They worked on their tans for another day, then grew tired of Sirolo. They drifted north, stopping for a day and a night at the medieval village of Urbino. Livvy had now seen thirteen of the twenty regions, and was hinting strongly at a prolonged tour that would include the other seven. But with an expired visa, how far could she go?
She preferred not to talk about it. And she did a remarkable job ignoring her family, as long as they ignored her. As they drove along the back roads of Umbria and Tuscany, she studied the maps and had a knack for finding tiny villages and wineries and ancient palazzi. She knew the history of the regions — the wars and conflicts, the rulers and their city-states, the influence of Rome and its decline. She could glance at a small village cathedral and say, “Baroque, late seventeenth century,” or, “Romanesque, early twelfth century,” and for good measure she might add, “But the dome was added a hundred years later by a classical architect.” She knew the great artists, and not just their work but also their hometowns and training and eccentricities and all the important details of their careers. She knew Italian wine and made sense of the endless variety of grapes from the regions. If they were really thirsty, she would find a hidden winery. They would do a quick tour, then settle in for a free sample.
They finally made it back to Parma, late Wednesday afternoon, in time for a very long practice. Livvy stayed at the apartment (“home”) while Rick dragged himself to Stadio Lanfranchi to prepare once again for the Bologna Warriors.
Chapter 27
The oldest Panther was Tommaso, or simply Tommy. He was forty-two and had been playing for twenty years. It was his intention, shared much too often in the locker room, to retire only after Parma won its first Super Bowl. A few of his teammates thought he was long past retirement age, and his desire to hang on was just another good reason for the Panthers to hurry and win the big one.
Tommy played defensive end and was effective for about a third of any game. He was tall and weighed around two hundred pounds, but sort of quick off the ball and a decent pass rusher. On running plays, though, he was no match for a charging lineman or fullback, and Sam was careful how he used Tommy. There were several Panthers, the older guys, who needed only a few snaps per game.
Tommy was a career civil servant of some variety, with a nice secure job and thoroughly hip apartment in the center of town. Nothing was old but the building. Inside the apartment, Tommy had carefully removed any concession to age and history. The furniture was glass, chrome, and leather, the floors were unpolished blond oak, the walls were covered with baffling contemporary art, and arranged nicely throughout was every conceivable high-tech entertainment apparatus.
His lady for the evening, certainly not a wife, fit in superbly with the decor. Her name was Maddalena, as tall as Tommy but a hundred pounds lighter and at least fifteen years younger. As Rick said hello to her, Tommy hugged and pecked Livvy and acted as though he might just lead her away to the bedroom.
Livvy had caught the attention of the Panthers, and why not? A beautiful, young American girl living with their quarterback, right there in Parma. Being red-blooded Italians, they could not help but wiggle their way closer. There had always been invitations to dinner, but since her arrival Rick was really in demand.
Rick managed to pry Livvy away and began admiring Tommy’s collection of trophies and football memorabilia. There was a photo of Tommy with a young football team. “In Texas,” Tommy said. “Near Waco. I go every year in August to practice with the team.”
“High school?”
“Sì. I take my vacation, and do what you call two-a-days. No?”
“Oh yes. Two-a-days, always in August.” Rick was stunned. He had never met anyone who voluntarily submitted himself to the horrors of August two-a-days. And by August the Italian season was over, so why bother with all that brutal conditioning?
“I know, it’s crazy,” Tommy was saying.
“Yes, it is. You still go?”
“Oh no. Three years ago I quit. My wife, the second one, did not approve.” At this, he cast his eyes warily at Maddalena for some reason, then continued: “She left, but I was too old. Those boys are just seventeen, too young for a forty-year-old man, don’t you think?”
“No doubt.”
Rick moved on, still flabbergasted at the thought of Tommy, or anyone, spending his vacation in the Texas heat running wind sprints and slamming into blocking sleds.
There was a rack of perfectly matched leather notebooks, each about an inch thick, with a year embossed in gold, one for each of Tommy’s twenty seasons. “This is the first,” Tommy said. Page one was a glossy Panther game schedule, with the scores added by hand. Four wins, four losses. Then game programs, newspaper articles, and pages of photographs. Tommy pointed to himself in a group shot and said, “That’s me, number 82 back then even, thirty pounds bigger.” He looked huge, and Rick almost said some of that bulk would be welcome now. But Tommy was a fashionista, dapper and always looking good. No doubt losing the extra weight had much to do with his love life.
They flipped through a few of the yearbooks, and the seasons began to blur. “Never a Super Bowl,” Tommy said more than once. He pointed to an empty space in the center of a bookshelf and said, “This is the special place, Reek. This is where I put a big picture of my Panthers just after we win the Super Bowl. You will be here, Reek, no?”
“Definitely.”
He flung an arm around Rick’s shoulder and led him to the dining area, where drinks were waiting — just two pals arm in arm. “We are worried, Reek,” he was saying, suddenly very serious.
A pause. “Worried about what?”
“This game. We are so close.” He unwrapped himself and poured two glasses of white wine. “You are a great football player, Reek. The best ever in Parma, maybe in all of Italy. A real NFL quarterback. Can you tell us, Reek, that we will win the Super Bowl?”
The women were on the patio looking at flowers in a window box.
“No one is that smart, Tommy. The game is too unpredictable.”
“But you, Reek, you’ve seen so much, so many great players in magnificent stadiums. You know the real game, Reek. Surely you know if we can win.”
“We can win, yes.”
“But do you promise?” Tommy smiled and thumped Rick on the chest. Come on, buddy, just between the two of us. Tell me what I want to hear.
“I believe strongly that we will win the next two games, thus the Super Bowl. But, Tommy, only a fool would promise that.”
“Mr. Joe Namath guaranteed it. What, in Super Bowl III or IV?”
“Super Bowl III. And I’m not Joe Namath.”
Tommy was so thoroughly nontraditional that he did not provide parmigiano cheese and prosciutto ham to nibble on while they waited on dinner. His wine came from Spain. Maddalena served salads of spinach and tomato, then small portions of a baked cod dish that would never be found in a cookbook from Emilia-Romagna. Not a trace of pasta anywhere. Dessert was a dry, brittle biscuit, dark as in chocolate but practically tasteless.
For the first time in Parma, Rick left a table hungry. After weak coffee and prolonged good-byes, they left and stopped for a large gelato on the walk home. “He’s a creep,” Livvy said. “His hands were all over me.”
“Can’t blame him for that.”
“Shut up.”
“And besides, I was groping Maddalena.”
“You were not, because I watched every move.”
“Jealous?”
“Extremely.” She shoved a spoonful of pistachio between his lips and said, without a smile, “Do you hear me, Reek? I am insanely jealous.”
“Yes, ma’am.”