Playing for Pizza

Chapter 24

Much 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 Café 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 cafés, 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.

Rick was not, however, in the market for a full-time live-in. That entailed complications and required a commitment that he had trouble even addressing. He had never lived with a woman, had not in fact lived with anyone since his days in Toronto, and he was not contemplating a full-time companion.

As she unpacked, he wondered, for the first time, exactly how long she planned to stay.

They postponed the lovemaking until after practice. It was to be a light workout, no pads, but still he preferred to have the full use of his legs and feet.

Livvy sat in the stands and read a paperback while the boys went through their drills and plans. There were a handful of other wives and girlfriends scattered about, even a few small children bouncing up and down the grandstand.

At 10:30 Thursday night, a city employee arrived and made his presence known to Sam. His job was to turn off the lights.

There were castles waiting. Rick first heard this news around 8:00 a.m., but managed to roll over and go back to sleep. Livvy threw on her jeans and went to find coffee. When she returned in thirty minutes, with two large cups of takeaway, she announced again that castles were waiting and she wanted to begin with one in the town of Fontanellato.

“It’s very early,” Rick said, taking a sip, sitting up in bed, trying to orient himself to such an odd hour.

“Have you been to Fontanellato?” she asked as she removed the jeans, picked up a guidebook with her notes, and returned to her side of the bed.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Have you left Parma since you got here?”

“Sure. We had a game in Milan, one in Rome, one in Bolzano.”

“No, Ricky, I’m talking about hopping in your little copper Fiat and sightseeing through the countryside.”

“No, why—”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about your new home?”

“I’ve learned not to get attached to new homes. They’re all temporary.”

“That’s nice. Look, I’m not lounging around this apartment all day, having sex every hour, and thinking about nothing but lunch and dinner.”

“Why not?”

“I’m doing a road trip. Either you’re driving or I’ll catch a bus. There’s too much to see. We’re not even finished with Parma yet.”

They left half an hour later and drove northwest in search of Fontanellato, a fifteenth-century castle Livvy was desperate to inspect. The day was warm and sunny. The windows were down. She wore a short denim skirt and a cotton blouse, and the wind rushed across everything nicely and kept him engaged. He groped her legs, and she pushed him away with one hand as she read a guidebook with the other.

“They make 120,000 tons of Parmesan cheese here every year,” she was saying as she looked at the countryside. “Right here, on these farms.”

“At least that much. These folks put it in their coffee.”

“Five hundred dairies, all in a tightly defined area around Parma. It’s regulated by law.”

“They make ice cream out of it.”

“And ten million Parma hams each year. That’s hard to believe.”

“Not if you live here. They put it on your table before you sit down. Why are we talking about food? You were in such a hurry we got no breakfast.”

She put her book down and announced, “I’m starving.”

“How about some cheese and ham?”

They were on a narrow road with little traffic and soon came to the village of Baganzola, where they found a bar with coffee and croissants. She was anxious to practice her Italian, and while it sounded proficient to Rick, the signora at the counter struggled. “A dialect,” Livvy said as they headed for the car.

The Rocca, or fortress, at Fontanellato had been built some five hundred years earlier, and it certainly looked impregnable. It was surrounded by a moat and anchored by four massive towers with wide openings for observation and weaponry. Inside, however, there was a marvelous palace with walls covered in art and remarkably decorated rooms. After fifteen minutes, Rick had seen enough, but his lady friend was just getting started.

When he finally got her back into the car, they continued north, at her direction, to the town of Soragna. It was situated on fertile plains on the left bank of the river Stirone and had been the site of many ancient battles, according to their car’s historian, who could not digest the details fast enough. As she rattled them off, Rick drifted away to the Bergamo Lions and especially Signor Maschi, the very agile middle linebacker who, in Rick’s opinion, was the key to the game. He thought of all the plays and schemes devised by brilliant coaches to neutralize a great middle linebacker. They rarely worked.

The castle at Soragna (still home to a real prince!) dated back only to the seventeenth century, and after a quick tour they found lunch at a small deli. Then onward, to San Secondo, famous nowadays for spalla, a boiled ham. The town’s castle, built in the fifteenth century as a fortress, played a role in many important battles. “Why did these people fight so much?” Rick asked at one point.

Livvy shot him a quick answer but had little interest in the wars. She was more attracted to the art, the furniture, the marble fireplaces, and so on. Rick sneaked away and took a nap under a tree.

They finished at Colorno, nicknamed the “little Versailles of the Po.” It was a majestic fortress that had been remodeled into a splendid home, complete with vast gardens and courtyards. When they arrived, Livvy was just as excited as she’d been seven hours earlier when they got to the first castle, one that Rick could barely remember. He gamely plodded on through the exhaustive tour, then finally quit.

“Meet me at the bar,” he said, and left her alone in a massive hallway, gawking at frescoes high above and lost in another world.

Rick balked on Saturday, and they argued briefly. It was their first dustup, and both found it amusing. It was over quickly, and neither seemed to hold a grudge, a promising sign.

She had in mind a road trip to the south, to Langhirano, through the wine country, with only a couple of important castles to examine. He had in mind a quiet day, off his feet, as he tried to focus more on Bergamo and less on her legs. They compromised on a plan to stay in town and finish off a couple of churches.

He was clear-eyed and rested, primarily because the team had decided to skip the Friday ritual of pizza and buckets of beer at Polipo’s. They had hustled through a quick workout in shorts, listened to more game planning from Sam, listened to yet another emotional speech, this one from Pietro, and finally quit at ten Friday night. They had practiced enough.

Saturday night they gathered at Café Montana for the pregame meal, a three-hour gastronomic fiesta with Nino on center stage and Carlo roaring in the kitchen. Signor Bruncardo was present and addressed his team. He thanked them for a thrilling season, one that would not, however, be complete unless they thrashed Bergamo tomorrow.

There were no women present — the little restaurant was packed with just the players — and this fact led to two raunchy poems and a final farewell, a profanity-laced ode composed by the lyrical Franco and delivered in a hysterical style.

Sam sent them home before eleven.