Playing for Pizza by John Grisham Read Free Book Online

owned by two brothers. Carlo runs the kitchen and does the cooking. Nino handles the front and makes sure everyone is well fed. Nino is also your center, and don’t be surprised when you meet him. Your center in high school was probably bigger, but he’s tough on the field, and his idea of a good time is knocking people around for two hours once a week. He’s also the offensive translator. You call the plays in English, then Nino does a quick version in Italian, then you break huddle. As you walk to the line, you pray that Nino got the translation right. Most of the Italians can understand the basics in English, and they’re quick to go with their first impulse. Often they don’t wait for Nino. On some plays the entire team breaks in different directions and you have no idea what’s going on.”
    “So what do I do?”
    “Run like hell.”
    “This should be fun.”
    “It can be. But these guys take it serious, especially in the heat of the battle. They love to hit, both before the whistle and after. They cuss and fight, then they hug and go drink together. A player by the name of Paolo might join us for dinner. His English is very good. And there might be one or two others. They’re anxious to meet you. Nino will take care of the food and wine, so don’t worry with the menu. It will be delicious, trust me.”

Chapter
    6
    They drove near the university and parked on one of the endless narrow streets. It was dark now, and packs of students drifted by in noisy conversations. Rick was subdued, so Sam handled the dialogue. “A trattoria, by definition, is an unassuming family-owned place with great local dishes and wines, generous portions, not too expensive. Are you listening to me?”
    “Yes.” They were walking quickly along a sidewalk. “Are you going to feed me or talk me to death?”
    “I’m trying to ease you into Italian culture.”
    “Just find me a pizza.”
    “Where was I?”
    “A trattoria.”
    “Yes, as opposed to a restaurant, which is usually more elegant and expensive. Then there’s the osteria, which traditionally was a dining room in an inn but now can mean almost anything. And the bar, which we’ve covered. And the enoteca , which usually doubles as a wine shop and offers snacks and smaller dishes. I think that covers it all.”
    “So no one goes hungry in Italy.”
    “Are you kidding?”
    A small sign for Café Montana hung over thedoor. Through the front window they could see a long room with empty tables, all covered with starched and pressed white cloths and adorned with blue plates, linens, and massive wine goblets.
    “We’re a bit early,” Sam said. “The place gets busy around eight. But Nino is waiting.”
    “Montana?” Rick said.
    “Yes, after Joe. The quarterback.”
    “No.”
    “Dead serious. These guys love their football. Carlo played years ago but ruined a knee. Now he just cooks. Legend has it that he holds all kinds of records for personal fouls.”
    They stepped inside, and whatever Carlo was preparing back in the kitchen hit them hard. The aroma of garlic and rich meat sauces and frying pork hung like smoke over the front room, and Rick was ready to eat. A fire was burning in a wall pit halfway back.
    From a side door, Nino bounded into the room and began kissing Sam. A mighty embrace, then a manly, noisy peck somewhere near the right cheek, same for the left, then he grabbed Rick’s right hand with both of his and said, “Rick, my quarterback, welcome to Parma.” Rick shook hands firmly but was prepared to step backward if the kissing continued. It did not.
    The accent was thick, but the words were clear. Rick was more like Reek.
    “My pleasure,” Rick said.
    “I am center,” Nino announced proudly. “But becareful with your hands. My wife, she is jealous.” At which Nino and Sam doubled over in horse laughter, and Rick awkwardly followed suit.
    Nino was less than six feet tall, thick and fit, probably around 210 pounds. As he laughed at his own