BookOpinion

Known, of course, for his legal thrillers, John Grisham has taken a turn at a fish-out-of-the-water story with his new book, “Playing for Pizza.” Despite receiving luke-warm reviews, the book is currently No. 10 on Amazon’s bestseller list. BookOpinion has compiled reviews, an excerpt and a video interview about the novel.

Pblishers Weekly summarizes the plot: “Third-string Cleveland Browns quarterback Rick Dockery becomes the greatest goat ever by throwing three interceptions in the closing minutes of the AFC championship game. Fleeing vengeful fans, he finds refuge in the grungiest corner of professional football, the Italian National Football League as quarterback of the inept but full-of-heart Parma Panthers. What ensues is a winsome football fable, replete with team bonding and character-building as the underdog Panthers challenge the powerhouse Bergamo Lions for a shot at the Italian Superbowl.”

Grisham said the inspiration for “Playing for Pizza” came when he was researching “The Broker” and discovered American football being played in Italy.

“One of my guides in the area played football for the Bologna Warriors for 10 years,” Grisham said in an Amazon interview. “I couldn’t believe that American football actually existed there, but the more I heard about it the more intrigued I became.”

The Associated Press writes, “Surely, he has an affection for football, Italy and Italian food, but not much of that love shows through. He tackles the well-worn expatriate story from a unique angle and it would have been nice to have seen this sports point of view with more depth; it would have been nice to see Grisham take Rick and his story to a place where he’s more than ‘an extra in a foreign film.’”

The L.A. Times are among the reviewers who wished the novel dug a little deeper. “In ‘Playing for Pizza,’ Grisham is content to keep it light,” The L.A. Times writes. “The fish-out-of-water premise often devolves into stereotypes — Italians like to eat amazing food and drink amazing wines — while Rick’s transformations and the outcome of the Panthers season are predictable. And Grisham avoids tackling perhaps the ultimate challenge for a sports novelist or screenwriter: writing an original halftime tongue-lashing by a coach. Instead, he merely describes the coach’s speech… Football may be at the center of ‘Playing for Pizza,’ but this isn’t a football novel. It reads like part Frances Mayes’ ‘Under the Tuscan Sun,’ part Mario Batali culinary diary and part Fodor guidebook.”

The Washington Post reviews the novel:

…It’s easy to see the enticement for Grisham, who has probably spent enough days in law libraries, police stations and morgues to last the rest of his life. By inventing a washed-up former NFL quarterback and limning this obscure subculture, he can dash off the story of an innocent abroad, accustomed to fame and fortune but now forced to ply his trade in virtual anonymity surrounded by oddities such as opera, small cars and teammates who smoke before games. Even better, Grisham can set it against the dolce vita of long meals, good wines, soaring cathedrals and beautiful women.

And that’s exactly what Grisham has done. Unfortunately, he neglected the primary duty of the storyteller, which is to tell a story. The suspense builds as the veteran Grisham reader waits for the surprising plot turn, or the overlooked character detail on which the story will pivot, or the unveiling of a mystery begging to be solved. He waits in vain. The book rumbles straight ahead, as simple and direct and unadorned as a fullback pushing up the middle for a three-yard gain.

The most surprising thing about it, in fact, is that it’s actually about football: the contrived, game-by-game (and even play-by-play) adventures of a real team in a real league that even the Italians don’t care about. Its dramatic arc roughly resembles that of Coach Clair Bee’s adolescent Chip Hilton stories — the early defeat that teaches a lesson, the loss of an injured star, the coming together against adversity, the improbable upset victory — while its lead character, Rick Dockery, is the sort of implausible American boor usually seen in dopey television commercials. That he finds true happiness after he picks up a Georgia cheerleader at a sidewalk cafe is only fitting, I suppose. But it doesn’t exactly make for thrill-a-minute reading…

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The Boston Globe felt differently, writing: “Grisham has connected with a deeply satisfying story of an athlete finding redemption. What could have been a painful exile for a disgraced American quarterback becomes a delightfully unexpected homecoming.”

Grisham discusses the book with Matt Lauer on the Today Show here:

And, finally, here is an excerpt from Playing for Pizza:

Chapter 1

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 sentry-like 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 m…