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

CHAPTER 12
On a beautiful Saturday in April, a perfect spring day in the Po valley, the Bandits from Naples left home at
7:00 a.m. on a train headed north for the season's opening game. They arrived in Parma just before 2:00 p.m.
Kickoff was at 3:00. The return train would leave at 11:40, and the team would arrive in Naples around
7:00 a.m. on Sunday, twenty-four hours after leaving. Once in Parma, the Bandits, thirty of them, took a bus to
Stadio Lanfranchi and hauled their gear to a cramped dressing room just down the hall from the Panthers. They
changed quickly and scattered around the field, stretching and following the usual pregame rituals.
Two hours before kickoff all forty-two Panthers were in their locker
room, most burning nervous energy and anxious to hit someone.
Signor Bruncardo surprised them with new game jerseys--black
with shiny silver numbers and the word "Panthers" across the
chest.
Nino smoked a pregame cigarette. Franco chatted with Sly and
Trey. Pietro, the middle linebacker who was improving by the day,
was meditating with his iPod. Matteo scurried around, rubbing
muscles, taping ankles, repairing equipment.
A typical pregame, thought Rick. Smaller locker room,
smaller players, smaller stakes, but some things about the game were always the same. He was ready to play.
Sam addressed the team, offered a few observations, then turned them loose. When Rick stepped onto the field
ninety minutes before kickoff, the stands were empty. Sam had predicted a big crowd-- "maybe a thousand."
The weather was great, and the day before the Gazzetta di Parma ran an impressive story about the Panthers'
first game and especially about their new NFL quarterback. Rick's handsome face, in color, had been splashed
across half a page. Signor Bruncardo had pulled some strings and thrown some weight around, according to
Sam.
Walking onto a field in an NFL stadium, or even one in the Big Ten, was always a nerve-racking experience.
The pregame jitters were so bad in the locker room that the players fled as soon as they were allowed. Outside,
engulfed by enormous decks of seats and thousands of fans, and cameras and bands and cheerleaders and the
seemingly endless mob of people who somehow had access to the field, players spent the first few moments
adjusting to the barely controlled chaos. Walking onto the grass of Stadio Lanfranchi, Rick couldn't help but
chuckle at the latest stop in his career. A frat boy limbering up for a flag football game would've been more
nervous.
After a few minutes of stretching and calisthenics, led by Alex Olivetto, Sam gathered the offense on the fiveyard
line and began running plays. He and Rick had selected twelve that they would run the entire game, six on
the ground and six in the air. The Bandits were notoriously weak in the secondary--not a single American back
there--and the year before the Panthers' quarterback had thrown for two hundred yards. Of the six running
plays, five went to Sly. Franco's only touch would be a dive play on short yardage, and only when the game
was won. Though he loved to hit, he also had the habit of fumbling. All six pass plays went to Fabrizio.
After an hour of warm-ups, both teams retreated to their dressing rooms. Sam huddled the Panthers for a
rousing speech, and Coach Olivetto pumped them up with a ferocious assault on the city of Naples. Rick didn't
understand a word, but the Italians certainly did. They were ready for war.
The Bandits' kicker was another ex-soccer player with a big foot, and his opening drive sailed through the end
zone. As Rick trotted onto the field for the first series, he tried to remember the last game he started. It was in
Toronto, a hundred years ago. The home stands were packed now, and the fans knew how to make noise. They
waved large hand-painted banners and yelled in unison. Their racket had the Panthers looking for blood. Nino