Chapter One


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 happened?"

"You threw a pass, then you got sandwiched. Purcell came on a weak-side blitz and took your head off. You never saw him."

"Why was I in the game?"

Now, that was an excellent question, one that was raging on every sports radio show in Cleveland and the upper Midwest. Why was HE in the game? Why was HE on the team? Where in the hell did HE come from?

"Let's talk about it later," Arnie said, and Rick was too weak to argue. With great reluctance, his wounded brain was stirring slightly, shaking itself...

 

"Fans of John Grisham live for his legal thrillers, but now and then he serves up something unexpected. That's exactly what he does, with great success, in Playing for Pizza."

 

"Enthralling."

 

"Score another one for Grisham...This is a fish-out-of-water tale that perfectly suits his strengths as a storyteller."

 

"A light-hearted story of football, food and love."

 

"Football in Italy? Who knew? Grisham means to have a sweet time with this story of a fallen NFL quarterback. And he does."

 

"Delightfully comic...a deeply satisfying story."

 

"Charming...the author's love letter to Italy."

 

Playing for Pizza by John Grisham
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