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

finally continued: "Most Italian cities are sort of configured around
a central square, called a piazza. This is Piazza Garibaldi, lots of
shops and cafes and foot traffic. The Italians spend a lot of time
sitting at the outdoor cafes sipping espresso and reading. Not a
bad habit."
"I don't do coffee."
"It's time to start." "What do these Italians think of Americans?" "They like us, I guess, not that they dwell on
the subject. If they stop and think about it, they probably dislike our government, but generally they couldn't
care less. They are crazy about our culture." "Even football?" "To some degree. There's a great little bar over
there. You want something to drink?" "No, it's too early." "Not alcohol. A bar here is like a small pub or coffee
shop, a gathering place." 111 pass. "Anyway, the center of the city is where the action is. Your apartment is
just a few streets over." "Can't wait. Mind if I make a call?" "Prego." "What?" "Prego. It means go right
ahead." Rick punched the numbers while Sam worked his car through the late-afternoon traffic. When Rick
glanced out his window, Sam quickly pushed a button on the radio and low volume opera rose in the
background. Whoever Rick needed to chat with was unavailable; no voice mail was left by the quarterback;
phone slapped shut; returned to pocket. Probably his agent, thought Sam. Maybe a girlfriend. "You got a girl?"
Sam asked. "No one in particular. Lots of NFL groupies, but they're dumb as rocks. You?" "Married for eleven
years, no kids."
They crossed a bridge called the Ponte Verdi. "This is the Parma River. It divides the city."
"Lovely." "Ahead of us is the Parco Ducale, the largest park in the city. It's quite beautiful. Italians are big on
parks and landscaping and such." "It's pretty." "Glad you approve. It's a great place to walk, take a girl, read a
book, lie in the sun." "Never spent much time in parks." What a surprise. They looped around, recrossed the
river, and were soon darting through narrow one-way streets. "You've now seen most of downtown Parma,"
Sam said. "Nice." A few blocks south of the park they turned onto a winding street, Via Linati. "There," Sam
said, pointing to a long row of four-story buildings, each painted a different color. "The second one, sort of a
gold color, apartment's on the third floor. It's a nice part of town. Signor Bruncardo, the gent who owns the
team, also owns a few buildings. That's why you get to live downtown. It's more expensive here." "And these
guys really play for free?" Rick said, mulling something that had stuck from a prior conversation. "The
Americans get paid--you and two others--only three this year. No one makes as much as you. Yes, the Italians
play for the sport of it. And the postgame pizza." A pause, then he added, "You're gonna love these guys." It
was his first effort at bolstering team spirit. If the quarterback wasn't happy, then there would be many
problems. He somehow wedged his Honda into a space half its size, and they loaded up the luggage and golf
clubs. There was no elevator, but the stairwell was wider than normal. The apartment was furnished and had
three rooms--a bedroom, a den, a small kitchen. Because his new quarterback was coming from the NFL,
Signor Bruncardo had sprung for new paint, rugs, curtains, and den furniture. There was even some splashy
contemporary art on the walls. "Not bad," Rick said, and Russo was relieved. He knew the realities of urban
real estate in Italy--most of the apartments were small and old and expensive. If the quarterback was
disappointed, then Signor Bruncardo would be, too. Things would get complicated. "On the market, it would
be two thousand euros a month," Sam said, trying to impress.
Rick was carefully placing his golf clubs on the sofa. "Nice place," he said. He couldn't count the number of
apartments he'd passed through in the last six years. The constant moving, often in a hurry, had deadened any
appreciation of square footage, decor, and furnishings. "Why don't you change clothes and I'll meet you
downstairs," Sam said. Rick glanced down at his white slacks and brown ankles and almost said, "Oh, I'm
fine." But then he took the hint and said, "Sure, give me five minutes." "There's a cafe two blocks down on the
right," Sam said. "I'll be at a table outside having a coffee." "Sure, Coach." Sam ordered coffee and opened his