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

like the Steelers? I love the Steelers."
"Well, no, actually--"
"Why haven't you played for the Steelers ?"
"They haven't called yet."
Franco was on the edge of his seat, hyper with the presence of
his new quarterback. "Let's have coffee," he said, jumping to his
feet, and before Rick could answer, he was at the door, barking
instructions to one of the girls. He was stylish--snug black suit,
long pointed Italian loafers, size 14 at least.
"We really want a Super Bowl trophy here in Parma," he said as
he grabbed something from his desk. "Look." He pointed the
remote control to a flat-screen TV in a corner, and suddenly there
was more Franco--pounding through the line as tacklers bounced
off, leaping over the pile for a touchdown, stiff-arming a Cleveland
Brown (yes!) and ripping off another touchdown, taking a handoff
from Bradshaw, and bowling over two massive linemen. It was
Franco's greatest hits, long, punishing runs that were
enjoyable to watch. The judge, thoroughly mesmerized, jerked and cut and pumped his fists with each great
move. How many times has he seen this? Rick asked himself. The last play was the most famous--the
Immaculate Reception--Franco's inadvertent catch of a deflected pass and his miracle gallop to the end zone in
a 1972 play-off game against Oakland. The play had created more debate, review, analysis, and fights than any
in the history of the NFL, and the judge had memorized every frame.
The secretary arrived with the coffee, and Rick managed a bad "Grazie." Then it was back to the video. Part
two was interesting but also a bit depressing. Franco the judge had added his own greatest hits, a few sluggish
runs through and around linemen and linebackers even slower than himself. He beamed at Rick as they
watched the Panthers in action, Rick's first glimpse of his future. "You like?" Franco asked. "Nice," Rick said,
a word that seemed to satisfy many inquiries in Parma. The final play was a screen pass that Franco took from
an emaciated quarterback. He tucked the ball into his gut, bent over like an infantryman, and began looking for
the first defender to hit. A couple bounced off, Franco spun free, kicked up his legs, and was off to the races.
Two cornerbacks made halfhearted attempts to stick their helmets into his churning legs, but they bounced off
like flies. Franco was soaring down the sideline, straining mightily in his best Franco Harris imitation. "Is this
in slow motion?" Rick asked, a half effort at humor. Franco's mouth fell open. He was wounded. "Just
kidding," Rick said quickly. "A joke."
Franco managed to fake a laugh. As he crossed the goal line, he spiked the ball, and the screen went blank.
"For seven years I play fullback," Franco said as he resumed his perch on the edge of his seat. "And we never
beat Bergamo. This year, with our great quarterback, we will win the Super Bowl. Yes?"
"Of course. So where did you learn football?" "Some friends." They both took a sip of coffee and waited
through an awkward pause. "What kind of judge are you?" Rick finally asked. Franco rubbed his chin and
considered this at great length, as though he'd never before thought about what he did. "I do lots of things," he
finally said with a smile. His phone rang on the desk, and though he didn't answer it, he did look at his watch.
"We are so glad to have you here in Parma, my friend Rick. My quarterback." "Thanks." "I will see you at
practice tonight." "Of course." Franco was on his feet now, his other duties calling him. Rick was not exactly
expecting to be fined or otherwise punished, but Romo's "complaints" needed to be addressed, didn't they?
Evidently not. Franco swept Rick from his office with the mandatory embraces and handshakes and promises
to help in any way, and Rick was soon in the hall, then down the stairs and into the alley, all alone, a free man.