“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.”
There was a Parma in the Cleveland suburbs. It was all very confusing.
“Okay, Arnie, pardon the brain damage, but why don’t you tell me exactly where Parma is.”
“It’s in northern Italy, about an hour from Milan.”
“Where’s Milan?”
“It’s in northern Italy, too. I’ll buy you an atlas. Anyway—”
“Football is soccer over there, Arnie. Wrong sport.”
“Listen to me. They have some well-established leagues in Europe. It’s big in Germany, Austria, Italy. It could be fun. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Rick’s head began throbbing and he needed another pill. But he was practically stoned anyway and a DUI was the last thing he needed. The cop would probably look at his license and go for the handcuffs or maybe even his nightstick. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“You should do it, Rick, take a year off, go play in Europe, let the dust settle over here. I gotta tell you, kid, I don’t mind making phone calls but the timing is lousy, really lousy.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Arnie. Look, let’s talk later. My head is killing me.”
“Sure, kid. Sleep on it, but we need to move fast. The team in Parma is looking for a quarterback. Their season starts soon and they’re desperate. I mean, not desperate to sign just anybody, but—”
“Got it, Arnie. Later.”
“You’ve heard of Parmesan cheese?”
“Sure.”
“That’s where they make it. In Parma. Get it?”
“If I wanted cheese, I’d go to Green Bay,” Rick said, and thought himself clever in spite of the drugs.
“I called the Packers, but they haven’t called back.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
· · ·
Near Mansfield he settled into a booth in the restaurant of a crowded truck stop and ordered french fries and a Coke. The words on the menu were slightly blurred, but he took another pill anyway because of the pain at the top of his spine. In the hospital, once the television was working, he’d made the mistake of finally watching the highlights on ESPN. He cringed and even flinched at the sight of his own body getting hit so hard and crumbling to the ground in a heap.
Two truckers at a nearby table began glancing at him. Oh, great. Why didn’t I wear a cap and some sunglasses?
They whispered and pointed, and before long others were looking, even glaring at him. Rick wanted to leave, but the Vicodin said no, take it easy for a while. He ordered another plate of french fries and tried to call his parents. They were either out or ignoring him. He called a college friend in Boca to make sure he had a place to stay for a few days.
The truckers were laughing about something. He tried to ignore them.
On a white paper napkin, he began scribbling
numbers. The Browns owed him $50,000 for the playoffs. (Surely the team would pay him.) He had about $40,000 in the bank in Davenport. Due to his nomadic career, he had not purchased any real estate. The SUV was being leased—$700 a month. There were no other assets. He studied the numbers, and his best guess was that he could escape with about $80,000.
To leave the game with three concussions and $80,000 was not as bad as it seemed. The average NFL running back lasted three years, retired with all manner of leg injuries, and owed about $500,000.
Rick’s financial problems came from disastrous investments. He and a teammate from Iowa had tried to corner the car-wash market in Des Moines. Lawsuits had followed and his name was still on bank loans. He owned one-third of a Mexican restaurant in Fort Worth, and the other two owners, former friends, were screaming for more capital. The last time he ate there the burritos made him sick.
With Arnie’s help he had managed to avoid bankruptcy—the headlines would’ve been brutal—but the debts had piled up.
A rather large trucker with an amazing beer belly drew near, stopped, and sneered at Rick. He was the whole package—thick sideburns, trucker cap, toothpick dangling from his lips. “You’re Dockery, aren’t you?”
For a split second Rick thought of denying it, then he decided to simply ignore him.
“You suck, you know that,” the trucker said loudly and for the benefit of his audience. “You sucked
at Iowa and you still suck.” There was heavy laughter in the background as the others joined in.
One shot to the beer belly and the dude would be on the floor, squealing, and the fact that Rick even thought about it made him sad. The headlines—why was he so concerned with the headlines?—would be great. “Dockery Brawls with Truckers.” And, of course, everyone who read the story would be pulling for the truckers. Charley Cray would have a field day.
