Playing for Pizza

Chapter 30

Last-minute wrangling with the cable company pushed the kickoff back to eight o’clock Saturday night. Televising the game live, even on a lesser channel, was important for the league and the sport, and a Super Bowl under the lights meant a bigger gate and a rowdier crowd. By late afternoon, parking lots around the stadium were filled as football diehards celebrated the Italian version of the tailgate. Buses of fans arrived from Parma and Bergamo. Banners were stretched along the edges of the field, soccer style. A miniature hot air balloon hovered over the field. As always, it was the biggest day of the year for football americano, and its small but loyal base of fans arrived in Milan for the final game.

The site was a beautifully maintained little arena used by a local soccer league. For the occasion, the nets were gone and the field was meticulously striped, even down to the sideline hash marks. One end zone was painted black and white with the word “Parma” in the center. A hundred (exactly) yards away, the Bergamo end zone was gold and black.

There were pregame speeches by league officials and introductions of former greats, a ceremonial coin toss, won by the Lions, and a prolonged announcing of the starting lineups. When the teams finally lined up for the opening kick, both sidelines were hopping with nerves and the crowd was crazy.

Even Rick, the cool, unflustered quarterback, was stomping the sideline, slapping shoulder pads, and screaming for blood. This was football the way it was meant to be.

Bergamo ran three plays and punted. The Panthers did not have another “Kill Maschi” play ready. Maschi wasn’t that stupid. In fact, the more tape Rick watched, the more he admired and feared the middle linebacker. He could wreck an offense, just like the great L.T. On first down, Fabrizio was double-teamed by the two Americans — McGregor and The Professor — just as Rick and Sam expected. A wise move for Bergamo, and the beginning of a rough day for Rick and the offense. He called a sideline route. Fabrizio caught the ball and was shoved out by The Professor, then nailed in the back by McGregor. But there were no flags. Rick jumped an official while Nino and Karl the Dane went after McGregor. Sam charged onto the field, screaming and cursing in Italian, and promptly drew a personal foul. The refs managed to prevent a brawl, but the brouhaha went on for minutes. Fabrizio was okay and limped back to the huddle. On a second and twenty, Rick pitched wide to Giancarlo, and Maschi slapped his ankles together at the line. Between plays, Rick continued to bitch at the referee while Sam chewed on the back judge.

On third and long, Rick decided to give the ball to Franco and perhaps survive the traditional first-quarter fumble. Franco and Maschi collided hard, for old times’ sake, and the play gained a couple with no change of possession.

The thirty-five points they had put up against Bergamo a month earlier suddenly looked like a miracle.

The teams swapped punts as the defenses dominated. Fabrizio was smothered and, at 175 pounds, was getting shoved around on every play. Claudio dropped two short passes that were thrown much too hard.

The first quarter ended with no score, and the crowd settled into a pretty dull game. Perhaps dull to watch, but along the line of scrimmage the hitting was ferocious. Every play was the last of the season, and no one yielded an inch. On a bobbled snap, Rick raced around the right side, hoping to make it out of bounds, when Maschi appeared from thin air and nailed him, helmet to helmet. Rick jumped to his feet, no big deal, but on the sideline he rubbed his temples and tried to shake off the dust.

“You okay?” Sam growled as he walked by.

“Great.”

“Then do something.”

“Right.”

But nothing worked. As they had feared, Fabrizio was neutralized, thus so was the passing game. And Maschi could not be controlled. He was too strong up the middle, and too quick on the sweeps. He looked much better on the field than on the film. Each offense ground out a few first downs, but neither approached the red zone. The punting teams were growing tired.

With thirty seconds to go before the half, the Bergamo kicker nailed a forty-two-yarder, and the Lions took a 3–0 lead into the locker room.

Charley Cray — twenty pounds lighter, his jaw still wired, gaunt with flesh sagging from his chin and cheeks — hid in the crowd and during the half pecked out some notes on his laptop:

There was no yelling in the locker room. Sam praised the defense for a superb effort. Keep it up. We’ll figure out a way to score.

The coaches left and the players spoke. Nino, first as always, in passionate praise of the heroic defensive efforts, then an exhortation to the offense to get some points. This is our moment, he said. Some of us may never be here again. Dig deep. Gut check. He wiped away tears when he was finished.

Tommy stood and proclaimed his love for everyone in the room. This was his last game, he said, and he desperately wanted to retire as a champion.

Pietro walked to the center. This was not his last game, but he would be damned if his career would be determined by the boys from Bergamo. He boasted loudly that they would not score in the second half.

As Franco was about to wrap things up, Rick stood beside him and raised his hand. With Franco translating, he said, “Win or lose, I thank you for allowing me to play on your team this season.” Halt. Translation. The room was still. His teammates hung on every word.

“Win or lose, I am proud to be a Panther, one of you. Thank you for accepting me.”

Translation.

“Win or lose, I consider all of you to be not just my friends but my brothers.”

Translation. Some appeared ready to cry.

“I’ve had more fun here than in the other NFL. And we are not going to lose this game.” When he was finished, Franco bear-hugged him and the team cheered heartily. They clapped and slapped him on the back.

Franco, eloquent as always, dwelled on history. No Parma team had ever won the Super Bowl, and the next hour would be their finest hour. They had thrashed Bergamo four weeks earlier, broken the mighty streak, sent them home in disgrace, and they could certainly beat them again.

For Coach Russo and his quarterback, the first half had been perfect. Basic football — far removed from the complexities of the major college and pro games — can often be plotted like an ancient battle. A steady attack on one front can set the stage for a surprise on another. The same monotonous movements can lull the opponent to sleep. Early on, they had conceded the passing game. They had not been creative with the run. Bergamo had stopped everything, and was confident there was nothing left.

