“No, back in Denver. My wife’s a nurse, good job. She told me I got one more year of football, then the dream is over. You got a wife?”
“No, not even close.”
“You’ll like it here.”
“Tell me about it.” Rick walked back five yards and straightened his passes.
“Well, it’s a very different culture. The women are beautiful, but much more reserved. It’s a very chauvinistic society. The men don’t marry until they’re thirty; they live at home with their mothers, who wait on them hand and foot, and when they get married, they expect their wives to do the same. The women are reluctant to get married. They need to work, so the women are having fewer kids. The birthrate here is declining rapidly.”
“I wasn’t exactly thinking about marriage and birthrates, Sly. I’m more curious about the nightlife, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, lots of girls, and pretty ones, but the language thing is a problem.”
“What about the cheerleaders?”
“What about them?”
“Are they cute, easy, available?”
“I wouldn’t know. We don’t have any.”
Rick held the ball, froze, looked hard at his tailback. “No cheerleaders?”
“Nope.”
“But my agent...” He stopped before he embarrassed himself. So his agent had promised something that couldn’t happen. What else was new?
Sly was laughing, a loud infectious laugh that said, “Joke’s on you, clown.”
“You came over here for the cheerleaders?” he said, high-pitched and mocking.
Rick fired a bullet, which Sly easily caught with his fingertips, then kept laughing. “Sounds like my agent. Tells the truth about half the time.”
Rick finally laughed at himself as he backed up another five yards. “What’s the game like here?” he asked.
“Absolutely delightful, because they can’t catch me. I averaged two hundred yards a game last year. You’ll have a great time, if you can remember to throw to our players instead of the other team.”
“Cheap shot.” Rick zipped another bullet; again it was easily caught by Sly, who in return lobbed it back. The unwritten rule held firm — never throw a hard pass to a quarterback.
Jogging up from the locker room was the other black Panther, Trey Colby, a tall, gangly kid too skinny for football. He had an easy smile, and in less than a minute said to Rick, “Are you okay, man?”
“Doing well, thanks.”
“I mean, the last time I saw you, you were on a stretcher and—”
“I’m fine, Trey. Let’s talk about something else.”
Sly was enjoying the moment. “He’d rather not talk about it. I’ve already tried,” he said.
For an hour they played catch and talked about players they knew back home.
Chapter 9
The Italians were in a festive mood. For the first practice they arrived early and loud. They bickered over who got which locker, complained about the wall decor, yelled at the equipment boy for a multitude of offenses, and vowed all manner of revenge against Bergamo. They continually insulted and ridiculed one another as they slowly changed into their practice shorts and jerseys. The locker room was cramped and rowdy and felt more like a fraternity house.
Rick absorbed it all. There were about forty of them, ranging from kids who looked like teenagers to a few aging warriors pushing forty. There were some solid bodies; in fact most seemed to be in excellent shape. Sly said they lifted in the off-season and pushed each other in the weight room. But the contrasts were startling, and Rick, as much as he tried not to, couldn’t avoid a few silent comparisons. First, with the exception of Sly and Trey, all faces were white. Every NFL team he’d “visited” along the way had been at least 70 percent black. Even at Iowa, hell, even in Canada, the teams were 50–50. And though there were some big boys in the room, there were no 300-pounders. The Browns had eight players at 310 or more, and only two under 200. A few of the Panthers would stretch to hit 175.
Trey said they were excited about their new quarterback, but cautious about approaching him. To help matters, Judge Franco assumed a position on Rick’s right, and Nino took charge of the left. They made lengthy, even rambling introductions as the players took turns greeting Rick. Each little intro required at least two insults, often with Franco and Nino tag-teaming against their fellow Italian. Rick was embraced and gripped and fawned over until he was almost embarrassed. He was surprised by the amount of English used. Every Panther was learning the language at some level.
Sly and Trey were close by, laughing at him but also reuniting with their old teammates. Both had already vowed that this would be their last year in Italy. Few Americans returned for a third season.
Coach Russo called things to order and welcomed everyone back. His Italian was slow and thoughtful. The players were sprawled on the floor, on benches, in chairs, even in lockers. Though he kept trying not to, Rick couldn’t help but flash back. He remembered the locker room at Davenport South High School. It was at least four times larger than the one he was now in.
“You understand this?” he whispered to Sly.
“Sure,” he said with a grin.
“Then what’s he saying?”
“Says the team was unable to find a decent quarterback in the off-season so we’re screwed again.”
“Quiet!” Sam yelled at the Americans, and the Italians were amused.
If you only knew, thought Rick. He’d once seen a semi-famous NFL coach cut a rookie for chatting in a team meeting during camp. Cut him on the spot, almost made him cry. Some of the most memorable tongue-lashings, dog-cussings, verbal bloodlettings Rick had seen in football had happened not in the heat of battle but in the seemingly safe confines of the locker room.
“Mi dispiace,” Sly said loudly, causing even more chuckles.
Sam continued. “What was that?” Rick whispered.
“Means I’m sorry,” Sly hissed with his jaws clenched. “Now will you shut up.”
Rick had mentioned to Sam earlier that he needed just a few words with the team. When Sam finished his welcoming remarks, he introduced Rick and handled the translation. Rick stood, nodded to his new teammates, and said, “I’m very happy to be here, and looking forward to the season.” Sam threw up a hand — halt — translation. The Italians smiled.
“I’d like to clear up one thing.” Halt, more Italian.
“I’ve played in the NFL, but not very much, and I have never played in the Super Bowl.” Sam frowned and rendered. He would explain later that the Italians take a dim view of modesty and self-deprecation.
“In fact, I’ve never started a game as a professional.” Another frown, slower Italian, and Rick wondered if Sam wasn’t doctoring his little speech. There were no smiles among the Italians.
Rick looked at Nino and continued, “Just wanted to clear that up. It is my goal to win my first Super Bowl here in Italy.” Sam’s voice grew much stronger, and when he finished, the room erupted into applause. Rick sat down and got a bruising bear hug from Franco, who had slightly outmaneuvered Nino as the bodyguard.
Sam outlined the practice plan, and the speeches were over. With a rousing cheer, they hustled from the locker room and over to the practice field, where they fanned out into a somewhat organized pattern and began stretching. At this point, a thick-necked gentleman with a shaved head and bulging biceps took over. He was Alex Olivetto, a former player, now an assistant coach, and a real Italian. He strutted up and down the lines of players barking orders like an angry field marshal, and there was no back talk.
“He’s psycho,” Sly said when Alex was far away.
Rick was at the end of a line, next to Sly and behind Trey, copying the stretches and exercises of his teammates. Alex went from the basics — jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges — to a grueling session of running in place with an occasional drop to the ground, then back up. After fifteen minutes, Rick was heaving and trying to forget last night’s dinner. He glanced to his left and noticed that Nino had worked up a good sweat.