Playing For Pizza

From the Publisher

Rick Dockery was the third-string quarterback for the Cleveland Browns. In the AFC Championship game against Denver, 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 laughingstock and, of course, was immediately cut by the Browns and shunned by all other teams.

But all Rick knows is football, and he insists that his agent, Arnie, find 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–for the mighty Panthers of Parma, Italy.

Yes, Italians do play American football, to one degree or another, and the Parma Panthers desperately want a former NFL player–any former NFL player–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, has never been to Europe, and doesn’t speak or understand a word of Italian. To say that Italy holds a few surprises for Rick Dockery would be something of an understatement.

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Playing for Pizza

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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 from its coma and trying to awaken. The Browns. Browns Stadium, on a very cold Sunday afternoon before a record crowd. The play-offs, no, more than that—the AFC title game.

The ground was frozen, hard as concrete and just as cold.

A nurse was in the room, and Arnie was announcing, "I think he's snapped out of it."

"That's great," she said, without much enthusiasm. "I'll go find a doctor." With even less enthusiasm.Rick watched her leave without moving his head. Arnie was cracking his knuckles and ready to bolt. "Look, Rick, I need to get going."

"Sure, Arnie. Thanks."

"No problem. Look, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just be blunt. The Browns called this morning—Wacker—and, well, they've released you." It was almost an annual ritual now, this postseason cutting.

"I'm sorry," Arnie said, but only because he had to say it.

"Call the other teams," Rick said, and certainly not for the first time.

"Evidently I won't have to. They're already calling me."

"That's great."

"Not really. They're calling to warn me not to call them. I'm afraid this might be the end of the line, kid."

There was no doubt it was the end of the line, but Arnie just couldn't find the candor. Maybe tomorrow. Eight teams in six years. Only the Toronto Argonauts dared to sign him for a second season. Every team needed a backup to their backup quarterback, and Rick was perfect for the role. Problems started, though, when he ventured onto the field.

"Gotta run," Arnie said, glancing at his watch again. "And listen, do yourself a favor and keep the television turned off. It's brutal, especially ESPN." He patted his knee and darted from the room. Outside the door there were two thick security guards sitting in folding chairs, trying to stay awake.Arnie stopped at the nurses' station and spoke to the doctor, who eventually made his way down the hall, past the security guards, and into Rick's room. His bedside manner lacked warmth—a quick check of the basics without much conversation. Neurological work to follow. Just another garden-variety brain concussion, isn't this the third one?

"I think so," Rick said.

"Thought about finding another job?" the doctor asked.

"No."

Perhaps you should, the doctor thought, and not just because of your bruised brain. Three interceptions in eleven minutes should be a clear sign that football is not your calling. Two nurses appeared quietly and helped with the tests and paperwork. Neither said a word to the patient, though he was an unmarried professional athlete with notable good looks and a hard body. And at that moment, when he needed them, they could not have cared less.

As soon as he was alone again, Rick very carefully began looking for the remote. A large television hung from the wall in the corner. He planned to go straight to ESPN and get it over with. Every movement hurt, and not just his head and neck. Something close to a fresh knife wound ached in his lower back. His left elbow, the non-throwing one, throbbed with pain.

Sandwiched? He felt like he'd been flattened by a cement truck.

The nurse was back, holding a tray with some pills. "Where's the remote?" Rick asked.

"Uh, the television's broke."

"Arnie pulled the plug, didn't he?"

"Which plug?"

"The television."

"Who's Arnie?" she asked as she tinkered with a rather large needle.

"What's that?" Rick asked, forgetting Arnie for a second.

"Vicodin. It'll help you sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"Doctor's orders, okay. You need rest, and lots of it." She drained the Vicodin into his IV bag and watched the clear liquids for a moment.

"Are you a Browns fan?" Rick asked.

"My husband is."

"Was he at the game yesterday?"

"Yes."

"How bad was it?"

"You don't want to know."

***When he awoke, Arnie was there again, sitting in a chair beside the bed and reading the Cleveland Post. At the bottom of the front page, Rick could barely make out the headline "Fans Storm Hospital."

"What!" Rick said as forcefully as possible.

Arnie snatched the paper down and bolted to his feet. "Are you okay, kid?"

"Wonderful, Arnie. What day is it?"

"Tuesday, early Tuesday morning. How do you feel, kid?"

"Give me that newspaper."

"What do you want to know?"

"What's going on, Arnie?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Have you watched television?"

"No. You pulled the plug. Talk to me, Arnie."

Arnie cracked his knuckles, then walked slowly to the window, where he barely opened the blinds. He peered through them, as if trouble were out there. "Yesterday some hooligans came here and made a scene. Cops handled it well, arrested a dozen or so. Just a bunch of thugs. Browns fans."

"How many?"

"Paper said about twenty. Just drunks."

"And why did they come here, Arnie? It's just you and me—agent and player. The door's closed. Please fill in the blanks."

"They found out you were here. A lot of folks would like to take a shot at you these days. You've had a hundred death threats. Folks are upset. They're even threatening me." Arnie leaned against the wall, a flash of smugness because his life was now worth being threatened. "You still don't remember?" he asked.

