Playing for Pizza

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. “Déjà 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.”

They watched the silent TV screen for a long time. Rick had stopped by daily since Trey left the hospital, and the tiny apartment was growing smaller. Maybe it was the trash piling up, or the unwashed laundry, or the windows closed tight and covered. Maybe it was just Trey sinking further into his gloominess. Rick was happy to hear he would be leaving so soon.

“I never got hurt on defense,” Trey said, staring at the TV. “I’m a defensive back, never got hurt. Then you put me on offense, and here I am.” He tapped the cast hard for dramatic effect.

“You’re blaming me for your injury?”

“I never got hurt on defense.”

“That’s a bunch of crap. You saying only offensive players get hurt?”

“I’m just talking about me.”

Rick was bristling and ready to bark, but he took a breath, swallowed hard, looked at the cast, then let it pass. After a few minutes, he said, “Let’s go to Polipo’s for pizza tonight?”

“No.”

“Would you like for me to bring you a pizza?”

“No.”

“A sandwich, a steak, anything?”

“No.” And with that, Trey lifted the remote, punched a button, and a happy little housewife purchased a vowel.

Rick eased from the chair and quietly left the apartment.

He sat in the late-afternoon sunshine at an outdoor table and drank a Peroni from a frosty mug. He puffed on a Cuban cigar and watched the ladies walk by. He felt very alone and wondered what on earth he might do for an entire week to keep himself occupied.

Arnie called again, this time with some excitement in his voice. “The Rat is back,” he announced triumphantly. “Got hired yesterday by Saskatchewan, head coach. First call he made was to me. He wants you, Rick, right now.”

“Saskatchewan?”

“You got it. Eighty grand.”

“I thought Rat hung it up years ago.”

“He did, moved to a farm in Kentucky, shoveled horse shit for a few years, got bored. Saskatchewan fired everybody last week, and they’ve coaxed Rat out of retirement.”

Rat Mullins had been hired by more pro teams than Rick. Twenty years earlier he had created a wacky machine-gun offense that passed on every play and sent waves of receivers racing in all directions. He became notorious, for a spell, but over the years fell out of favor when his teams couldn’t win. He had been the offensive coordinator for Toronto when Rick played there, and the two had been close. If Rat had been the head coach, Rick would’ve started every game and thrown fifty times.

“Saskatchewan,” Rick mumbled as he flashed back to the city of Regina and the vast wheat plains around it. “How far is that from Cleveland?”

“A million miles. I’ll buy you an atlas. Look, they draw fifty thousand a game, Rick. It’s great football, and they’re offering eighty grand. Right now.”

“I don’t know,” Rick said.

“Don’t be silly, kid. I’ll have it up to a hundred by the time you get here.”

“I can’t just walk away, Arnie, come on.”

“Of course you can.”

“No.”

“Yes. It’s a no-brainer. This is your comeback. It starts right now.”

“I have a contract here, Arnie.”

“Listen to me, kid. Think about your career. You’re twenty-eight years old, and this opportunity won’t come again. Rat wants you in the pocket with that great arm of yours firing bullets all over Canada. It’s beautiful.”

Rick chugged his beer and wiped his mouth.

Arnie was on a roll. “Pack your bags, drive to the train station, park the car, leave the keys on the seat, and say adios. What’re they gonna do, sue you?”

“It’s not right.”

“Think about yourself, Rick.”

“I am.”

“I’ll call you in two hours.”

Rick was watching television when Arnie called again. “They’re at ninety grand, kid, and they need an answer.”

“Has it stopped snowing in Saskatchewan?”

“Sure, it’s beautiful. First game’s in six weeks. The mighty Roughriders, played for the Grey Cup last year, remember? Great organization and they’re ready to roll, pal. Rat’s standing on his head to get you there.”

“Let me sleep on it.”

“You’re thinking too much, kid. This ain’t complicated.”

“Let me sleep on it.”