“Listen to me, Rick. Parma Panthers.”
There was a Parma in the Cleveland suburbs. It was all very confusing.
“Okay, Arnie, pardon the brain damage, but why don’t you tell me exactly where Parma is.”
“It’s in northern Italy, about an hour from Milan.”
“Where’s Milan?”
“It’s in northern Italy, too. I’ll buy you an atlas. Anyway—”
“Football is soccer over there, Arnie. Wrong sport.”
“Listen to me. They have some well-established leagues in Europe. It’s big in Germany, Austria, Italy. It could be fun. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Rick’s head began throbbing and he needed another pill. But he was practically stoned anyway and a DUI was the last thing he needed. The cop would probably look at his license and go for the handcuffs or maybe even his nightstick. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“You should do it, Rick, take a year off, go play in Europe, let the dust settle over here. I gotta tell you, kid, I don’t mind making phone calls but the timing is lousy, really lousy.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Arnie. Look, let’s talk later. My head is killing me.”
“Sure, kid. Sleep on it, but we need to move fast. The team in Parma is looking for a quarterback. Their season starts soon and they’re desperate. I mean, not desperate to sign just anybody, but—”
“Got it, Arnie. Later.”
“You’ve heard of Parmesan cheese?”
“Sure.”
“That’s where they make it. In Parma. Get it?”
“If I wanted cheese, I’d go to Green Bay,” Rick said, and thought himself clever in spite of the drugs.
“I called the Packers, but they haven’t called back.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
· · ·
Near Mansfield he settled into a booth in the restaurant of a crowded truck stop and ordered french fries and a Coke. The words on the menu were slightly blurred, but he took another pill anyway because of the pain at the top of his spine. In the hospital, once the television was working, he’d made the mistake of finally watching the highlights on ESPN. He cringed and even flinched at the sight of his own body getting hit so hard and crumbling to the ground in a heap.
Two truckers at a nearby table began glancing at him. Oh, great. Why didn’t I wear a cap and some sunglasses?
They whispered and pointed, and before long others were looking, even glaring at him. Rick wanted to leave, but the Vicodin said no, take it easy for a while. He ordered another plate of french fries and tried to call his parents. They were either out or ignoring him. He called a college friend in Boca to make sure he had a place to stay for a few days.
The truckers were laughing about something. He tried to ignore them.
On a white paper napkin, he began scribbling numbers. The Browns owed him $50,000 for the playoffs. (Surely the team would pay him.) He had about $40,000 in the bank in Davenport. Due to his nomadic career, he had not purchased any real estate. The SUV was being leased—$700 a month. There were no other assets. He studied the numbers, and his best guess was that he could escape with about $80,000.
To leave the game with three concussions and $80,000 was not as bad as it seemed. The average NFL running back lasted three years, retired with all manner of leg injuries, and owed about $500,000.
Rick’s financial problems came from disastrous investments. He and a teammate from Iowa had tried to corner the car-wash market in Des Moines. Lawsuits had followed and his name was still on bank loans. He owned one-third of a Mexican restaurant in Fort Worth, and the other two owners, former friends, were screaming for more capital. The last time he ate there the burritos made him sick.
With Arnie’s help he had managed to avoid bankruptcy—the headlines would’ve been brutal—but the debts had piled up.
A rather large trucker with an amazing beer belly drew near, stopped, and sneered at Rick. He was the whole package—thick sideburns, trucker cap, toothpick dangling from his lips. “You’re Dockery, aren’t you?”
For a split second Rick thought of denying it, then he decided to simply ignore him.
“You suck, you know that,” the trucker said loudly and for the benefit of his audience. “You sucked at Iowa and you still suck.” There was heavy laughter in the background as the others joined in.
One shot to the beer belly and the dude would be on the floor, squealing, and the fact that Rick even thought about it made him sad. The headlines—why was he so concerned with the headlines?—would be great. “Dockery Brawls with Truckers.” And, of course, everyone who read the story would be pulling for the truckers. Charley Cray would have a field day.
Rick smiled at his napkin and bit his tongue.
“Why don’t you move to Denver? Bet they love you there.” Even more laughter.