"No."

"Browns are up seventeen to zip over the Broncos with eleven minutes to go. Zip doesn't come close to describing the ass-kicking. After three quarters, the Broncos have eighty-one yards in total offense, and three, count 'em, three first downs. Anything?"

"No."

"Ben Marroon is at quarterback because Nagle pulled a hamstring in the first quarter."

"I remember that now."

"With eleven minutes to go, Marroon gets drilled on a late hit. They carry him off. No one's worried because the Browns' defense could stop General Patton and his tanks. You take the field, third and twelve, you throw a beautiful pass in the flat to Sweeney, who, of course, plays for the Broncos, and forty yards later he's in the end zone. Remember any of this?"

Rick slowly closed his eyes and said, "No."

"Don't try too hard.

"Both teams punt, then the Broncos fumble. With six minutes to go, on a third and eight, you check off at the line and throw to Bryce on a hook, but the ball is high and is picked off by somebody in a white jersey, can't recall his name but he sure can run, all the way. Seventeen to fourteen. The place is getting tense, eighty thousand plus. A few minutes earlier they were celebrating. First Super Bowl ever, all that jazz. Broncos kick off, Browns run the ball three times because Cooley ain't about to send in a pass play, and so the Browns punt. Or try to. Snap gets fumbled, Broncos get the ball on the Browns' thirty-four-yard line, which is no problem whatsoever because in three plays the Browns' defense, which is really, really pissed at this point, stuffs them for fifteen yards, out of field goal range. Broncos punt, you take over at your own 6, and for the next four minutes manage to cram the ball into the middle of the defensive line. The drive stalls at midfield, third and ten, forty seconds to go. Browns are afraid to pass and even more afraid to punt. I don't know what Cooley sends in, but you check off again, fire a missile to the right sideline for Bryce, who's wide open. Right on target."

Rick tried to sit up, and for a moment forgot about his injuries. "I still don't remember."

"Right on target, but much too hard. It hits Bryce in the chest, bounces up, and Goodson grabs it, gallops to the promised land. Browns lose twenty-one to seventeen. You're on the ground, almost sawed in half. They put you on a stretcher, and as they roll you off the field, half the crowd is booing and the other half is cheering wildly. Quite a noise, never heard anything like it. A couple of drunks jump from the stands and rush the stretcher—they would've killed you—but security steps in. A nice brawl ensues, and it, too, is all over the talk shows."

Rick was slumped over, low in the bed, lower than ever, with his eyes closed and his breathing quite labored. The headaches were back, along with the sharp pains in the neck and along the spine. Where were the drugs?

"Sorry, kid," Arnie said. The room was nicer in the darkness, so Arnie closed the blinds and reassumed his position in the chair, with his newspaper. His client appeared to be dead.

The doctors were ready to release him, but Arnie had argued strongly that he needed a few more days of rest and protection. The Browns were paying for the security guards, and they were not happy about it. The team was also covering the medicals, and it wouldn't be long before they complained.

And Arnie was fed up, too. Rick's career, if you could call it that, was over. Arnie got 5 percent, and 5 percent of Rick's salary wasn't enough to cover expenses. "Are you awake, Rick?"

"Yes," he said, with his eyes still closed.

"Listen to me, okay."

"I'm listening."

"The hardest part of my job is telling a player that it's time to quit. You've played all your life, it's all you know, all you dream about. No one is ever ready to quit. But, Rick, ole buddy, it's time to call it quits. There are no options."

"I'm twenty-eight years old, Arnie," Rick said, with his eyes open. Very sad eyes. "What do you suggest I do?"

"A lot of guys go into coaching. And real estate. You were smart—you got your degree."

"My degree is in phys ed, Arnie. That means I can get a job teaching volleyball to sixth graders for forty thousand a year. I'm not ready for that."

Arnie stood and walked around the end of the bed, as if deep in thought. "Why don't you go home, get some rest, and think about it?"

"Home? Where is home? I've lived in so many different places."

"Home is Iowa, Rick. They still love you there." And they really love you in Denver, Arnie thought, but wisely kept it to himself.

The idea of being seen on the streets of Davenport, Iowa, terrified Rick, and he let out a soft groan. The town was probably humiliated by the play of its native son. Ouch. He thought of his poor parents, and closed his eyes.

Arnie glanced at his watch, then for some reason finally noticed that there were no get-well cards or flowers in the room. The nurses told him that no friends had stopped by, no family, no teammates, no one even remotely connected to the Cleveland Browns. "I gotta run, kid. I'll drop by tomorrow."Walking out, he nonchalantly tossed the newspaper on Rick's bed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Rick grabbed it, and soon wished he had not. The police estimated a crowd of fifty had staged a rowdy demonstration outside the hospital. Things got ugly when a TV news crew showed up and began filming. A window was smashed, and a few of the drunker fans stormed the ER check-in, supposedly looking for Rick Dockery. Eight were arrested. A large photo—front page beneath the fold—captured the crowd before the arrests. Two crude signs could be read clearly: "Pull the Plug Now!" and "Legalize Euthanasia."