On the second play of the second half, Rick faked left to Franco on a dive, faked a pitch left to Giancarlo, then sprinted right on a naked bootleg. Maschi, always quick to the ball, was far to the left and badly out of position. Rick ran hard for twenty-two yards and stepped out of bounds to avoid McGregor.

Sam met him as he jogged back to the huddle. “That’ll work. Save it for later.”

Three plays later, the Panthers punted again. Pietro and Silvio sprinted onto the field, looking for someone to maul. They stuffed the run three times. More punts filled the air as the third quarter ticked away and both teams slugged it out at midfield, much like two lumbering heavyweights in the center of the ring, taking shots, throwing leather, and never backing down.

Early in the fourth, the Lions inched the ball all the way to the 19, their deepest penetration of the game, and on a fourth and five their kicker drilled an easy field goal.

Down six points with ten minutes to go, the Panthers’ sideline rose to another level of panic and frenzy. Their fans followed along, and the atmosphere was electric.

“Showtime,” Rick said to Sam as they watched the kickoff.

“Yep. Don’t get hurt.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been knocked out by better men.”

On first down, Rick pitched left to Giancarlo for five yards. On second, he faked the same pitch, kept the ball, and dashed wide around the right side, free and clear for twenty yards until McGregor came in low and hard. Rick lowered his head and met him in a sickening collision. Both scrambled to their feet; there was no time for cobwebs or rubbery knees.

Giancarlo swept right and was decked by Maschi. Rick bootlegged left and picked up fifteen before McGregor hit his knees. The only strategy to offset quickness is misdirection, and the offense suddenly had a different look. Backs in motion, three receivers on one side, two tight ends, new plays, and new formations. Under center, in the wishbone, Rick faked to Franco, turned upfield, then flipped to Giancarlo just as Maschi hit him low. A perfect option, and Giancarlo sprinted for eleven yards. From the shotgun, another naked bootleg and Rick ran out of bounds at the 18.

Maschi was guessing now, not simply reacting. He had more to think about. McGregor and The Professor had backed off Fabrizio a step or two, suddenly under pressure to stop the scrambling quarterback. Seven tough plays moved the ball to the 3, and on fourth and goal Filippo kicked an easy field goal. Bergamo led 6–3 with six minutes to go.

Alex Olivetto huddled with the defense before the kickoff. He cursed and slapped helmets and had a fine time firing up the troops. Perhaps a bit too much. On second down, Pietro speared the quarterback and gave up fifteen precious yards on the personal foul. The drive stalled at midfield, and a great punt stopped rolling at the 5.

Ninety-five yards to go in three minutes. Rick avoided Sam as he trotted onto the field. He saw fear in the huddle, and he told them to relax, no fumbles, no penalties, just hit hard and they would soon be in the end zone. No translation was needed.

Maschi taunted him as they came to the line. “You can do it, Goat. Throw me a pass.” Instead, he pitched to Giancarlo, who clutched the ball tightly and hopped for five yards. On second down he rolled right, looked for Fabrizio across the middle, saw too many gold jerseys, and tucked the ball. Franco, bless his soul, broke from the pile and put a nasty block on Maschi. Rick picked up fourteen yards and got out of bounds. On first down he rolled right again, tucked the ball, and sprinted upfield. Fabrizio was loafing on a curl, useless as he had been throughout the game, and when Rick scrambled, he took off, sprinting at full throttle with McGregor and The Professor far behind. Rick stopped just inches from the line. Maschi was slashing in for the kill.

It was that moment in every game when the quarterback, unprotected and vulnerable, sees an open receiver and has a split second to make a choice. Throw the pass and risk a bruising tackle, or yank the ball down and run for safety.

Rick planted his feet and threw the ball as far as he possibly could. After the launch, Maschi’s helmet landed under his chin and almost broke his jaw. The pass was a tight spiral, so high and so long that the crowd gasped in disbelief. It had the hang time of a perfect punt, a few long seconds in which everyone froze.

Everyone except Fabrizio, who was flying and trying to find the ball. At first, it was impossible to gauge where it might land, but they had practiced this Hail Mary a hundred times. “Just get to the end zone,” Rick always said. “The ball will be there.” As it began its descent, Fabrizio realized more speed was needed. He pumped even harder, his feet barely touching the grass. At the five-yard line, he left the ground, much like an Olympic long jumper, and sailed through the air, arms fully extended, fingers grasping for the ball. He touched leather at the goal line, hit the ground hard, bounced up like an acrobat, and waved the ball for the world to see.

And everyone saw it but Rick, who was on all fours, rocking back and forth, trying to remember who he was. As a loud roar erupted, Franco picked him up and dragged him to the sideline, where his teammates mobbed him. Rick managed to stay on his feet, but not without assistance.

Sam figured he was dead, but was too stunned by the catch to react to his quarterback.

Flags flew as the celebration spilled onto the field. The officials finally restored order and marked off fifteen yards, then Filippo crushed an extra point that would have been good from midfield.

Charley Cray would write:

Filippo stuck his supercharged foot into the kick-off, and it soared over the end zone. On a third and long, old Tommy spun around the left tackle and sacked the quarterback. His last play as a Panther was his greatest.

On fourth and even longer, the Bergamo quarterback bobbled a bad shotgun snap and finally fell on the ball at the five-yard line. The Panthers’ sideline erupted again, and their fans managed to scream even louder.

With fifty seconds on the clock, and with Rick on the bench sniffing ammonia, Alberto took over the offense and simply fell on the ball twice. Time expired, and the Panthers of Parma had their first Super Bowl trophy.