Rick added some meaningless numbers to his tally and pretended as if he heard nothing. Finally, the trucker moved on, with quite a swagger now. It’s not every day that you get the chance to berate an NFL quarterback.
· · ·
He took I-71 south to Columbus, home of the Buckeyes. There, not too many years ago, in front of 100,000 fans, on a gorgeous autumn afternoon, he’d thrown four touchdown passes and picked the defense apart like a surgeon. Big Ten Player of the Week. More honors would certainly follow. The future was so bright it blinded him.
Three hours later he stopped for gas and saw a new motel next door. He’d driven enough. He fell on the bed and planned to sleep for days when his cell phone rang.
Arnie said, “Where are you now?”
“I don’t know. London.”
“What? Where?”
“London, Kentucky, Arnie.”
“Let’s talk about Parma,” Arnie said, crisp and businesslike. Something was up.
“I thought we agreed to do that later.” Rick pinched his nose and slowly stretched his legs.
“This is later. They need a decision.”
“Okay. Give me the details.”
“They’ll pay three thousand euros a month for five months, plus an apartment and a car.”
“What’s a euro?”
“That’s the currency in Europe. Hello? It’s worth about a third more than the dollar these days.”
“So how much, Arnie? What’s the offer?”
“About four thousand bucks a month.”
The numbers registered quickly because there were so few of them. “The quarterback makes twenty thousand? What does a lineman make?”
“Who cares? You’re not a lineman.”
“Just curious. Why are you so testy?”
“Because I’m spending too much time on this, Rick. I’ve got other deals to negotiate. You know how hectic it gets in the postseason.”
“Are you unloading me, Arnie?”
“Of course not. It’s just that I really think you should go abroad for a while, recharge your batteries, you know, let the ole brain heal. Give me some time stateside to assess the damage.”
The damage. Rick tried to sit up but nothing cooperated. Every bone and muscle from the waist up was damaged. If Collins hadn’t missed the block, Rick wouldn’t have been crushed. Linemen, love ’em and hate ’em. He wanted linemen! “How much do the linemen make?”
“Nothing. The linemen are Italians and they play because they love football.”
The agents must starve to death over there, Rick thought to himself. He breathed deeply and tried to remember the last player he knew who played just for the love of the game. “Twenty thousand,” Rick mumbled.
“Which is twenty more than you’re currently making,” Arnie reminded him, rather cruelly.
“Thanks, Arnie. I can always count on you.”
“Look, kid, take a year off. Go see Europe. Give me some time.”
“How good is the football?”
“Who cares? You’ll be the star. All of the quarterbacks are Americans, but they’re small-college types who didn’t get near the dra
ft. The Panthers are thrilled that you’re even considering the deal.”
Someone was thrilled to get him. What a pleasant idea. But what would he tell his family and friends?
What friends? He had heard from exactly two old buddies in the past week.
After a pause, Arnie cleared his throat and said, “There’s something else.”
From the tone, it could not be good. “I’m listening.”
“What time did you leave the hospital today?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe around nine.”
“Well, you must’ve passed him in the hallway.”
“Who?”
“An investigator. Your cheerleader friend is back, Rick, quite pregnant, and now she’s got lawyers, some real sleazeballs who want to make some noise, get their mugs in the paper. They’re calling here with all sorts of demands.”
“Which cheerleader?” Rick asked as new waves of pain swept through his shoulders and neck.
“Tiffany something or other.”
“There’s no way, Arnie. She slept with half the Browns. Why is she coming after me?”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Of course, but it was my turn. If she’s gonna have a million-dollar baby, why is she accusing me?”
An excellent question from the lowest-paid member of the team. Arnie had made the same point when arguing with Tiffany’s lawyers.
“Is it possible that you might be the daddy?”
“Absolutely not. I was careful. You had to be.”
“Well, she can’t go public until she serves you with the papers, and if she can’t find you, then she can’t serve you.”
Rick knew all this. He’d been served before. “I’ll hide in Florida for a while. They can’t find me down there.”
“Don’t bet on it. These lawyers are pretty aggressive. They want some publicity. There are ways to track people.” A pause, then the clincher. “But, pal, they can’t serve you in Italy.”
“I’ve never been to Italy.”