Biography

As a young boy in Arkansas, John Grisham dreamed of being a baseball player. Fortunately for his millions of fans, that career didn't pan out. His family moved to Mississippi in 1967, where Grisham eventually received a law degree from Ole Miss and established a practice in Southaven for criminal and civil law. In 1983, Grisham was elected to the Mississippi House of Representatives, where he served until 1990.

While working as an attorney, Grisham witnessed emotional testimony from the case of a young girl's rape. Naturally inquisitive, Grisham's mind started to wander: what if the terrible crime yielded an equally terrible revenge? These questions of right and wrong were the subject of his first novel, A Time to Kill (1988), written in the stolen moments before and between court appearances. The book wasn't widely distributed, but his next title would be the one to bring him to the national spotlight. The day after he finished A Time to Kill, Grisham began work on The Firm (1991), the story of a whiz kid attorney who joins a crooked law firm. The book was an instant hit, spent 47 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list, and was made into a movie starring Tom Cruise.

With the success of The Firm, Grisham resigned from the Mississippi House of Representatives to focus exclusively on his writing. What followed was a string of bestselling legal thrillers that demonstrated the author's uncanny ability to capture the unique drama of the courtroom. Several of his novels were turned into blockbuster movies.

In 1996, Grisham returned to his law practice for one last case, honoring a promise he had made before his retirement. He represented the family of a railroad worker who was killed on the job, the case went to trial, and Grisham won the largest verdict of his career when the family was awarded more than $650,000.

Although he is best known for his legal thrillers, Grisham has ventured outside the genre with several well-received novels (A Painted House, Bleachers, et al) and an earnest and compelling nonfiction account of small-town justice gone terribly wrong (The Innocent Man). The popularity of these stand-alones proves that Grisham is no mere one-trick pony but a gifted writer with real "legs."

Good To Know

A prolific writer, it takes Grisham an average of six months to complete a novel.

Grisham has the right to approve or reject whoever is cast in movies based on his books. He has even written two screenplays himself: Mickey and The Gingerbread Man.

Baseball is one of Grisham's great loves. He serves as the local Little League commissioner and has six baseball diamonds on his property, where he hosts games.

Feature Interviews

Here are some highlights from our exclusive 2004 interview with author John Grisham:

On his prolific pace: "I hear writers say it really is hard to let go -- it's really hard, first of all, to start putting the words on the paper, and then once you've finished the thing, it's hard to send it off to New York -- that it's like letting go of a child. I'm just the opposite. When I start writing, the words and ideas come real fast, and once I'm done, I can't wait to get the thing off my desk, out of my house, off to New York, and published -- because I'm already writing the next book."

On being a lawyer vs. writing about them: "I closed my law office 13 years ago, and it was the happiest day of my life; I have not missed it for one moment. It's so much fun to write about lawyers, but I never enjoyed being a lawyer."

On how his life as a lawyer affects his writing: "I was so unhappy in that profession I would dream of ways to get out of it," he says. "I think that's just a memory I will take with me forever, because most of my characters -- most of my heroes or heroines -- are looking for a way out, or in the end they ride off into the sunset. Not always, but in 17 books it's happened almost all the time."

On comparing himself with his favorite writers: "I love to read people like John Steinbeck and William Styron, and people like that; some Hemingway, some Faulkner. I'll read a great novel, and I'll say, 'I'll never be that good!' I have to recognize my own limitations. I think where I am real good is putting a story together -- putting a plot together -- and being able to hook the reader fairly early on in an engaging story, and make the pages turn."

On a reason he's always loved to write: "I think it's just this fascination I have with escapism -- with being able to just chuck it all, and walk away."

On one of the secrets to his inspiration: "A hyperactive imagination, which I guess I was born with."

On the characters of his prior books: "I forget about these people so fast. I get embarrassed all the time because I'll be at a bookstore signing books, and somebody will ask me a question about The Partner, or The Brethren or something I wrote five or six years ago, and I can't answer the question because I don't remember what happened. I really tend to forget about them real fast because I'm always thinking about the next book or the next two books or the next movie."

On "the good life" as a writer: "Hey, I'm the luckiest guy in the world -- I really feel that way! I get to work about six months out of the year writing a novel, the other six months, I watch baseball games, raise my kids, stay on the farm with my wife and the horses, and live a very easy life -- I'm very spoiled."

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Playing for Pizza

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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 from its coma and trying to awaken. The Browns. Browns Stadium, on a very cold Sunday afternoon before a record crowd. The play-offs, no, more than that—the AFC title game.

The ground was frozen, hard as concrete and just as cold.

A nurse was in the room, and Arnie was announcing, "I think he's snapped out of it."

"That's great," she said, without much enthusiasm. "I'll go find a doctor." With even less enthusiasm.Rick watched her leave without moving his head. Arnie was cracking his knuckles and ready to bolt. "Look, Rick, I need to get going."

"Sure, Arnie. Thanks."

"No problem. Look, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just be blunt. The Browns called this morning—Wacker—and, well, they've released you." It was almost an annual ritual now, this postseason cutting.

"I'm sorry," Arnie said, but only because he had to say it.

