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

CHAPTER 5
The Stadio Lanfranchi is in the northwest corner of Parma, still in the city proper but away from the ancient
buildings and narrow streets. It's a rugby pitch, home to two professional teams and leased to the Panthers for
football. It has canopy-covered grandstands on both sides, a press box, and a playing surface of natural grass
that is well maintained in spite of the heavy traffic. Soccer is played at the much larger Stadio Tardini, a mile
away in the southeast section of the city, and there larger crowds gather to celebrate Italy's modern-day reason
to exist. There's not much to cheer about, though. The lowly Parma team barely clings to its place in the
prestigious Series A of Italian soccer. The team still draws its faithful, though--about thirty thousand long
suffering fans show up with Cubs-like devotion year after year, game after game. That's about twenty-nine
thousand more than generally show up for Panthers games at Stadio Lanfranchi. It has seating for three
thousand, but rarely sells out. Actually, there's nothing to sell. Admission is free. Rick Dockery walked slowly
across midfield as long shadows fell, hands crammed in jeans pockets, the aimless stroll of a man in another
world. Occasionally, he stopped and pressed hard with a loafer to check the turf. He had not stepped onto a
field, or a pitch or whatever the hell it was, since that last day in Cleveland.
Sam sat five rows up on the home side, watching his quarterback and wondering what he was thinking. Rick
was thinking about a training camp one summer not too long ago, a brief but brutal ordeal with one of the pro
teams, he couldn't remember exactly which. Camp that summer had been at a small college with a field similar
to the one he was now inspecting. A Division III school, a tiny college with the obligatory rustic dorms and
cafeteria and cramped locker rooms, the type of place some NFL teams choose to make training as tough and
austere as possible. And he was thinking about high school. Back at Davenport South he had played every
game in front of more people, home and away. He lost in the state finals his junior year in front of eleven
thousand, small maybe by Texas standards but still a heckuva crowd for Iowa high school football. At the
moment, though, Davenport South was far away, as were many things that once seemed important. He stopped
in the end zone and studied the goalposts, odd ones. Two tall posts, painted blue and yellow, anchored in the
ground and wrapped with green padding that advertised Heineken. Rugby. He climbed the steps and sat next to
his coach, who said, "Whatta you think?" "Nice field, but you're missing a few yards." "Ten to be exact. The
goalposts are 110 yards apart, but we need 20 for the two end zones. So we play on what's left, 90 yards. Most
of the fields we play on are meant for rugby, so we have to make do." Rick grunted and smiled. "Whatever."
"It's a long way from Browns Stadium in Cleveland," Sam said.
"Thank God for that. I never liked Cleveland, the city, the fans, the team, and I hated the stadium. Right there
on Lake Erie, bitter winds, ground as hard as concrete." "What was your favorite stop?" Rick grunted out a
laugh and said, "Stop. That's a good word. I stopped here and there, but never found a place. Dallas, I guess. I
prefer warmer weather." The sun was almost gone and the air was growing cooler. Rick stuck his hands into
the pockets of his tight jeans and said, "So tell me about football in Italy. How did it happen?" "The first teams
popped up about twenty years ago and it spread like crazy, mainly here in the north. The Super Bowl in 1990
drew twenty thousand, a lot less last year. Then it declined for some reason; now it's growing again. There are
nine teams in the A Division, twenty-five or so in the B Division, and flag football for the kids." Another pause
as Rick rearranged his hands. The two months in Florida had given him a dark tan but a thin skin. His tan was
already fading. "How many fans watch the Panthers?" "Depends. We don't sell tickets, so no one really counts.
Maybe a thousand. When Bergamo rolls in, the place is packed." "Bergamo?" "The Bergamo Lions, perennial
champs." Rick found this amusing. "Lions and Panthers. Do they all have NFL names?" "No. We also have the
Bologna Warriors, Rome Gladiators, Naples Bandits, Milan Rhinos, Lazio Marines, as well as the Ancona
Dolphins, and Bolzano Giants." Rick chuckled at the names.
"What's so funny?" Sam asked.
"Nothing. Where am I?" "It's normal. The shock wears off fast, though. Once you put on the gear and start
hitting you'll feel at home." I don't hit, Rick wanted to say, but thought better of it. "So Bergamo is the team to