in the tiny locker room and completely ignored Sam when he tried to complain about something. By the fourth quarter, Alberto was running the offense, and Franco was thundering down the field. All forty players got their uniforms caked with dirt. On the bus back home they resumed their verbal assaults on the Bergamo Lions. As the beer flowed and the drinking songs grew louder, the mighty Panthers were downright cocky in their predictions of their first Super Bowl.
Charley Cray had been in the bleachers, sitting among the Lazio faithful, watching his second game offootball americano. His coverage of last week's game against Bologna had been so well received in Cleveland that his editor asked him to stay on for a week and do it again. Tough work, but someone had to do it. He'd spent five wonderful days in Rome at the paper's expense, and now he needed to justify his little vacation with another takedown of his favorite goat.
His story read:
MORE ROMAN RUINS (Rome, Italy). Behind the surprisingly accurate arm of Rick Dockery, the ferocious Panthers of Parma rallied from a two-game losing streak and stomped the living daylights out of the winless Marines of Lazio here today in another crucial matchup in Italy's version of the NFL. The final: 62--12. Playing on what appeared to be a reclaimed gravel pit, and before 261 nonpaying fans, the Panthers and Dockery racked up almost 400 yards of passing in the first half alone. Skillfully picking apart a defensive secondary that was slow, confused, and thoroughly afraid to hit, Mr. Dockery strutted his stuff with his rifle arm and the marvelous moves of a gifted receiver, Fabrizio Bonozzi. At least twice, Mr. Bonozzi faked so deftly that the deep safety lost a shoe. Such is the level of play here in NFL Italy. By the third quarter, Mr. Bonozzi appeared to be exhausted from scoring so many long touchdowns. Six, to be exact. And the great Dockery appeared to have a sore arm from throwing so much. Browns fans will be astonished to learn that, for the second week in a row, Dockery failed to throw the ball to the other team. Amazing, isn't it? But I swear. I saw it all. With the win, the Panthers are back in the hunt for the Italian championship. Not that anyone here in Italy really cares.
Browns fans can only thank God that such leagues exist. They allow riffraff like Rick Dockery to play the game far away from where it matters. Why, oh why, didn't Dockery discover this league a year ago? I almost weep when I ponder this painful question. Ciao.
Chapter 19
The bus rolled into the parking lot at Stadio Lanfranchi a few minutes after three on Monday morning. Most of the players were due at work in a few hours. Sam yelled to wake up everyone, then dismissed the team with a week off. Next weekend was a bye. They stumbled off the bus, unpacked their gear, and headed home. Rick gave a ride to Alberto, then drove through downtown Parma without seeing another car. He parked at a curb three blocks from his apartment. Twelve hours later he awoke to the buzzing of his cell phone. It was Arnie, abrupt as always. "Deja vu, pal. Have you seen the Cleveland Post?"
"No. Thank God we don't get it over here."
"Go online, check it out. That worm was in Rome yesterday."
"No."
"Afraid so."
"Another story?"
"Oh yes, and just as nasty." Rick rubbed his hair and tried to remember the crowd at Lazio. A very small crowd, scattered throughout some old bleachers. No, he didn't take the time to study faces, and, anyway, he had no idea what Charley Cray looked like. "Okay, I'll read it."
"Sorry, Rick. This is really uncalled for. If I thought it would help, I'd call the paper and raise hell. But they're having way too much fun. It's best to ignore it."
"If he shows up in Parma again, I'll break his neck. I'm in tight with a judge."
"Atta boy. Later." Rick found a diet soda, took a quick cool shower, then turned on his computer. Twenty minutes later he was zipping through traffic in his Punto, shifting effortlessly, smoothly, like a real Italian. Trey's apartment was just south of the center, on the second floor of a semimodern building designed to cram a lot of people into as few square meters as possible. Trey was on the sofa with his leg propped up on pillows. The small den resembled a landfill--dirty dishes, empty pizza cartons, a few beer and soda cans. The TV was running old Wheel of Fortune shows, and a stereo in the bedroom was playing old Motown. "Brought you a sandwich," Rick said, placing a bag on the cluttered coffee table. Trey waved the remote and the TV went mute. "Thanks."
"How's the leg?"
"Great," he said with a hard frown. A nurse stopped by three times a day to tend to his needs and bring the painkillers. He had been very uncomfortable and complained about the pain. "How'd we do?"
"Easy game, beat 'em by fifty points." Rick settled himself into a chair and tried to ignore the debris. "So you didn't miss me."
"Lazio is not very good." The easy smile and carefree attitude were gone, replaced by a sour mood and truckload of self-pity. That's what a compound fracture will do to a young athlete. The career, however Trey defined it, was over, and the next phase of life was beginning. Like most young athletes, Trey had given little thought to the next step. When you're twenty-six years old, you'll play forever. "Is the nurse taking care of you?" Rick asked. "She's good. I get a new cast Wednesday, and leave Thursday. I need to get home. I'm going crazy here."