"Call the other teams," Rick said, and certainly not for the first time.

"Evidently I won't have to. They're already calling me."

"That's great."

"Not really. They're calling to warn me not to call them. I'm afraid this might be the end of the line, kid."

There was no doubt it was the end of the line, but Arnie just couldn't find the candor. Maybe tomorrow. Eight teams in six years. Only the Toronto Argonauts dared to sign him for a second season. Every team needed a backup to their backup quarterback, and Rick was perfect for the role. Problems started, though, when he ventured onto the field.

"Gotta run," Arnie said, glancing at his watch again. "And listen, do yourself a favor and keep the television turned off. It's brutal, especially ESPN." He patted his knee and darted from the room. Outside the door there were two thick security guards sitting in folding chairs, trying to stay awake.Arnie stopped at the nurses' station and spoke to the doctor, who eventually made his way down the hall, past the security guards, and into Rick's room. His bedside manner lacked warmth—a quick check of the basics without much conversation. Neurological work to follow. Just another garden-variety brain concussion, isn't this the third one?

"I think so," Rick said.

"Thought about finding another job?" the doctor asked.

"No."

Perhaps you should, the doctor thought, and not just because of your bruised brain. Three interceptions in eleven minutes should be a clear sign that football is not your calling. Two nurses appeared quietly and helped with the tests and paperwork. Neither said a word to the patient, though he was an unmarried professional athlete with notable good looks and a hard body. And at that moment, when he needed them, they could not have cared less.

As soon as he was alone again, Rick very carefully began looking for the remote. A large television hung from the wall in the corner. He planned to go straight to ESPN and get it over with. Every movement hurt, and not just his head and neck. Something close to a fresh knife wound ached in his lower back. His left elbow, the non-throwing one, throbbed with pain.

Sandwiched? He felt like he'd been flattened by a cement truck.

The nurse was back, holding a tray with some pills. "Where's the remote?" Rick asked.

"Uh, the television's broke."

"Arnie pulled the plug, didn't he?"

"Which plug?"

"The television."

"Who's Arnie?" she asked as she tinkered with a rather large needle.

"What's that?" Rick asked, forgetting Arnie for a second.

"Vicodin. It'll help you sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"Doctor's orders, okay. You need rest, and lots of it." She drained the Vicodin into his IV bag and watched the clear liquids for a moment.

"Are you a Browns fan?" Rick asked.

"My husband is."

"Was he at the game yesterday?"

"Yes."

"How bad was it?"

"You don't want to know."

***When he awoke, Arnie was there again, sitting in a chair beside the bed and reading the Cleveland Post. At the bottom of the front page, Rick could barely make out the headline "Fans Storm Hospital."

"What!" Rick said as forcefully as possible.

Arnie snatched the paper down and bolted to his feet. "Are you okay, kid?"

"Wonderful, Arnie. What day is it?"

"Tuesday, early Tuesday morning. How do you feel, kid?"

"Give me that newspaper."

"What do you want to know?"

"What's going on, Arnie?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Have you watched television?"

"No. You pulled the plug. Talk to me, Arnie."

Arnie cracked his knuckles, then walked slowly to the window, where he barely opened the blinds. He peered through them, as if trouble were out there. "Yesterday some hooligans came here and made a scene. Cops handled it well, arrested a dozen or so. Just a bunch of thugs. Browns fans."

"How many?"

"Paper said about twenty. Just drunks."

"And why did they come here, Arnie? It's just you and me—agent and player. The door's closed. Please fill in the blanks."

"They found out you were here. A lot of folks would like to take a shot at you these days. You've had a hundred death threats. Folks are upset. They're even threatening me." Arnie leaned against the wall, a flash of smugness because his life was now worth being threatened. "You still don't remember?" he asked.

"No."

"Browns are up seventeen to zip over the Broncos with eleven minutes to go. Zip doesn't come close to describing the ass-kicking. After three quarters, the Broncos have eighty-one yards in total offense, and three, count 'em, three first downs. Anything?"

"No."

"Ben Marroon is at quarterback because Nagle pulled a hamstring in the first quarter."

"I remember that now."

"With eleven minutes to go, Marroon gets drilled on a late hit. They carry him off. No one's worried because the Browns' defense could stop General Patton and his tanks. You take the field, third and twelve, you throw a beautiful pass in the flat to Sweeney, who, of course, plays for the Broncos, and forty yards later he's in the end zone. Remember any of this?"

Rick slowly closed his eyes and said, "No."

"Don't try too hard.

"Both teams punt, then the Broncos fumble. With six minutes to go, on a third and eight, you check off at the line and throw to Bryce on a hook, but the ball is high and is picked off by somebody in a white jersey, can't recall his name but he sure can run, all the way. Seventeen to fourteen. The place is getting tense, eighty thousand plus. A few minutes earlier they were celebrating. First Super Bowl ever, all that jazz. Broncos kick off, Browns run the ball three times because Cooley ain't about to send in a pass play, and so the Browns punt. Or try to. Snap gets fumbled, Broncos get the ball on the Browns' thirty-four-yard line, which is no problem whatsoever because in three plays the Browns' defense, which is really, really pissed at this point, stuffs them for fifteen yards, out of field goal range. Broncos punt, you take over at your own 6, and for the next four minutes manage to cram the ball into the middle of the defensive line. The drive stalls at midfield, third and ten, forty seconds to go. Browns are afraid to pass and even more afraid to punt. I don't know what Cooley sends in, but you check off again, fire a missile to the right sideline for Bryce, who's wide open. Right on target."