Rick smiled at his napkin and bit his tongue.
“Why don’t you move to Denver? Bet they love you there.” Even more laughter.
Rick added some meaningless numbers to his tally and pretended as if he heard nothing. Finally, the trucker moved on, with quite a swagger now. It’s not every day that you get the chance to berate an NFL quarterback.
· · ·
He took I-71 south to Columbus, home of the Buckeyes. There, not too many years ago, in front of 100,000 fans, on a gorgeous autumn afternoon, he’d thrown four touchdown passes and picked the defense apart like a surgeon. Big Ten Player of the Week. More honors would certainly follow. The future was so bright it blinded him.
Three hours later he stopped for gas and saw a new motel next door. He’d driven enough. He fell on the bed and planned to sleep for days when his cell phone rang.
Arnie said, “Where are you now?”
“I don’t know. London.”
“What? Where?”
“London, Kentucky, Arnie.”
“Let’s talk about Parma,” Arnie said, crisp and businesslike. Something was up.
“I thought we agreed to do that later.” Rick pinched his nose and slowly stretched his legs.
“This is later. They need a decision.”
“Okay. Give me the details.”
“They’ll pay three thousand euros a month for five months, plus an apartment and a car.”
“What’s a euro?”
“That’s the currency in Europe. Hello? It’s worth about a third more than the dollar these days.”
“So how much, Arnie? What’s the offer?”
“About four thousand bucks a month.”
The numbers registered quickly because there were so few of them. “The quarterback makes twenty thousand? What does a lineman make?”
“Who cares? You’re not a lineman.”
“Just curious. Why are you so testy?”
“Because I’m spending too much time on this, Rick. I’ve got other deals to negotiate. You know how hectic it gets in the postseason.”
“Are you unloading me, Arnie?”
“Of course not. It’s just that I really think you should go abroad for a while, recharge your batteries, you know, let the ole brain heal. Give me some time stateside to assess the damage.”
The damage. Rick tried to sit up but nothing cooperated. Every bone and muscle from the waist up
was damaged. If Collins hadn’t missed the block, Rick wouldn’t have been crushed. Linemen, love ’em and hate ’em. He wanted linemen! “How much do the linemen make?”
“Nothing. The linemen are Italians and they play because they love football.”
The agents must starve to death over there, Rick thought to himself. He breathed deeply and tried to remember the last player he knew who played just for the love of the game. “Twenty thousand,” Rick mumbled.
“Which is twenty more than you’re currently making,” Arnie reminded him, rather cruelly.
“Thanks, Arnie. I can always count on you.”
“Look, kid, take a year off. Go see Europe. Give me some time.”
“How good is the football?”
“Who cares? You’ll be the star. All of the quarterbacks are Americans, but they’re small-college types who didn’t get near the draft. The Panthers are thrilled that you’re even considering the deal.”
Someone was thrilled to get him. What a pleasant idea. But what would he tell his family and friends?
What friends? He had heard from exactly two old buddies in the past week.
After a pause, Arnie cleared his throat and said, “There’s something else.”
From the tone, it could not be good. “I’m listening.”
“What time did you leave the hospital today?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe around nine.”
“Well, you must’ve passed him in the hallway.”
“Who?”
“An investigator. Your cheerleader friend is back, Rick, quite pregnant, and now she’s got lawyers, some real sleazeballs who want to make some noise, get their mugs in the paper. They’re calling here with all sorts of demands.”
“Which cheerleader?” Rick asked as new waves of pain swept through his shoulders and neck.
“Tiffany something or other.”
“There’s no way, Arnie. She slept with half the Browns. Why is she coming after me?”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Of course, but it was my turn. If she’s gonna have a million-dollar baby, why is she accusing me?”
An excellent question from the lowest-paid member of the team. Arnie had made the same point when arguing with Tiffany’s lawyers.