Playing for Pizza (Page 48)

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:

The ball traveled 76 yards in the air, without the slightest hint of a wobble, but the pass itself paled in greatness to the catch at the other end. I’ve witnessed great touchdowns, but frankly, sports fans, this one tops the list. A skinny Italian named Fabrizio Bonozzi saved Dockery from another humiliating defeat.

Filippo stuck his supercharged foot into the kickoff, 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.

Chapter 31

They gathered triumphantly at Mario’s, an old pizzeria in north central Milan, twenty minutes from the stadium. Signor Bruncardo rented out the entire place for the celebration, an expensive proposition he might have regretted had they lost. But they certainly did not, and they arrived in buses and cabs, whooping as they walked in the front door and looking for beer. The players were given three long tables in the center of the room, and were soon surrounded by their admirers– wives, girlfriends, fans from Parma. A videotape was inserted, and on giant screens the game played on as waiters hauled in dozens of pizzas and gallons of beer. Everyone had a camera and a thousand photos were taken. Rick was a favorite target, and he was hugged and squeezed and pawed until his shoulders were sore. Fabrizio was also the center of attention, especially with the teenage girls. The Catch had already taken on legendary status. Rick’s neck, chin, jaws, and forehead were throbbing, and his ears still rang. Matteo, the trainer, gave him pain pills that didn’t mix with alcohol, so he laid off the beer. And he had no appetite. The video skipped the huddles, time-outs, and halftime, and as the end of the game approached, the noise died considerably.

The operator switched to slow motion, and as Rick rolled out of the pocket and faked the run, the pizzeria was silent. The hit by Maschi was of highlight quality, and in the United States would have sent the talking heads into a drooling frenzy. The Monday morning cable shows would trumpet it as their "Hit of the Day" and run it every ten minutes. In Mario’s, though, there was a moment of silence for the dead as their quarterback held his ground, sacrificed his body, and launched his bomb. There were a few muted groans as Maschi knocked him senseless–all very clean and legal and astoundingly brutal.

But there was rejoicing on the other end. The Catch was captured beautifully and permanently on film, and watching it for the second time, then the third, was almost as exhilarating as seeing it live. Fabrizio, atypically, acted as though it was no big deal, just another day at the office. Many more where that came from. When the pizza was gone and the game was off, the crowd settled in for a few formalities. After a long speech by Signor Bruncardo and a short one by Sam, the two posed with the Super Bowl trophy in the greatest moment in Panthers history. When the drinking songs began, Rick knew it was time to leave. A long night was about to become much longer. He eased from the pizzeria, found a cab, and returned to the hotel.

Two days later, he met Sam for lunch at Sorelle Picchi, on Strada Farini, his neighborhood. They had some business to discuss, but first they rehashed the game. Since Sam wasn’t working, they split a bottle of Lambrusco with their stuffed pasta. "When are you going home?" Sam asked. "No plans. I’m in no hurry."

"That’s unusual. Normally, the Americans book a flight the day after the last game. You’re not homesick?"

"I need to see my folks, but ‘home’ is a fuzzy concept these days."

Sam chewed slowly on a spoonful of pasta. "You thought about next year?"

"Not really."

"Can we talk about it?"

"We can talk about anything. You’re buying lunch."

"Signor Bruncardo is buying lunch, and he’s in a very good mood these days. He loves to win, loves the press, the pictures, the trophies. And he wants to repeat things next year."

"I’m sure he does." Sam refilled both glasses. "Your agent, what’s his name?"

"Arnie."

"Arnie. Is he still in the picture?"

"No."

"Good, so we can talk business?"

"Sure."

"Bruncardo is offering twenty-five hundred euros a month, for twelve months, plus the apartment and the car for a year." Rick took a long pull on his wine and studied the red checkered tablecloth. Sam continued: "He’d rather give you the money than spend it on more Americans. He asked me if we can win again next year with the same team. I said yes. You agree?" Rick nodded his agreement with a smirk. "So he’s sweetening your deal."

"That’s not a bad contract," Rick said, thinking less about the salary and more about the apartment that was now apparently needed by two people. He also thought about Silvio, who worked on the family farm, and Filippo, who drove a cement truck. They would kill for such a deal, and they practiced and played as hard as Rick.

But they were not quarterbacks, were they? Another sip of wine, and he thought about the $400,000 Buffalo paid him when he signed six years earlier, and he thought about Randall Framer, a teammate at Seattle who was given $85 million to throw passes for seven more years. Everything is relative. "Look, Sam, six months ago they carried me off the field in Cleveland. I woke up twenty-four hours later in a hospital. My third concusion. The doctor suggested I give up football. My mother begged me to quit. Last Sunday, I woke up in the dressing room. I stayed on my feet, walked off the field, I suppose I celebrated with everybody else. But I don’t remember it, Sam, I was knocked out again. Number four. I don’t know how many more I can survive."

"I understand."

"I took some shots this season. It’s still football, and Maschi hit me as hard as anybody in the NFL."

"Are you quitting?"

"I don’t know. Give me some time to think, to dear my head. I’m going to a beach for a few weeks."

"Where?"

"My travel consultant has decided on Apulia, way down south, the heel of the Italian boot. Been there?"

"No. This would be Livvy ? "

"Yes."

"And the visa thing?"

"She’s not worried."

"Are you kidnapping her?"

"It’s a joint kidnapping."

They boarded the train early and sat in the heat as other passengers hurried on. Livvy sat across from him, her shoes already kicked off, her feet in his lap. Orange polish. Short skirt. Miles of legs. She was unfolding a schedule of train routes in southern Italy. She had asked for his input, his thoughts, wishes, and when he offered little, she was pleased. They would spend a week in Apulia, then ferry to Sicily for ten days, then catch a boat to the island of Sardinia. As August approached, they would head north, away from the vacationers and the heat, and explore the mountains of the Veneto and Friuli. She wanted to see the cities of Verona, Vicenza, and Padua. She wanted to see it all. They would stay in hostels and cheap hotels, using his passport only until her little visa problem was fixed. Franco was hard at work on that challenge. They would take trains and ferries, cabs only when necessary. She had plans, alternative plans, and more plans. Rick’s only deal breaker had been his demand that two cathedrals per day was the limit. She negotiated but finally relented. But there were no plans beyond August. Any thoughts about her family sent her into a funk, so she was trying to forget the mess back home. While she spoke less and less about her parents, she talked more about delaying her last year of college. Fine with Rick. As he massaged her feet, he told himself that he would follow those legs anywhere. The train was half-full. Other men couldn’t help but gawk as they shuffled by. Livvy was off in southern Italy, wonderfully oblivious to the attention her bare feet and tanned legs were getting.