“Judge,” the first lady said.
Both doors suddenly flew open and Rick came face-to-face with the judge. “Reek Dockery!” he shouted, thrusting a right hand forward while grabbing a shoulder with his left, as though they had not seen each other in years. Indeed they had not.
“I am Giuseppe Lazzarino, a Panther. I am fullback.” He pumped and squeezed and flashed his large white teeth.
“Nice to meet you,” Rick said, trying to inch backward.
“Welcome to Parma, my friend,” Lazzarino said. “Please come in.” He was already pulling on Rick’s right hand as he continued to shake it. Once inside the large office, he released Rick, closed both doors, and said again, “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” Rick said, feeling slightly assaulted. “Are you a judge?”
“Call me Franco,” he demanded, waving at a leather sofa in one corner. It was evident that Franco was too young to be a seasoned judge and too old to be a useful fullback. His large round head was shaved slick; the only hair on his head was an odd thin patch on his chin. Mid-thirties, like Nino, but over six feet tall, solid and fit. He fell into a chair, pulled it close to Rick on the sofa, and said, “Yes, I am judge, but, more importantly, I am fullback. Franco is my nickname. Franco is my hero.”
Then Rick looked around, and understood. Franco was everywhere. A life-size cutout of Franco Harris running the ball during a very muddy game. A photo of Franco and other Steelers holding a Super Bowl trophy triumphantly over their heads. A framed white jersey, number 32, apparently signed by the great man himself. A small Franco Harris doll with an oversize head on the judge’s immense desk. And displayed prominently in the center of the Ego Wall, two large color photographs, one of Franco Harris in full Steeler game gear, minus the helmet, and the other of Franco the judge here, in a Panther uniform, no helmet, and wearing number 32 and trying his best to imitate his hero.
“I love Franco Harris, the greatest Italian football player,” Franco was saying, his eyes practically moist, his voice a bit gravelly. “Just look at him.” He waved his hands triumphantly around the office, which was practically a shrine to Franco Harris.
“Franco was Italian?” Rick asked slowly. Though never a Steelers fan, and too young to recall the glory days of Pittsburgh’s dynasty, Rick was nonetheless a fair student of the game. He was certain that Franco Harris was a black guy who played at Penn State, then led the Steelers to a number of Super Bowls back in the 1970s. He was dominant, a Pro Bowler, and later inducted into the Hall of Fame. Every football fan knew Franco Harris.
“His mother was Italian. His father was an American soldier. You like the Steelers? I love the Steelers.”
“Well, no, actually—”
“Why haven’t you played for the Steelers?”
“They haven’t called yet.”
Franco was on the edge of his seat, hyper with the presence of his new quarterback. “Let’s have coffee,” he said, jumping to his feet, and before Rick could answer, he was at the door, barking instructions to one of the girls. He was stylish — snug black suit, long pointed Italian loafers, size 14 at least.
“We really want a Super Bowl trophy here in Parma,” he said as he grabbed something from his desk. “Look.” He pointed the remote control to a flat-screen TV in a corner, and suddenly there was more Franco — pounding through the line as tacklers bounced off, leaping over the pile for a touchdown, stiff-arming a Cleveland Brown (yes!) and ripping off another touchdown, taking a handoff from Bradshaw, and bowling over two massive linemen. It was Franco’s greatest hits, long, punishing runs that were enjoyable to watch. The judge, thoroughly mesmerized, jerked and cut and pumped his fists with each great move.
How many times has he seen this? Rick asked himself.
The last play was the most famous — the Immaculate Reception — Franco’s inadvertent catch of a deflected pass and his miracle gallop to the end zone in a 1972 play-off game against Oakland. The play had created more debate, review, analysis, and fights than any in the history of the NFL, and the judge had memorized every frame.
The secretary arrived with the coffee, and Rick managed a bad “Grazie.”
Then it was back to the video. Part two was interesting but also a bit depressing. Franco the judge had added his own greatest hits, a few sluggish runs through and around linemen and linebackers even slower than himself. He beamed at Rick as they watched the Panthers in action, Rick’s first glimpse of his future.
“You like?” Franco asked.
“Nice,” Rick said, a word that seemed to satisfy many inquiries in Parma.
The final play was a screen pass that Franco took from an emaciated quarterback. He tucked the ball into his gut, bent over like an infantryman, and began looking for the first defender to hit. A couple bounced off, Franco spun free, kicked up his legs, and was off to the races. Two cornerbacks made halfhearted attempts to stick their helmets into his churning legs, but they bounced off like flies. Franco was soaring down the sideline, straining mightily in his best Franco Harris imitation.
“Is this in slow motion?” Rick asked, a half effort at humor.
Franco’s mouth fell open. He was wounded.
“Just kidding,” Rick said quickly. “A joke.”
Franco managed to fake a laugh. As he crossed the goal line, he spiked the ball, and the screen went blank.
“For seven years I play fullback,” Franco said as he resumed his perch on the edge of his seat. “And we never beat Bergamo. This year, with our great quarterback, we will win the Super Bowl. Yes?”
“Of course. So where did you learn football?”
“Some friends.”
They both took a sip of coffee and waited through an awkward pause. “What kind of judge are you?” Rick finally asked.
Franco rubbed his chin and considered this at great length, as though he’d never before thought about what he did. “I do lots of things,” he finally said with a smile. His phone rang on the desk, and though he didn’t answer it, he did look at his watch.
“We are so glad to have you here in Parma, my friend Rick. My quarterback.”
“Thanks.”
“I will see you at practice tonight.”
“Of course.”
Franco was on his feet now, his other duties calling him. Rick was not exactly expecting to be fined or otherwise punished, but Romo’s “complaints” needed to be addressed, didn’t they?
Evidently not. Franco swept Rick from his office with the mandatory embraces and handshakes and promises to help in any way, and Rick was soon in the hall, then down the stairs and into the alley, all alone, a free man.
Chapter 8
Sam passed the time in the empty café with the Panther playbook, a thick binder with a thousand Xs and Os, a hundred offensive plays, and a dozen defensive schemes. Thick, but not nearly as thick as the ones handed out by college teams, and a mere memo compared with the tomes used in the NFL. And too thick, according to the Italians. It was often mumbled, in the tedium of a long chalkboard session, that there was little wonder soccer was so popular throughout the rest of the world. It was so easy to learn, to play, and to understand.
And these are just the basics, Sam was always tempted to say.
Rick arrived promptly at 11:30, and the café was still empty. Only a couple of Americans would arrange a lunch at such an odd hour. Lunch, but only salads and water.
Rick had showered and shaved and looked far less criminal. With great animation, he relayed the story of his encounter with Detective Romo, his “non-arrest,” and the meeting with Judge Franco. Sam was highly entertained and assured Rick that no other American had received such a special welcome from Franco. Sam had seen the video. Yes, Franco was as slow in the flesh as he was on the film, but he was a punishing blocker and would run through a brick wall, or at least give it his best shot.