Free Playing for Pizza by John Grisham

see you at practice tonight.”
    “Of course.”
    Franco was on his feet now, his other duties calling him. Rick was not exactly expecting to be fined or otherwise punished, but Romo’s “complaints” needed to be addressed, didn’t they?
    Evidently not. Franco swept Rick from his office with the mandatory embraces and handshakes and promises to help in any way, and Rick was soon in the hall, then down the stairs and into the alley, all alone, a free man.

Chapter
    8
    Sam passed the time in the empty café with the Panther playbook, a thick binder with a thousand Xs and Os, a hundred offensive plays, and a dozen defensive schemes. Thick, but not nearly as thick as the ones handed out by college teams, and a mere memo compared with the tomes used in the NFL. And too thick, according to the Italians. It was often mumbled, in the tedium of a long chalkboard session, that there was little wonder soccer was so popular throughout the rest of the world. It was so easy to learn, to play, and to understand.
    And these are just the basics, Sam was always tempted to say.
    Rick arrived promptly at 11:30, and the café was still empty. Only a couple of Americans would arrange a lunch at such an odd hour. Lunch, but only salads and water.
    Rick had showered and shaved and looked far less criminal. With great animation, he relayed the story of his encounter with Detective Romo, his “non-arrest,” and the meeting with Judge Franco. Sam was highly entertained and assured Rick that no other American had received such a special welcome from Franco.Sam had seen the video. Yes, Franco was as slow in the flesh as he was on the film, but he was a punishing blocker and would run through a brick wall, or at least give it his best shot.
    Sam explained that to the best of his limited knowledge, Italian judges are different from their American counterparts. Franco had broad authority to initiate investigations and proceedings, and he also presided over trials. After a thirty-second summary of Italian law, Sam had exhausted his knowledge on the subject, and it was back to football.
    They picked through the lettuce and played with the tomatoes, but neither had much of an appetite. After an hour, they left on foot to handle some business. The first item was the opening of a checking account. Sam chose his bank, primarily because a certain assistant manager could thrash through enough English to resolve matters. Sam pressed Rick to do it himself, and helped only when things were at an impasse. It took an hour, and Rick was frustrated and more than a little intimidated. Sam would not always be around to translate.
    With a quick tour of Rick’s neighborhood and the center of Parma, they found a small grocery with fruits and vegetables stacked along the sidewalk. Sam was explaining that Italians prefer to buy their food fresh each day and avoid stockpiling groceries in cans and bottles. The butcher was next door to the fish market. Bakeries were on every corner. “The Kroger concept doesn’t work over here,” Sam said. “Housewives plan their day around shopping for fresh food.”Rick gamely tagged along, somewhat engaged in the sightseeing but not interested in the notion of cooking. Why bother? There were so many places to eat. The wine and cheese shop held little interest, at least until Rick spotted a very attractive young lady stocking reds. Sam pointed out two men’s stores, and again dropped rather pointed hints about ditching the Florida garb and upgrading to the local fashions. They also found a cleaners, a bar with great cappuccino, a bookstore where every book was in Italian, and a pizzeria with a menu in four languages.
    Then it was time for the car. Somewhere in Signor Bruncardo’s little empire a well-used but clean and shiny Fiat Punto had become available, and for the next five months it belonged to the quarterback. Rick walked around it, inspected it carefully without uttering a word, but couldn’t help but think that at least