Rick tried to sit up, and for a moment forgot about his injuries. "I still don't remember."

"Right on target, but much too hard. It hits Bryce in the chest, bounces up, and Goodson grabs it, gallops to the promised land. Browns lose twenty-one to seventeen. You're on the ground, almost sawed in half. They put you on a stretcher, and as they roll you off the field, half the crowd is booing and the other half is cheering wildly. Quite a noise, never heard anything like it. A couple of drunks jump from the stands and rush the stretcher—they would've killed you—but security steps in. A nice brawl ensues, and it, too, is all over the talk shows."

Rick was slumped over, low in the bed, lower than ever, with his eyes closed and his breathing quite labored. The headaches were back, along with the sharp pains in the neck and along the spine. Where were the drugs?

"Sorry, kid," Arnie said. The room was nicer in the darkness, so Arnie closed the blinds and reassumed his position in the chair, with his newspaper. His client appeared to be dead.

The doctors were ready to release him, but Arnie had argued strongly that he needed a few more days of rest and protection. The Browns were paying for the security guards, and they were not happy about it. The team was also covering the medicals, and it wouldn't be long before they complained.

And Arnie was fed up, too. Rick's career, if you could call it that, was over. Arnie got 5 percent, and 5 percent of Rick's salary wasn't enough to cover expenses. "Are you awake, Rick?"

"Yes," he said, with his eyes still closed.

"Listen to me, okay."

"I'm listening."

"The hardest part of my job is telling a player that it's time to quit. You've played all your life, it's all you know, all you dream about. No one is ever ready to quit. But, Rick, ole buddy, it's time to call it quits. There are no options."

"I'm twenty-eight years old, Arnie," Rick said, with his eyes open. Very sad eyes. "What do you suggest I do?"

"A lot of guys go into coaching. And real estate. You were smart—you got your degree."

"My degree is in phys ed, Arnie. That means I can get a job teaching volleyball to sixth graders for forty thousand a year. I'm not ready for that."

Arnie stood and walked around the end of the bed, as if deep in thought. "Why don't you go home, get some rest, and think about it?"

"Home? Where is home? I've lived in so many different places."

"Home is Iowa, Rick. They still love you there." And they really love you in Denver, Arnie thought, but wisely kept it to himself.

The idea of being seen on the streets of Davenport, Iowa, terrified Rick, and he let out a soft groan. The town was probably humiliated by the play of its native son. Ouch. He thought of his poor parents, and closed his eyes.

Arnie glanced at his watch, then for some reason finally noticed that there were no get-well cards or flowers in the room. The nurses told him that no friends had stopped by, no family, no teammates, no one even remotely connected to the Cleveland Browns. "I gotta run, kid. I'll drop by tomorrow."Walking out, he nonchalantly tossed the newspaper on Rick's bed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Rick grabbed it, and soon wished he had not. The police estimated a crowd of fifty had staged a rowdy demonstration outside the hospital. Things got ugly when a TV news crew showed up and began filming. A window was smashed, and a few of the drunker fans stormed the ER check-in, supposedly looking for Rick Dockery. Eight were arrested. A large photo—front page beneath the fold—captured the crowd before the arrests. Two crude signs could be read clearly: "Pull the Plug Now!" and "Legalize Euthanasia."

Editorial Reviews -

Playing for Pizza

From Barnes & Noble

Rick Dockery wanted to make football history -- but not that kind of football history. Last year, as a last-minute replacement in an AFC championship game, he single-handedly blew his team's 17-point lead. Now a national laughingstock, this unemployed backup quarterback is begging for a second chance. He finds it in unexpected ways in Parma, Italy, a place he's never heard of. A singular sports novel by fiction maestro John Grisham.

From the Publisher

Rick Dockery was the third-string quarterback for the Cleveland Browns. In the AFC Championship game against Denver, 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 laughingstock and, of course, was immediately cut by the Browns and shunned by all other teams.

But all Rick knows is football, and he insists that his agent, Arnie, find 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–for the mighty Panthers of Parma, Italy.

Yes, Italians do play American football, to one degree or another, and the Parma Panthers desperately want a former NFL player–any former NFL player–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, has never been to Europe, and doesn’t speak or understand a word of Italian. To say that Italy holds a few surprises for Rick Dockery would be something of an understatement.

