"I've never heard of that before!"
"You guys are brilliant!" And so on. As the season progressed, Rick was impressed more and more by Sam's tongue-lashings. He, Rick, had been chewed out by many experts, and though Sam usually left him alone, he showed real talent when going after the others. And the fact that he could do it in two languages was awesome.
But the locker room rave had little effect. Quincy, with a twenty- minute rest and quick rubdown, picked up where he left off. Touchdown number five came on the Giants' first drive of the second half, and number six was a fifty-yard gallop a few minutes later. A heroic effort, but not quite enough. Whether it was old age (thirty- four), or too much pasta, or simply overuse, Quincy was finished. He stayed in the game until the end, but was too tired to save his team. In the fourth quarter, the Panthers' defense sensed his demise and came to life. When Pietro stuffed him on a third and two and flung him to the ground, the game was over. With Franco pounding the middle and Giancarlo bunny hopping around the ends, the Panthers tied it with ten minutes to go. A minute later they scored again when Karl the Dane scooped up a fumble and wobbled thirty yards for perhaps the ugliest touchdown in Italian history. Two tiny Giants rode his back like insects for the last ten yards.
For good measure, and to keep sharp, Rick and Fabrizio hooked up on a long post with three minutes on the clock. The final was 56- 41.
The locker room was far different after the game. They hugged and celebrated, and a few seemed on the verge of tears. For a team that only weeks earlier seemed listless and dead, they were suddenly close to a great season. Mighty Bergamo was next, but the Lions had to travel to Parma. Sam congratulated his players and gave them exactly one more hour to revel in the win. "Then shut if off and start thinking about Bergamo," he said. "Sixty-seven consecutive wins, eight straight Super Bowl titles. A team we have not beaten in ten years." Rick sat on the floor in a corner, his back to the wall, fiddling with his shoelaces and listening to Sam speak in Italian. Though he couldn't understand his coach, he knew exactly what he was saying. Bergamo this and Bergamo that. His teammates hung on every word, their anticipation already building. A slight wave of nervous energy swept over Rick, and he had to smile.
He was no longer a hired gun, a ringer brought in from the Wild West to run the offense and win games. He no longer dreamed of NFL glory and riches. Those dreams were behind him now, and fading fast. He was who he was, a Panther, and as he looked around the cramped and sweaty locker room, he was perfectly happy with himself.
Chapter 24
Such less beer was consumed Monday night during the film session. There were fewer wisecracks, insults, laughter. The mood wasn't somber, they were still quite proud of their road win the day before, but it was not the typical Monday night at the movies. Sam raced through the Bolzano highlights, then switched to a collage of Bergamo clips he and Rick had worked on all day. They agreed on the obvious--Bergamo was well coached, well financed, and well organized and had talent that was slightly above the rest of the league, at some positions, but certainly not across the board. Their Americans were: a slow quarterback from San Diego State, a strong safety who hit hard and would try to kill Fabrizio early in the game, and a cornerback who could shut down the outside running game but was rumored to have a pulled hamstring. Bergamo was the only team in the league with two of their three Americans on defense. Their key player, though, was not an American. The middle linebacker was an Italian named Maschi, a flamboyant showman with long hair and white shoes and a me-first attitude he'd copied from the NFL, where he happened to think he belonged. Quick and strong, Maschi had great instincts, loved to hit, the later the better, and was usually at the bottom of every pile. At 220 pounds, he was big enough to wreak havoc in Italy and could have played for most Division I schools in the United States. He wore number 56 and insisted on being called L.T. to mimic his idol, Lawrence Taylor.
Bergamo was strong defensively but not overly impressive with the ball. Against Bologna and Bolzano--all those killer bees--they trailed until the fourth quarter and could've easily lost both. Rick was convinced the Panthers were a better team, but Sam had been beaten by Bergamo so many times he refused to be confident, at least in private. After eight straight Super Bowl titles, the Bergamo Lions had achieved an aura of invincibility that was worth at least ten points a game. Sam replayed the tape and hammered away at Bergamo's weaknesses on offense. Their tailback was quick to the line but reluctant to lower his head and take a shot. They rarely passed until they had to, always on third down, primarily because they lacked a dependable receiver. The offensive line was big and fundamentally sound, but often too slow to pick up the blitz. When Sam finished, Franco addressed the team, and in superb lawyerly fashion gave a rousing, emotional appeal for a hard, dedicated week, one that would lead to a mighty victory. In closing, he suggested that they practice every night until Saturday. The idea was unanimously approved. Then Nino, not to be outdone, took the floor and began by announcing that to show the gravity of the moment, he had decided to stop smoking until after the game, after they had thrashed Bergamo. This was greeted warmly because, evidently, Nino had made such a commitment before and Nino, deprived of nicotine, was a frightening force on the field. Then he announced there would be a team dinner at Cafe Montana Saturday night, on the house. Carlo was already working on the menu. The Panthers were edgy with anticipation. Rick flashed back to the Davenport Central game, the biggest of the year for Davenport South. Starting on Monday, the school planned the entire week and the town talked of little else. By Friday afternoon, the players were so anxious some were nauseous and threw up hours before the game.
Rick doubted if any Panther would be so overcome with nerves, but it was certainly possible. They left the locker room with a solemn determination. This was their week. This was their year.
Thursday afternoon, Livvy arrived in all her splendor, and with a surprising amount of luggage. Rick had been at the field with
Fabrizio and Claudio, working relentlessly on precision routes and quick audibles, when he took a break and checked his cell phone. She was already on the train. As they drove from the station to his apartment, he learned that she was (1) finished with exams, (2) sick of her roommates, (3) thinking seriously of not returning to Florence for the final ten days of her semester abroad, (4) disgusted with her family, (5) not speaking to anyone in her family, not even her sister, a person she had feuded with since kindergarten and who was now way too involved in their parents' divorce, (6) in need of a place to crash for a few days, thus the luggage, (7) worried about her visa because she wanted to stay in Italy for some vague period of time, and (8) really ready to hop in the sack. She wasn't whining and she wasn't looking for sympathy; in fact, she covered her plethora of problems with a cool detachment that Rick found admirable. She needed someone, and she had fled to him.
He hauled the remarkably heavy bags up the three flights, and did so with ease and energy. Happy to do so. The apartment was too quiet, almost lifeless, and Rick had found himself spending more time away from it, walking the streets of Parma, drinking coffee and beer at the sidewalk cafes, browsing the meat markets and wine shops, even taking quick detours through ancient churches, anything to keep away from the numbing tedium of his empty apartment. And he was always alone. Sly and Trey had left him, and his e-mails to them were rarely returned. It was hardly worth the trouble. Sam kept busy most days, plus he was married and had a different life. Franco, his favorite teammate, was good for lunch occasionally but had a demanding job. All the Panthers worked; they had to. They could not afford to sleep until noon, spend a couple of hours in the gym, and roam around Parma, killing time and earning nothing.