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

Sure, Coach. A thousand plays. No problem. How many playbooks? How many assistant coaches? How many
teams? How many stops along the way in a frustrating career that had now led him to a small town in northern
Italy? He drank a beer at a sidewalk cafe and couldn't shake the lonely feeling that this was not where he was
supposed to be. He shuffled through the wine shop, terrified a clerk might ask him if there was anything in
particular he needed. The cute girl stocking the reds was gone. And then he was back, staring at the five-speed
Fiat, clutch and all. He didn't even like the color, a deep copper he'd never seen. It was in a row of similar cars
parked tightly together, less than a foot between bumpers, on a one-way street with a fair amount of traffic.
Any effort to drive away would require him to ease forward and back, forward and back, at least a half dozen
times as he inched the front wheels into the street. Perfect coordination of the clutch, stick, and accelerator
would be essential. It would be a challenge in an automatic. Why did these people park so close together? The
key was in his pocket. Maybe later. He walked to his apartment and took a nap.
Rick changed quickly into the Panther practice uniform-- black shirt, silver shorts, white socks. Each player
bought his own shoes, and Rick had hauled over three pairs of the game-day Nikes the Browns had so freely
dispensed. Most NFL players had shoe contracts. Rick had never been offered one.
He was alone in the locker room, flipping through the play book,
when Sly Turner bounced in, all smiles and wearing a bright
orange Denver Broncos sweatshirt. They introduced themselves,
shook hands politely, and before long Rick said, "You wearing that
for a reason?"
"Yep, love my Broncos," Sly said, still smiling. "Grew up near
Denver, went to Colorado State."
"That's nice. I hear I'm a popular guy in Denver." "We love you,
man."
"Always needed to be loved. Are we gonna be pals, Sly?" "Sure,
just give me the ball twenty times a game." "Done." Rick removed
a shoe from his locker, slowly put it on his right foot, and began
lacing it. "You get drafted?" "Seventh round by the Colts, four
years ago. Last player cut. One year in Canada, two years in
arena ball." The smile was gone and Sly was undressing. He
looked much shorter than five feet eight, but he was solid muscle.
"And here last year, right?"
"Right. It ain't that bad. Kinda fun, if you keep your sense of
humor. The guys on the team are wonderful. If not for them, I'd
never come back."
"Why are you here?"
"Same reason you're here. Too young to give up the dream. Plus,
I got a wife and kid now and I need the money." "The money?"
"Sad, ain't it? A professional football player making ten thousand
bucks for five months' work. But, like I said, I ain't ready to quit."
He finally pulled off the orange sweatshirt and replaced it with a
Panther practice jersey.
"Let's go loosen up," Rick said, and they left the locker room and
walked onto the field.
"My arm's pretty stiff," Rick said as he made a weak throw. "You're
lucky you're not crippled," Sly said. "Thanks."
"What a hit. I was at my brother's, yelling at the TV. Game was
over, then Marroon goes out with an injury. Eleven minutes to go,