John Grisham - 2007 - Playing for Pizza.pdf - fuyuhoshikim

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 dub>--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?"