Publishers Weekly

Christopher Evan Welch kicks and scores with his engaging narration of Grisham's charming tale of touchdowns and tortellini. Rick Dockery, a 28-year-old third-string NFL quarterback, is playing for the Cleveland Browns. In the final minutes of a decisive game, Rick is brought off the bench to disastrous results. The Browns lose the game and a chance at going to the Super Bowl. After he is unceremoniously dumped by the team, the quarterback agrees to play for a small but tenacious team called the Parma Panthers-whose playing field is in Parma, Italy. Welch perfectly captures the tone for this humorous and often touching fish-out-of-water story. Welch brings the listener along with Rick, as the young quarterback painfully adjusts to the strange new world he's thrust into. He brings to life Rick's discovery of Italy, with all its history and colorful characters. Especially delicious are the descriptions of the rich Italian foods that Rick and his teammates seem to constantly consume. By the end of the book, listeners will be seeking out the nearest Italian trattoria. Simultaneous release with the Doubleday hardcover (Reviews, Sept. 24). (Oct.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information

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Meet the Writer -

Playing for Pizza

Fact File

Name: John Grisham

Current Home: Oxford, Mississippi, and Albemarle County, Virginia

Date of Birth: February 8, 1955

Place of Birth: Jonesboro, Arkansas

Education: B.S., Mississippi State, 1977; J.D., University of Mississippi, 1981

* John Grisham's official web site

Biography

As a young boy in Arkansas, John Grisham dreamed of being a baseball player. Fortunately for his millions of fans, that career didn't pan out. His family moved to Mississippi in 1967, where Grisham eventually received a law degree from Ole Miss and established a practice in Southaven for criminal and civil law. In 1983, Grisham was elected to the Mississippi House of Representatives, where he served until 1990.

While working as an attorney, Grisham witnessed emotional testimony from the case of a young girl's rape. Naturally inquisitive, Grisham's mind started to wander: what if the terrible crime yielded an equally terrible revenge? These questions of right and wrong were the subject of his first novel, A Time to Kill (1988), written in the stolen moments before and between court appearances. The book wasn't widely distributed, but his next title would be the one to bring him to the national spotlight. The day after he finished A Time to Kill, Grisham began work on The Firm (1991), the story of a whiz kid attorney who joins a crooked law firm. The book was an instant hit, spent 47 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list, and was made into a movie starring Tom Cruise.

With the success of The Firm, Grisham resigned from the Mississippi House of Representatives to focus exclusively on his writing. What followed was a string of bestselling legal thrillers that demonstrated the author's uncanny ability to capture the unique drama of the courtroom. Several of his novels were turned into blockbuster movies.

In 1996, Grisham returned to his law practice for one last case, honoring a promise he had made before his retirement. He represented the family of a railroad worker who was killed on the job, the case went to trial, and Grisham won the largest verdict of his career when the family was awarded more than $650,000.

Although he is best known for his legal thrillers, Grisham has ventured outside the genre with several well-received novels (A Painted House, Bleachers, et al) and an earnest and compelling nonfiction account of small-town justice gone terribly wrong (The Innocent Man). The popularity of these stand-alones proves that Grisham is no mere one-trick pony but a gifted writer with real "legs."

Good To Know

A prolific writer, it takes Grisham an average of six months to complete a novel.

Grisham has the right to approve or reject whoever is cast in movies based on his books. He has even written two screenplays himself: Mickey and The Gingerbread Man.

Baseball is one of Grisham's great loves. He serves as the local Little League commissioner and has six baseball diamonds on his property, where he hosts games.

Feature Interviews

Here are some highlights from our exclusive 2004 interview with author John Grisham:

On his prolific pace: "I hear writers say it really is hard to let go -- it's really hard, first of all, to start putting the words on the paper, and then once you've finished the thing, it's hard to send it off to New York -- that it's like letting go of a child. I'm just the opposite. When I start writing, the words and ideas come real fast, and once I'm done, I can't wait to get the thing off my desk, out of my house, off to New York, and published -- because I'm already writing the next book."

On being a lawyer vs. writing about them: "I closed my law office 13 years ago, and it was the happiest day of my life; I have not missed it for one moment. It's so much fun to write about lawyers, but I never enjoyed being a lawyer."

On how his life as a lawyer affects his writing: "I was so unhappy in that profession I would dream of ways to get out of it," he says. "I think that's just a memory I will take with me forever, because most of my characters -- most of my heroes or heroines -- are looking for a way out, or in the end they ride off into the sunset. Not always, but in 17 books it's happened almost all the time."

On comparing himself with his favorite writers: "I love to read people like John Steinbeck and William Styron, and people like that; some Hemingway, some Faulkner. I'll read a great novel, and I'll say, 'I'll never be that good!' I have to recognize my own limitations. I think where I am real good is putting a story together -- putting a plot together -- and being able to hook the reader fairly early on in an engaging story, and make the pages turn."

On a reason he's always loved to write: "I think it's just this fascination I have with escapism -- with being able to just chuck it all, and walk away."

On one of the secrets to his inspiration: "A hyperactive imagination, which I guess I was born with."

On the characters of his prior books: "I forget about these people so fast. I get embarrassed all the time because I'll be at a bookstore signing books, and somebody will ask me a question about The Partner, or The Brethren or something I wrote five or six years ago, and I can't answer the question because I don't remember what happened. I really tend to forget about them real fast because I'm always thinking about the next book or the next two books or the next movie."

