Rick sat low in his locker, enjoying the bitch session but also aware of what Sam was doing. Sam wanted trouble, infighting, emotions. Often an ugly practice or a nasty film session can be productive. The team was flat and overconfident.
When the lights came on, Sam told everyone to go home. There was little chatter as they showered and changed. Rick sneaked away from the stadium and hurried to his apartment. He changed into his finest Italian threads, and at 8:00 p.m. sharp was seated in the fifth row from the orchestra in Teatro Regio. He knew Otello now, inside and out. Gabriella had explained everything.
He endured Act 1, no Desdemona until the third scene, when she eased onto the stage and began groveling at the feet of her husband, the crazy Otello. Rick watched her carefully, and with perfect timing, as Otello wailed on about something, she glanced at the fifth row to make sure he was there. Then she began to sing, back and forth with Otello as the first act came to a close.
Rick waited for a second, maybe two, then began applauding. The hefty signora to his right was at first startled, then slowly put her hands together and followed his lead. Her husband did the same, and the light applause spread. Those inclined to boo were preempted, and suddenly the crowd en masse decided that Desdemona deserved better than what she had been receiving. Emboldened, and not one to give much of a damn anyway, Rick served up a hearty “Bravo!” A gentleman two rows back, no doubt as struck by Desdemona’s beauty as Rick, did the same. A few other enlightened souls agreed, and as the curtain fell, Gabriella stood at center stage, eyes closed, but with a slightly noticeable smile.
At 1:00 a.m., they were in the Welsh pub again, having drinks and talking opera and football. The final performance of Otello would be the following Sunday, when the Panthers were in Milan slugging it out with the Rhinos. She wanted to see a game, and Rick convinced her to stay in Parma another week.
With Paolo the Aggie as their guide, the three Americans caught the 10:05 train for Milan Friday night, not long after the last practice of the week. The rest of the Panthers were at Polipo’s for the weekly pizza party.
The drink cart stopped at their seats, and Rick bought four beers, the first round, the first of many. Sly said he drank little, said his wife did not approve, but at that moment his wife was in Denver, very far away. She would become even more removed as the night progressed. Trey said he preferred bourbon, but could certainly handle a beer. Paolo seemed ready to drink a keg.
An hour later they were in the sprawling lights of Milan’s perimeter. Paolo claimed to know the city well, and the country boy was visibly excited about a weekend in town.
The train stopped inside the cavernous Milano Centrale, Europe’s largest train station, a place that had thoroughly intimidated Rick a month earlier when he passed through. They squeezed into a cab and headed for the hotel. Paolo had handled the details. They had decided on a decent hotel, not too expensive, in a section of town known for its nightlife. No cultural excursion into the heart of old Milan. No interest in history or art. Sly in particular had seen enough cathedrals and baptisteries and cobblestoned streets. They checked into the Hotel Johnny in the northwest section of Milan. It was a family-run albergo, with a little charm and little rooms. Double rooms — with Sly and Trey in one and Rick and Paolo in the other. The narrow beds were not far apart, and Rick wondered, as he quickly unpacked, just how cozy things might get if both roommates got lucky with the girls.
Food was a priority, at least for Paolo, though the Americans could have grabbed a sandwich on the run. He selected a place called Quattro Mori because of its fish, said he needed a break from the endless pasta and meat in Parma. They ate freshly caught pike from Lake Garda and fried perch from Lake Como, but the winner was a baked tench stuffed with bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, and parsley. Paolo, of course, preferred a slow proper meal with wine, followed by dessert and coffee. The Americans were ready for the bars.
The first was an establishment known as a discopub, a genuine Irish pub with a long happy hour followed by wall-to-wall dancing. They arrived around 2:00 a.m., and the pub was rocking with a screeching British punk band and hundreds of young men and women gyrating wildly with the music. They drained a few beers and approached a few ladies. The language thing was quite a barrier.
The second was a pricier club with a ten-euro cover charge, but Paolo knew someone who knew someone else, and the cover was waived. They found a table on the second level and watched the band and dance floor below. A bottle of Danish vodka arrived, with four glasses of ice, and the evening took a different turn. Rick flashed a credit card and paid for the drinks. Sly and Trey were on tight budgets, as was Paolo, though he tried not to show it. Rick, the quarterback at twenty grand a year, was happy enough to play the big shot. Paolo disappeared and returned with three women, three very attractive Italian girls willing to at least say hello to the Americans. One spoke broken English, but after a few minutes of awkward chitchat they resorted to Italian with Paolo, and the Americans were gently pushed to the sidelines.
“How do you pick up girls if they can’t speak English?” Rick asked Sly.
“My wife speaks English.”
Then Trey led one of the girls away to the dance floor. “These European girls,” Sly said, “always checking out the black dudes.”
“Must be awful.”
After an hour, the Italians moved on. The vodka was gone.
The party began sometime after 4:00 a.m. when they stepped into a packed Bavarian beer hall with a reggae band onstage. English was the dominant tongue — lots of American students and twenty-somethings. On the way back from the bar with four steins of beer, Rick found himself cornered by a group of ladies from the South, according to their drawls.
“Dallas,” one said. They were travel agents, all in their mid-thirties and probably married, though no wedding rings were visible. Rick set the beers on their table and offered them up. To hell with his teammates. There was no brotherhood. Within seconds he was dancing with Beverly, a slightly overweight redhead with beautiful skin, and when Beverly danced it was full contact. The floor was crowded, bodies bumped into bodies, and to keep close Beverly kept her hands on Rick. She hugged and hunched and groped, and between songs suggested they retire to a corner where they could be alone, away from her competition. She was a clinger, and a determined one.
There was no sign of the other Panthers.
But Rick guided her back to her table, where her fellow travel agents were assaulting all manner of men. He danced with one named Lisa from Houston whose ex-husband had run off with his law partner, and so on. She was a bore, and of the two he preferred Beverly.
Paolo popped in to check on his quarterback, and with his accented English thrilled the ladies with an amazing string of lies. He and Rick were famous rugby players from Rome who traveled the world with their team, earning millions and living life in grand style. Rick rarely lied to pick up women; it simply wasn’t necessary. But it was humorous to watch the Italian work the crowd.