Part 1, Episode 9: "Defeat Sounds Like This"

Sitting in Old Man Farnsworth’s office, Conrad felt a mixture of emotions. The fact that Mr. Farnsworth told him his job would depend on dealing with Richard Dick meant that he still had a job. That was good. With the pressure of avoiding any further hits from EAPU, however, he would be working with a gun to his head. That was bad.

The Old Man gave Conrad a few moments to process this information, and then continued the meeting. “Connie, we also have to discuss your incident with the vermin from the Star-Bulletin yesterday.”

“Yes sir,” Conrad replied, slumping back in his seat.

“Obviously, we can’t have this kind of behavior from the senior staff of the university, no matter how much that rodent may have deserved it,” Mr. Farnsworth went on.

“I understand, sir. I lost it. I realize I was completely out of line.”

“Good. I know you’ve been here only a short time, my boy, but you’re off to an awfully rough start. Between the foul-up with the Moran kid and threatening the sports editor of the only local newspaper, you’ve already given me grounds for firing you.”

Conrad squirmed, wondering if the Old Man was going to contradict himself and give him the ax after all. Farnsworth continued, “I might very well have done so if not for one thing.”

“What was that, sir?” Conrad asked.

“You’ve already developed one very staunch ally. Someone who has shown great disdain for your predecessors but would be ready to go to war with you.”

“Who is that, sir?” Conrad wondered.

“Why, Gretchen, of course!” the Old Man replied, puzzled that Conrad could not figure that out on his own.

“Gretchen came to see you about me, sir?” Conrad asked, taken aback that she would stick her neck out for him.

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose. We talked about you last night after we had sex,” Farnsworth nonchalantly answered.

If Conrad had been sitting in a normal chair, he surely would have fallen out of it. Having come to expect the unexpected at good ‘ol FU, he still did not expect that.

“You have a relationship with Gretchen?” Conrad asked, trying to dampen the astonishment he was feeling.

“My dear Connie, why else would any sane man keep a receptionist with Tourette’s Syndrome employed for nearly ten years? Sure, she has skills that you have been sharp enough to uncover, but she also has other skills that I have enjoyed for quite some time now. My fifth wife didn’t appreciate it very much, but I resolved that issue some time back.”

Conrad braced himself to hear a recital of Gretchen’s “other” skills, but was relieved that the Old Man showed a rare moment of restraint.

“Of course,” Farnsworth added, “this relationship is not public knowledge. I would appreciate it if you would not tell Gretchen that I shared it with you.”

“It’s none of my business, sir,” Conrad replied. “I assure you the subject will never come up.”

“Excellent, I knew I could count on you for that. Now then, we still have the matter of pacifying Buddy Wright at the Star-Bulletin. I asked Gretchen to whip up a statement where you offer an apology. I want you to look it over and, if it is agreeable with you, sign it and fax it over to the paper this afternoon.”

Conrad had a vision of Gretchen sitting at a computer in Mr. Farnsworth’s home typing, still naked, with the Old Man giving her a backrub. He moved past that quickly, scanned the release, and signed it.
“It looks fine to me, sir. I’ll get this on the fax machine when I get back to my office and follow up with a phone call to make sure it gets into the right hands.”

“Very good Connie. Oh, by the way, I’ll be at the football game Saturday. I’d like you to sit up in my box and tell me what you think of our gridiron warriors.”

Conrad had planned on blending into the background at the game, but he thought this would work also. “Sure,” he replied, “I’ll be up there before kickoff.”

“I’ll look forward to your expert analysis. Let’s wrap this up then, my boy, and get back to business.”

“Yes sir. I’ll see you Saturday,” Conrad said as he exited Mr. Farnsworth’s office.

On his way out, Conrad saw Kate motioning for him to come over toward her desk. When he was within earshot of her, Kate said in a loud whisper, “Go get the bastard!”

Conrad looked puzzled, so Kate spelled it out, “Dick! Take him down!”

“I’ll do my best,” Conrad replied, receiving an affirmative nod from Kate. “What is the story behind that?” he wondered. He was pretty sure Kate had never worked in the athletic department at EAPU, but maybe she had held another position there and come across Dick. Maybe they were former lovers. Maybe there would come a time where he experienced a day at Farnsworth U that could be more appropriately reported in Sports Illustrated rather than Soap Opera Digest.

Saturday morning began with Freddie nearly bouncing off the walls. Despite going into his eighth year as the face of Farnsworth sports and the likelihood of another dismal season, football Saturdays still got Freddie as excited as a little boy on Christmas morning. As Conrad watched his furry friend count down the minutes until it was time to leave for the stadium, it was obvious how much Freddie loved what he did. “Boy, talk about a main ingredient for a happy life,” Conrad thought. Maybe happiness was living in a ferret suit.

Farnsworth Field could hold about 10,000 people in the seats and another thousand or so in a grassy cove beyond the west end zone. The facility was essentially a large high school stadium with more comfortable seats and better concessions. A few years ago, the stands would occasionally be full for games against top rivals like nearby Central Maryland College.

More recently, however, Farnsworth football struggled to fill even half of the stands. Four consecutive 1-10 seasons does have a way of eroding fan support. Conrad suspected a large portion of those brave souls who did show up at Farnsworth Field were there to see Freddie perform.

This game was particularly critical for the Fighting Ferrets. The opponent was Galludet University, the one team the Fighting Ferrets had defeated each of the last four seasons. Conrad had spoken to coach Frank “Stump” Williams during the week to get a feel for how prepared the Ferrets would be for this game. Conrad had decided not to get too close to Williams because there was a strong likelihood he would have to make a coaching change next year, if Conrad was even there to do so. Williams, a man with a firm handshake but unusually smooth hands, expressed confidence that the Ferrets would keep their winning streak over Galludet alive.