“Then it’s time to go.”
“Let me sleep on it.”
“Sure.”
Rick dozed off quickly and slept hard for ten minutes when a nightmare jolted him from his nap. Credit cards leave a trail. Gas stations, motels, truck stops—every place was connected to a vast web of electronic information that zipped around the world in a split second, and surely some geek with a high-powered computer could tap in here and there and for a nice fee pick up the trail and send in the bloodhounds with a copy of Tiffany’s paternity suit. More headlines. More legal troubles.
He grabbed his unpacked bag and fled the motel. He drove another hour, very much under the influence, and found a dump with cheap rooms for cash, by the hour or by the night. He fell onto the dusty bed and was soon sound asleep, snoring loudly and dreaming of leaning towers and Roman ruins.
Chapter
4
Coach Russo read the Gazzetta di Parma while he waited patiently on a hard plastic chair inside the Parma train station. He hated to admit that he was a little nervous. He and his new quarterback had chatted once by phone, while he, the quarterback, was on a golf course somewhere in Florida, and the conversation left something to be desired. Dockery was reluctant to play for Parma, though the idea of living abroad for a few months was certainly appealing. Dockery seemed reluctant to play anywhere. The “Greatest Goat” theme had spread, and he was still the butt of many jokes. He was a football player and needed to play, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to see another football.
Dockery said he didn’t speak a word of Italian but had studied Spanish in the tenth grade. Great, thought Russo. No problem.
Sam had never coached a pro quarterback. His last one had played sparingly at the University of Delaware. How would Dockery fit? The team was excited to have such a talent, but would they accept him? Would his attitude poison the locker room? Would he be coachable?
The Eurostar from Milan coasted into the station, on time as always. Doors snapped open, passengers spilled out. It was mid-March and most were clad in dark heavy coats, still bundled from the winter and waiting for warmer weather. Then there was Dockery, fresh from south Florida with a ridiculous tan and dressed for summer drinks at the country club—cream-colored linen sports coat, lemon shirt with a tropical motif, white slacks that stopped at bronze sockless ankles, thin crocodile loafers more maroon than brown. He was wrestling with two perfectly matched and monstrous pieces of luggage on wheels, and his task was made almost impossible because he had slung over his back a bulky set of golf clubs.
The quarterback had arrived.
Sam watched the struggle and knew instantly that Dockery had never been on a train before. He finally walked over and said, “Rick. I’m Sam Russo.”
A half smile as he jolted things upward and managed to slide the golf clubs up his back. “Hey, Coach,” he said.
“Welcome to Parma. Let me give you a hand.” Sam grabbed one suitcase, and they began rolling through the station.
“Thanks. It’s pretty cold here.”
“Colder than Florida. How was your flight?”
“Fine.”
“Play a lot of golf, do you?”
“Sure. When does it get warm?”
“A month or so.”
“Lot of golf courses around here?”
“No, I’ve never seen one.” They were outside now, stopping at Sam’s boxy little Honda.
“This is it?” Rick asked as he glanced around and noticed all of the other very small cars.
“Throw those in the backseat,” Sam said. He popped the trunk and manhandled a suitcase into the tight space. There was no room for the other. It went into the rear seat, on top of the clubs. “Good thing I didn’t pack more,” Rick mumbled. They got in. At six feet two, Rick’s knees hit the dashboard. His seat refused to slide back because of the golf clubs.
“Pretty small cars over here, huh?” he observed.
“You got it. Gas is a buck twenty a liter.”
“How much a gallon?”
“They don’t use gallons. They use liters.” Sam shifted gears, and they moved away from the station.
“Okay, about how much a gallon?” Rick went on.
“Well, a liter is roughly a quart.”
Rick pondered this as he gazed blankly out his window at the buildings along Strada Garibaldi. “Okay. How many quarts in a gallon?”
“Where’d you go to college?”
“Where’d you go?”
“Bucknell.”
“Never heard of it. They play football?”
“Sure, small stuff. Nothing like the Big Ten. Four quarts in a gallon, so a gallon here is about five bucks.”
“These buildings are really old,” Rick said.
“They don’t call it the old country for nothing. What was your major in college?”