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

surgeon, and Rick thanked him. "Very nice job," he said, limping away. Sly came bouncing in with wires
running from his ears, trucker's cap cocked to one side, and again wearing the Broncos sweatshirt. "Hey, Sly,
how about a great massage over here!" Rick yelled. "Matteo's wonderful." They exchanged jabs--Broncos
versus Browns and so on-- as Sly stripped to his boxers and stretched out on the table. Matteo cracked his
knuckles, then plunged in. Sly grimaced, but bit his tongue. Two hours before practice, Rick, Sly, and Trey
Colby were on the field with Coach Russo, walking through the offensive plays. To Sam's relief, his new
quarterback had no interest in changing everything. Rick made suggestions here and there, tweaked some of
the pass routes, and offered ideas about the running game. Sly reminded him more than once that the Panthers'
running game was quite simple--just give the ball to Sly and get out of the way. Fabrizio appeared at the far
end of the field, alone and determined to keep to himself. He began an elaborate stretching routine, one
designed more for show than to loosen tight muscles. "Well, he's back for the second day," Sly said as they
watched him for a moment.
"What does that mean?" Rick asked.
"He hasn't quit yet," Trey said. "Quit?" "Yeah, he has the habit of walking off," Sam said. "Could be a bad
practice, maybe a bad game, could be nothing." "Why tolerate it?" "He's by far our best receiver," Sam said.
"Plus he plays for cheap." "Dude's got some hands," Trey said. "And he can fly," Sly said. "Faster than me."
"Come on?" "Nope. Beats me four steps in the forty." Nino arrived early, too, and after a round of buongiornos
he stretched quickly, then began a long lap around the field. "Why does his ass flinch like that?" Rick asked as
they watched him jog away. Sly laughed much too loudly. Sam and Trey broke up, too, then Sly seized the
opportunity to give a quick review of Nino's overactive glutes. "He ain't bad in practice, in shorts, but when
he's in full gear and we're hitting, then everything gets tight, especially the muscles that run up his rear cheeks.
Nino loves to hit, and sometimes he almost forgets to snap the ball because he's thinking so hard about hitting
the noseguard. And when he's poised to hit, all bent over like that, then the glutes start quivering, and when
you touch 'em, he damn near jumps out of his skin." "Perhaps we can run the shotgun," Rick said, and they
laughed even harder. "Sure," said Trey. "But Nino's not too accurate. You'll be chasing the ball all over the
field." "We've tried it," Sam said. "It's a disaster." "We gotta speed up his snaps," Sly said. "Sometimes I'm al
ready in the hole before the quarterback gets the ball. He's chasing me around, I'm looking for the damned ball.
Nino's off growling at some poor sucker."
Nino was back, and he brought Fabrizio with him. Rick suggested they work from the shotgun, do a few
patterns. His snaps were okay, not too errant, but awfully slow. Other Panthers arrived, and footballs were
soon flying around the field as the Italians practiced their punting and passing. Sam walked dose to Rick and
said, "Hour and a half before practice, and they can't wait to start. Pretty refreshing, huh?" "I've never seen it
before." "They love the game."
Franco and his small family lived on the top floor of a palazzo overlooking the Piazza della Steccata in the
heart of the city. Everything was old--the worn marble staircase on the way up, the wooden floors, the
tastefully cracked plaster walls, the portraits of ancient royals, the vaulted ceilings with lead chandeliers, the
oversize leather sofas and chairs. His wife, however, looked remarkably young. She was Antonella, a beautiful
dark-haired woman who attracted second looks and outright stares. Even her heavily accented English left
Rick wanting to hear more. Their son was Ivano, age six, and their daughter was Susanna, age three. The
children were allowed to hang around for the first half hour before heading off to bed. A nanny of some sort
lurked in the background. Sam's wife, Anna, was also attractive, and as Rick sipped his Prosecco, he devoted
his attention to the two ladies. He'd found a quick girlfriend in Florida, after fleeing Cleveland, but was con
tent to vanish without a word to her when it was time to leave for Italy. He had seen beautiful women in
Parma, but they all spoke a different language. There were no cheerleaders, and he had cursed Arnie many
times for that lie. Rick was longing for female companionship, even the accented variety over a cocktail with
the wives of friends. But the husbands stayed close, and at times Rick was lost in a world of Italian as the other
four laughed at Franco's punch lines. A tiny gray-haired woman in an apron passed through occasionally with a