Free Playing for Pizza by John Grisham Page A

four of them would fit into the SUV he’d been driving until three days ago.
    He folded himself into the driver’s seat and inspected the dash. “It’ll do,” he finally said to Sam, who was standing a few feet away on the sidewalk.
    He touched the stick shift and realized it was not rigid. It moved, too much. Then his left foot got caught on something that was not a brake pedal. A clutch?
    “Manual, huh?” he said.
    “All cars here are manual. Not a problem, is it?”
    “Of course not.” He could not remember the last time his left foot had depressed a clutch. A friend in high school had had a Mazda with a stick shift, andRick had practiced once or twice. That was at least ten years ago. He jumped out, slammed the door, and almost said, Got anything with an automatic? But he didn’t. He could not show concern with something as simple as a car with a clutch.
    “It’s either this or a scooter,” Sam said.
    Give me the scooter, Rick wanted to say.
    Sam left him there, with the Fiat he was afraid to drive. They agreed to meet in a couple of hours in the locker room. The playbook had to be addressed as soon as possible. The Italians might not learn all the plays, but the quarterback was required to.
    Rick walked around the block, thinking of all the playbooks he’d suffered through in his nomadic career. Arnie would call with a new deal. Rick would take off to his newest team, terribly excited. A quick hello at the front office; quick tour of the stadium, locker room, and so on. Then all enthusiasm faded the instant some assistant coach marched in with the massive playbook and dropped it in front of him. “Memorize it by tomorrow” was always the command.
    Sure, Coach. A thousand plays. No problem.
    How many playbooks? How many assistant coaches? How many teams? How many stops along the way in a frustrating career that had now led him to a small town in northern Italy? He drank a beer at a sidewalk café and couldn’t shake the lonely feeling that this was not where he was supposed to be.
    He shuffled through the wine shop, terrified a clerk might ask him if there was anything in particular he needed. The cute girl stocking the reds was gone.
    And then he was back, staring at the five-speed Fiat, clutch and all. He didn’t even like the color, a deep copper he’d never seen. It was in a row of similar cars parked tightly together, less than a foot between bumpers, on a one-way street with a fair amount of traffic. Any effort to drive away would require him to ease forward and back, forward and back, at least a half dozen times as he inched the front wheels into the street. Perfect coordination of the clutch, stick, and accelerator would be essential.
    It would be a challenge in an automatic. Why did these people park so close together? The key was in his pocket.
    Maybe later. He walked to his apartment and took a nap.
·  ·  ·
    Rick changed quickly into the Panther practice uniform—black shirt, silver shorts, white socks. Each player bought his own shoes, and Rick had hauled over three pairs of the game-day Nikes the Browns had so freely dispensed. Most NFL players had shoe contracts. Rick had never been offered one.
    He was alone in the locker room, flipping through the playbook, when Sly Turner bounced in, all smiles and wearing a bright orange Denver Broncos sweatshirt. They introduced themselves, shook hands politely, and before long Rick said, “You wearing that for a reason?”
    “Yep, love my Broncos,” Sly said, still smiling. “Grew up near Denver, went to Colorado State.”
    “That’s nice. I hear I’m a popular guy in Denver.”
    “We love you, man.”
    “Always needed to be loved. Are we gonna be pals, Sly?”
    “Sure, just give me the ball twenty times a game.”
    “Done.” Rick removed a shoe from his locker, slowly put it on his right foot, and began lacing it. “You get drafted?”
    “Seventh round by the Colts, four years ago. Last player cut. One year in Canada, two years