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

He strutted up and down the lines of players barking orders like an angry field marshal, and there was no back
talk. "He's psycho," Sly said when Alex was far away. Rick was at the end of a line, next to Sly and behind
Trey, copying the stretches and exercises of his teammates. Alex went from the basics--jumping jacks, pushups,
sit-ups, lunges--to a grueling session of running in place with an occasional drop to the ground, then back
up. After fifteen minutes, Rick was heaving and trying to forget last night's dinner. He glanced to his left and
noticed that Nino had worked up a good sweat.
After thirty minutes, Rick was sorely tempted to pull Sam aside and explain a few things. He was the
quarterback, you know, and quarterbacks, at the professional level, are not subjected to the same drills and
boot camp banalities required of the regular players. But Sam was far away, at the other end of the field. Then
Rick realized he was being watched. As the warm-up dragged on, he caught more glances from his teammates,
just checking to see if a real pro quarterback could grind it out with them. Was he a member of the team, or a
prima donna just passing through? Rick kicked it up a notch to impress them. Usually, wind sprints were put
off until the end of practice, but not so with Alex. After forty-five minutes of bruising exercises, the team
members gathered at the goal line, and in groups of six sprinted forty yards downfield, where Alex was waiting
with a very active whistle and a nasty insult for whoever brought up the rear. Rick ran with the backs. Sly
easily raced away, and Franco easily thundered in last. Rick was in the middle, and as he sprinted, he
remembered the glory days at Davenport South when he ran wild and scored almost as many touchdowns with
his feet as with his arm. The running slowed considerably in college; he was simply not a running quarterback.
Running was almost prohibited in the pros; it was an excellent way to get a leg broken. The Italians chattered
at each other, offering encouragement as the sprints dragged on. After five they were breathing heavily and
Alex was just warming up.
"Can you puke?" Sly asked between breaths.
"Why?" "Because he runs us until someone pukes." "Go ahead." "I wish I could." After ten forties, Rick was
asking himself what, exactly, he had been expecting in Parma. His hamstrings were on fire, his calves ached,
he was straining and gasping and soaked with sweat, though the temperature was hardly warm. He'd have a
talk with Sam and get some things straight. This wasn't high school ball. He was a pro! Nino bolted for the
sideline, ripped off his helmet, and delivered. The team yelled its encouragement, and Alex gave three quick
bursts on the whistle. After a water break, Sam stepped forward with instructions. He would take the backs and
receivers. Nino had the offensive linemen. Alex had the linebackers and defensive linemen. Trey was in charge
of the secondary. They scattered around the field. "This is Fabrizio," Sam said, introducing the rather slim
receiver to Rick. "Our wideout, great hands." They acknowledged each other. High-maintenance, high-strung,
God's gift to Italian football. Sam had briefed Rick on Fabrizio and suggested that he take it easy on the kid for
the first couple of days. There had been no small number of receivers in the NFL who'd had trouble with Rick's
bullets, at least in practice. In games, the bullets, though beautiful, had too often sailed high and wide. A few
had been caught by fans five rows up. The backup quarterback was a twenty-year-old Italian named Alberto
something or other. Rick threw soft sideline routes to one group, Alberto to the other. According to Sam,
Alberto preferred to run the ball because he had a rather weak arm. Weak it was, Rick noticed after a couple of
passes. He threw like a shot putter, and his passes fluttered through the air like wounded birds. "Was he the
backup last year?" Rick asked when Sam got close enough.
"Yes, but didn't play much." Fabrizio was a natural athlete, quick and graceful with soft hands. He worked
hard to appear nonchalant, as if anything Rick fired to him was just another easy catch. He big-leagued a few
catches, snared them with too much cocky indifference, then committed a sin that would have cost him dearly
in the NFL. On a lackadaisical quick-out, he snatched the ball with one hand simply to show off. The pass was
on target and did not need a one-arm grab. Rick simmered, but Sam was all over it. "Let it go," he said. "He
doesn't know any better." Rick's arm was still slightly sore, and though he was in no hurry to impress anyone,
he was tempted to gun one into Fabrizio's chest and watch him drop like a rock. Relax, he said to himself, he's
just a kid having fun. Then Sam barked at Fabrizio for running sloppy patterns, and the kid sulked like a baby.
More patterns, longer throws, then Sam brought the offense together for a review of the basics. Nino squatted
over the ball, and to prevent jammed fingers, Rick suggested they practice a few snaps, slowly. Nino agreed