playing for pizza

Playing for Pizza 

By: John Grisham 

Rick Dockery was the third-string quarterback for the Cleveland 

Browns. In the deciding game at the climax of the season, to the 

surprise and dismay of virtually everyone, Rick actually got into the 

game. With a 17-point lead and just minutes to go, Rick provided 

what was arguably the worst single performance in the history of the 

NFL. Overnight, he became a national laughing stock and, of 

course, was immediately dropped by the Browns and shunned by all 

other teams. 

But all Rick knows is football, and he insists that his agent, Arme, 

finds a team that needs him. Against enormous odds.Arnie finally 

locates just such a team and informs Rick that, miraculously, he can 

in fact now be a starting quarterback. Great says Rick - for which 

team? 

The mighty Panthers of Parma, Italy. 

Yes, Italians do play American football, to one degree or another, and 

the Parma Panthers desperately want a player from the home of 

American football at their helm. So Rick reluctantly agrees to play for 

the Panthers - at least until a better offer comes along - and heads off 

to Italy. He knows nothing about Parma (not even where it is), has 

never been to Europe, and doesn't speak or understand a word of 

Italian. 

To say that Italy - the land of opera, fine wines, extremely small 

cars, romance and football americano - holds a few surprises for 

Rick Dockery would be something of an understatement. 

i 

Playing for Pizza 

Chapter 1 

It was a hospital bed, that much appeared certain, though certainty 

was coming and going. It was narrow and hard and there were shiny 

metal railings standing sentrylike along the sides, preventing escape. 

The sheets were plain and very white. Sanitary. The room was dark, 

but sunlight was trying to creep around the blinds covering the 

window. He closed his eyes again; even that was painful. Then he 

opened them, and for a long silent minute or so he managed to keep 

the lids apart and focus on his cloudy little world. He was lying on his 

back and pinned down by firmly tucked sheets. He noticed a tube 

dangling to his left, running down to his hand, then disappearing up 

somewhere behind him. There was a voice in the distance, out in the 

hallway. Then he made the mistake of trying to move, just a slight 

adjustment of the head, and it didn't work. Hot bolts of pain hit his 

skull and neck and he groaned loudly. "Rick. Are you awake?" The 

voice was familiar, and quickly a face followed it. Arnie was breathing 

on him. "Arnie?" he said with a weak, scratchy voice, then he 

swallowed. "It's me, Rick, thank God you're awake." Arnie the agent, 

always there at the important moments. 

"Where am I, Arnie?" 

"You're in the hospital, Rick." "Got that. But why?" "When did you 

wake up?" Arnie found a switch, and a light came on beside the bed. 

"I don't know. A few minutes ago." "How do you feel?" "Like someone 

crushed my skull." "Close. You're gonna be fine, trust me." Trust me, 

trust me. How many times had he heard Arnie ask for trust? Truth 

was, he'd never completely trusted Arnie and there was no plausible 

reason to start now. What did Arnie know about traumatic head 

injuries or whatever mortal wound someone had inflicted? Rick 

closed his eyes again and breathed deeply. "What happened?" he 

asked softly. Arnie hesitated and ran a hand over his hairless head. 

He glanced at his watch, 4:00 p.m., so his client had been knocked 

out for almost twenty-four hours. Not long enough, he thought, sadly. 

"What's the last thing you remember?" Arnie asked as he carefully 

put both elbows on the bed's railing and leaned forward. After a 

pause, Rick managed to say, "I remember Bannister coming at me." 

Arnie smacked his lips and said, "No, Rick. That was the second 

concussion, two years ago in Dallas, when you were with the 

Cowboys." Rick groaned at the memory, and it wasn't pleasant for 

Arnie either, because his client had been squatting on the sideline 

looking at a certain cheerleader when the play came his way and he 

was squashed, helmetless, by a ton of flying bodies. Dallas cut him 

two weeks later and found another third-string quarterback. 

"Last year you were in Seattle, Rick, and now you're in Cleveland, the 

Browns, remember?" 

Rick remembered and groaned a bit louder. "What day is it?" he 

asked, eyes open now. "Monday. The game was yesterday. Do you 

recall any of it?" Not if you're lucky, Arnie wanted to say. "I'll get a 

nurse. They've been waiting." "Not yet, Arnie. Talk to me. What