On "the good life" as a writer: "Hey, I'm the luckiest guy in the world -- I really feel that way! I get to work about six months out of the year writing a novel, the other six months, I watch baseball games, raise my kids, stay on the farm with my wife and the horses, and live a very easy life -- I'm very spoiled."

Features -

Playing for Pizza

Read an Excerpt

Read an Excerpt

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 from its coma and trying to awaken. The Browns. Browns Stadium, on a very cold Sunday afternoon before a record crowd. The play-offs, no, more than that—the AFC title game.

The ground was frozen, hard as concrete and just as cold.

A nurse was in the room, and Arnie was announcing, "I think he's snapped out of it."

"That's great," she said, without much enthusiasm. "I'll go find a doctor." With even less enthusiasm.Rick watched her leave without moving his head. Arnie was cracking his knuckles and ready to bolt. "Look, Rick, I need to get going."

"Sure, Arnie. Thanks."

"No problem. Look, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just be blunt. The Browns called this morning—Wacker—and, well, they've released you." It was almost an annual ritual now, this postseason cutting.

"I'm sorry," Arnie said, but only because he had to say it.

"Call the other teams," Rick said, and certainly not for the first time.

"Evidently I won't have to. They're already calling me."

"That's great."

"Not really. They're calling to warn me not to call them. I'm afraid this might be the end of the line, kid."

There was no doubt it was the end of the line, but Arnie just couldn't find the candor. Maybe tomorrow. Eight teams in six years. Only the Toronto Argonauts dared to sign him for a second season. Every team needed a backup to their backup quarterback, and Rick was perfect for the role. Problems started, though, when he ventured onto the field.

"Gotta run," Arnie said, glancing at his watch again. "And listen, do yourself a favor and keep the television turned off. It's brutal, especially ESPN." He patted his knee and darted from the room. Outside the door there were two thick security guards sitting in folding chairs, trying to stay awake.Arnie stopped at the nurses' station and spoke to the doctor, who eventually made his way down the hall, past the security guards, and into Rick's room. His bedside manner lacked warmth—a quick check of the basics without much conversation. Neurological work to follow. Just another garden-variety brain concussion, isn't this the third one?

"I think so," Rick said.

"Thought about finding another job?" the doctor asked.

"No."

Perhaps you should, the doctor thought, and not just because of your bruised brain. Three interceptions in eleven minutes should be a clear sign that football is not your calling. Two nurses appeared quietly and helped with the tests and paperwork. Neither said a word to the patient, though he was an unmarried professional athlete with notable good looks and a hard body. And at that moment, when he needed them, they could not have cared less.

As soon as he was alone again, Rick very carefully began looking for the remote. A large television hung from the wall in the corner. He planned to go straight to ESPN and get it over with. Every movement hurt, and not just his head and neck. Something close to a fresh knife wound ached in his lower back. His left elbow, the non-throwing one, throbbed with pain.

Sandwiched? He felt like he'd been flattened by a cement truck.

The nurse was back, holding a tray with some pills. "Where's the remote?" Rick asked.

"Uh, the television's broke."

"Arnie pulled the plug, didn't he?"

"Which plug?"

"The television."

"Who's Arnie?" she asked as she tinkered with a rather large needle.

"What's that?" Rick asked, forgetting Arnie for a second.

"Vicodin. It'll help you sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"Doctor's orders, okay. You need rest, and lots of it." She drained the Vicodin into his IV bag and watched the clear liquids for a moment.

"Are you a Browns fan?" Rick asked.

"My husband is."

"Was he at the game yesterday?"

"Yes."

"How bad was it?"

"You don't want to know."

***When he awoke, Arnie was there again, sitting in a chair beside the bed and reading the Cleveland Post. At the bottom of the front page, Rick could barely make out the headline "Fans Storm Hospital."

"What!" Rick said as forcefully as possible.

Arnie snatched the paper down and bolted to his feet. "Are you okay, kid?"

"Wonderful, Arnie. What day is it?"

"Tuesday, early Tuesday morning. How do you feel, kid?"

"Give me that newspaper."

"What do you want to know?"

"What's going on, Arnie?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Have you watched television?"

"No. You pulled the plug. Talk to me, Arnie."

Arnie cracked his knuckles, then walked slowly to the window, where he barely opened the blinds. He peered through them, as if trouble were out there. "Yesterday some hooligans came here and made a scene. Cops handled it well, arrested a dozen or so. Just a bunch of thugs. Browns fans."

"How many?"

"Paper said about twenty. Just drunks."

"And why did they come here, Arnie? It's just you and me—agent and player. The door's closed. Please fill in the blanks."

"They found out you were here. A lot of folks would like to take a shot at you these days. You've had a hundred death threats. Folks are upset. They're even threatening me." Arnie leaned against the wall, a flash of smugness because his life was now worth being threatened. "You still don't remember?" he asked.

"No."

"Browns are up seventeen to zip over the Broncos with eleven minutes to go. Zip doesn't come close to describing the ass-kicking. After three quarters, the Broncos have eighty-one yards in total offense, and three, count 'em, three first downs. Anything?"

"No."

"Ben Marroon is at quarterback because Nagle pulled a hamstring in the first quarter."

