“Sure I watched the play-offs,” Sam said.
“Well, I represent Rick Dockery, and, well, the Browns let him go,” Arnie said.
No surprise there, Sam thought, but kept listening. “And he’s looking around, considering his options. I heard the rumor that you need a quarterback.”
Sam almost dropped the phone. A real NFL quarterback playing in Parma? “It’s not a rumor,” he said. “My quarterback quit last week and took a coaching job somewhere in upstate New York. We’d love to have Dockery. Is he okay? Physically I mean?”
“Sure, just bruised a little, but he’s ready to go.”
“And he wants to play in Italy?”
“Maybe. We haven’t discussed it yet, you know, he’s still in the hospital, but we’re looking at all the possibilities. Frankly, he needs a change of scenery.”
“Do you know the game over here?” Sam asked nervously. “It’s good football, but it’s a far cry from the NFL and the Big Ten. I mean, these guys are not professionals in the true sense of the word.”
“What level?”
“I don’t know. Tough to say. Ever hear of a school called Washington and Lee, down in Virginia? A nice school, good football, Division III?”
“Sure.”
“They came over last year during spring break and we scrimmaged them a couple of times. Pretty even matchup.”
“Division III, huh?” Arnie said, his voice losing some steam.
But then, Rick needed a softer game. Another concussion and he might indeed suffer the brain damage so often joked about. Truthfully, Arnie didn’t care. Just another phone call or two and Rick Dockery was history.
“Look, Arnie,” Sam began earnestly. Time for the truth. “It’s a club sport over here, or maybe a notch above that. Each team in the Series A gets three American players, and they usually get meal money, maybe some rent. The quarterbacks are typically American and they get a small salary. The rest of the roster is a bunch of tough Italians who play because they love football. If they’re lucky and the owner is in a good mood, they might get pizza and beer after the game. We play an eight-game schedule, with play-offs, then a chance for the Italian Super Bowl. Our field is old but nice, well maintained, seats about three thousand, and for a big game we might fill it. We have corporate sponsors, cool uniforms, but no TV contract and no real money to speak of. We’re smack in the middle of the world of soccer, so our football has more of a cult following.”
“How did you get there?”
“I love Italy. My grandparents emigrated from this region, settled in Baltimore, where I grew up. But I have lots of cousins around here. My wife is Italian and so on. It’s a delightful place to live. Can’t make any money coaching American football, but we’re having fun.”
“So the coaches get paid?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“Any other NFL rejects?”
“Occasionally one passes through, some lost soul still dreaming of a Super Bowl ring. But the Americans are usually small college players who love the game and have a sense of adventure.”
“How much can you pay my man?”
“Let me check with the owner.”
“Do that, and I’ll check with my client.”
They signed off after another Bucknell story, and Sam returned to his coffee. An NFL quarterback playing football in Italy? It was hard to imagine, though not without precedent. The Bologna Warriors were in the Italian Super Bowl two years earlier with a forty-year-old quarterback who’d once played briefly for Oakland. He quit after two seasons and went to Canada.
Sam turned the car heater down a notch and replayed the final minutes of the Browns-Broncos game. Never in his memory had he watched one player so completely engineer a defeat and lose a game that was so clearly won. He himself had almost cheered when Dockery was carried off the field.
Nevertheless, the idea of coaching him in Parma was intriguing.
Chapter 3
Though the packing and leaving was somewhat of a ritual, the departure from Cleveland was a bit more stressful than usual. Someone found out that he had leased a condo on the seventh floor of a glass building near the lake, and there were two shaggy reporter types with cameras loitering near the guardhouse when Rick wheeled through in his black Tahoe. He parked underground and hurried up the elevator. The phone in the kitchen was ringing when he unlocked the door. A pleasant voice mail was left behind by none other than Charley Cray.
Three hours later the SUV was packed with clothes and golf clubs and a stereo. Thirteen trips — he counted them — up and down the elevator, and his neck and shoulders were killing him. His head ached and throbbed and the painkillers did little to help. He wasn’t supposed to drive while drugged, but Rick was driving.
Rick was leaving, running away from the lease on the condo and the rented furniture therein, fleeing Cleveland and the Browns and their awful fans, scampering away to somewhere. He wasn’t quite sure where.
Wisely, he had signed only a six-month lease on the condo. Since college he’d lived a life of short leases and rented furniture and learned not to accumulate too many things.
He fought the downtown traffic and managed to glance in the mirror for one last look at the Cleveland skyline. Good riddance. He was thrilled to be leaving. He vowed to never return, unless, of course, he was playing against the Browns, but then he’d promised himself that he would not think about the future. Not for another week anyway.
As he raced through the suburbs, he admitted to himself that Cleveland was undoubtedly happier with his departure than he was.
He was drifting west, in the general direction of Iowa, not with any enthusiasm, because he was not excited about going home. He’d called his parents once from the hospital. His mother asked about his head and begged him to stop playing. His father asked him what the hell he was thinking when he threw that last pass.
“How are things in Davenport?” Rick had finally asked his father. Both knew what he was after. He wasn’t curious about the local economy.
“Not too good,” his father said.
A weather bulletin caught his attention. Heavy snow to the west, a blizzard in Iowa, and Rick happily turned left and headed south.
An hour later his cell phone buzzed. It was Arnie, in Vegas, sounding much happier.
“Where are you, kid?” he asked.
“I’m out of Cleveland.”
“Thank God. Going home?”
“No, I’m just driving, going south. Maybe I’ll go to Florida and play some golf.”
“Great idea. How’s your head?”
“Fine.”
“Any additional brain damage?” Arnie asked with a fake laugh. It was a punch line Rick had heard at least a hundred times.
“Severe damage,” he said.
“Look, kid, I’m onto something here, a spot on a roster, guaranteed starting position. Gorgeous cheerleaders. Wanna hear it?”
Rick repeated it slowly, certain that he had misunderstood the details. The Vicodin was soaking a few areas of his tender brain. “Okay,” he finally said.
“I just talked to the head coach of the Panthers, and they will offer a contract right now, on the spot, no questions asked. It’s not a lot of money, but it’s a job. You’ll still be the quarterback, the starting quarterback! A done deal. It’s all you, baby.”
“The Panthers?”
“You got it. The Parma Panthers.”
There was a long pause as Rick struggled with geography. Obviously it was some minor-league outfit, some independent bush league so far from the NFL that it was a joke. Surely it wasn’t arena football. Arnie knew better than to think about that.
But he couldn’t place Parma. “Did you say Carolina Panthers, Arnie?”
“Listen to me, Rick. Parma Panthers.”