"I remember that now."

"With eleven minutes to go, Marroon gets drilled on a late hit. They carry him off. No one's worried because the Browns' defense could stop General Patton and his tanks. You take the field, third and twelve, you throw a beautiful pass in the flat to Sweeney, who, of course, plays for the Broncos, and forty yards later he's in the end zone. Remember any of this?"

Rick slowly closed his eyes and said, "No."

"Don't try too hard.

"Both teams punt, then the Broncos fumble. With six minutes to go, on a third and eight, you check off at the line and throw to Bryce on a hook, but the ball is high and is picked off by somebody in a white jersey, can't recall his name but he sure can run, all the way. Seventeen to fourteen. The place is getting tense, eighty thousand plus. A few minutes earlier they were celebrating. First Super Bowl ever, all that jazz. Broncos kick off, Browns run the ball three times because Cooley ain't about to send in a pass play, and so the Browns punt. Or try to. Snap gets fumbled, Broncos get the ball on the Browns' thirty-four-yard line, which is no problem whatsoever because in three plays the Browns' defense, which is really, really pissed at this point, stuffs them for fifteen yards, out of field goal range. Broncos punt, you take over at your own 6, and for the next four minutes manage to cram the ball into the middle of the defensive line. The drive stalls at midfield, third and ten, forty seconds to go. Browns are afraid to pass and even more afraid to punt. I don't know what Cooley sends in, but you check off again, fire a missile to the right sideline for Bryce, who's wide open. Right on target."

Rick tried to sit up, and for a moment forgot about his injuries. "I still don't remember."

"Right on target, but much too hard. It hits Bryce in the chest, bounces up, and Goodson grabs it, gallops to the promised land. Browns lose twenty-one to seventeen. You're on the ground, almost sawed in half. They put you on a stretcher, and as they roll you off the field, half the crowd is booing and the other half is cheering wildly. Quite a noise, never heard anything like it. A couple of drunks jump from the stands and rush the stretcher—they would've killed you—but security steps in. A nice brawl ensues, and it, too, is all over the talk shows."

Rick was slumped over, low in the bed, lower than ever, with his eyes closed and his breathing quite labored. The headaches were back, along with the sharp pains in the neck and along the spine. Where were the drugs?

"Sorry, kid," Arnie said. The room was nicer in the darkness, so Arnie closed the blinds and reassumed his position in the chair, with his newspaper. His client appeared to be dead.

The doctors were ready to release him, but Arnie had argued strongly that he needed a few more days of rest and protection. The Browns were paying for the security guards, and they were not happy about it. The team was also covering the medicals, and it wouldn't be long before they complained.

And Arnie was fed up, too. Rick's career, if you could call it that, was over. Arnie got 5 percent, and 5 percent of Rick's salary wasn't enough to cover expenses. "Are you awake, Rick?"

"Yes," he said, with his eyes still closed.

"Listen to me, okay."

"I'm listening."

"The hardest part of my job is telling a player that it's time to quit. You've played all your life, it's all you know, all you dream about. No one is ever ready to quit. But, Rick, ole buddy, it's time to call it quits. There are no options."

"I'm twenty-eight years old, Arnie," Rick said, with his eyes open. Very sad eyes. "What do you suggest I do?"

"A lot of guys go into coaching. And real estate. You were smart—you got your degree."

"My degree is in phys ed, Arnie. That means I can get a job teaching volleyball to sixth graders for forty thousand a year. I'm not ready for that."

Arnie stood and walked around the end of the bed, as if deep in thought. "Why don't you go home, get some rest, and think about it?"

"Home? Where is home? I've lived in so many different places."

"Home is Iowa, Rick. They still love you there." And they really love you in Denver, Arnie thought, but wisely kept it to himself.

The idea of being seen on the streets of Davenport, Iowa, terrified Rick, and he let out a soft groan. The town was probably humiliated by the play of its native son. Ouch. He thought of his poor parents, and closed his eyes.

Arnie glanced at his watch, then for some reason finally noticed that there were no get-well cards or flowers in the room. The nurses told him that no friends had stopped by, no family, no teammates, no one even remotely connected to the Cleveland Browns. "I gotta run, kid. I'll drop by tomorrow."Walking out, he nonchalantly tossed the newspaper on Rick's bed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Rick grabbed it, and soon wished he had not. The police estimated a crowd of fifty had staged a rowdy demonstration outside the hospital. Things got ugly when a TV news crew showed up and began filming. A window was smashed, and a few of the drunker fans stormed the ER check-in, supposedly looking for Rick Dockery. Eight were arrested. A large photo—front page beneath the fold—captured the crowd before the arrests. Two crude signs could be read clearly: "Pull the Plug Now!" and "Legalize Euthanasia."

Synopsis

Rick Dockery was the third-string quarterback for the Cleveland Browns. In the AFC Championship game against Denver, 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 laughingstock and, of course, was immediately cut by the Browns and shunned by all other teams.

But all Rick knows is football, and he insists that his agent, Arnie, find 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 former NFL player any former NFL player at their helm. So Rick reluctantly agrees to play for the...