A beautiful sun-drenched Saturday afternoon and the promise of the Ferrets’ annual win brought a crowd of over 5,000 to Farnsworth Field. Freddie did his usual magic getting the fans fired up, performing with more energy than the Energizer Bunny. He bounced, jumped, did cartwheels, mingled with fans, performed with the cheerleaders, did routines worthy of the gymnastics team while jumping on a trampoline, and led the marching band onto the field.

Once the actual game kicked off, the energy slowly drained out of the stadium. As Conrad sat with Mr. Farnsworth, it was obvious to him that neither team was very good. Conrad, used to watching Division I football, had constantly reminded himself leading up to this game that he needed to lower his expectations. He couldn’t possibly have lowered them enough to avoid being disappointed with what was transpiring on the field. What made things even worse was the fact that the radio play-by-play was being piped into the Old Man’s box. Troy Flemstone, the voice of the Fighting Ferrets, began the broadcast, “Hello, football fanth, and welcome to the exthitement of Fighting Ferreth football.” This is going to be a long, long season, Conrad thought as he slumped into his seat.

Late in the second quarter, with the Ferrets leading 6-3, Mr. Farnsworth asked Conrad, “What do you think about our offense’s execution.”

Instinctively, he replied with an old line from former USC football coach John McKay, “Sir, I think it would be a good idea.”

The Old Man thought that was one of the funniest things he had ever heard. “Good one, my boy! Good one!” he roared.

A Ferret fumble late in the first half deep in their own territory set the Bisons up for the tying field goal. When the Galludet kicker connected, Troy Flemstone announced, “the kick ith good, and that tieth the thcore at halftime. Ith the Fighting Ferreth thix and the Galludet Bithonth thix.”

Mr. Farnsworth was furious. “How can we be tied with a bunch of kids that can’t even hear! This is embarrassing! Conrad, I want you to go down to the locker room and tell Stump Williams that he had better figure out a way to win this game!”

“Mr. Farnsworth, I think he knows that already,” Conrad replied calmly, trying to keep his boss from having a stroke. “Let’s just give him time to make adjustments during the break. I’m sure he’ll come up with something that will give us the advantage in the second half.” Conrad hated lying to his boss, but he saw nothing to gain by bursting into the locker room and threatening the coach at halftime. That was something that was done in bad movies or, worse, bad novels. In reality, he was not at all certain that the Ferrets would win this game, but he didn’t dare let the Old Man know that.

Conrad’s fears were realized in the second half. It was Galludet that had made effective adjustments at halftime. A team sharp enough to run the snap counts on offense from the vibrations of beating a huge drum was well equipped to make changes in their game plan on the fly. The Bison defense crowded the line of scrimmage, effectively stuffing the Fighting Ferrets running game and forcing them to rely on the arm of erratic quarterback Seymour Singletary. This kid brought inconsistency to a new level. He was ambidextrous and couldn’t seem to make up his mind which arm he would throw with. Not surprisingly, his passes were scattered all over the field. As the Galludet defense tightened up, Singletary’s throws began finding enemy players as often as his own.

The reason for this was a mystery to Troy Flemstone. “I justh don’t underthdand why Themore Thingletary ith thrugling tho muth here in the thecond half,” he announced early in the fourth quarter.

Conrad said to no one in particular but within earshot of Mr. Farnsworth, “Come on, it’s obvious Galludet is crowding the line and playing the receivers with tight man-to-man coverage. They’re daring Thingletary, I mean Singletary, to throw long, and he’s not very good at it with either hand.”

“That’s very insightful, Connie,” the Old Man said. “I’m sure the fans listening on radio would appreciate that analysis.”

Yeah, both of them, Conrad thought.

Singletary threw four interceptions in the second half. One was returned for a touchdown and another set up a Galludet field goal. The Ferrets countered with only a single field goal and left the field on the short end of a 16-9 score.

Not surprisingly, Mr. Farnsworth became more agitated as the game wore on. By the time the final gun went off, he let the anger out in a loud outburst punctuated by his arms flailing wildly. “Conrad, I want you to go down and fire that idiot who claims to be coaching this team. How, how, how can we lose to the deaf school! Maybe we could find a school with blind kids and play them. No wait a minute, they’d probably beat us too! AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!”

Conrad allowed a few moments to pass so the Old Man could recover from channeling the Tasmanian Devil. Then, in as soothing a tone as he could muster, Conrad addressed him, “Mr. Farnsworth, as bad as this is, and there’s no question it’s very bad, firing Coach Williams right now would make it even worse.”

“How can it get worse than losing to a deaf team!” the Old Man shrieked.

“Here’s how. Not even Division I schools fire coaches after their opening game. For a D3 school, where athletic success is still supposed to be secondary to the kids getting an education, to do so would give us some very bad press.”

“Worse than having such a sorry excuse for a football team?”

“Amazingly enough, yes it would, because then the priorities of the entire school would be called into question. Unless Williams has committed some kind of horrendous rule violation, and losing to a deaf school is not technically a violation, then we’ve got to ride him out. Besides, firing him at this point would only succeed in making it that much harder to hire a new coach. Any good candidate is going to wonder how much rope he has and, let’s be realistic, they’re going to need a lot of rope to rebuild this football program.”

Mr. Farnsworth pondered what Conrad had said for a moment, then replied, “I suppose you’re right, my boy. This is your area, and you know better than I do. I’m just so frustrated! There’s no reason why we should be so pathetic on the football field.”

“I agree, sir, but we really need to wait until the season is over to make a move unless he does something that really embarrasses the school.”

“You mean even worse than today’s debacle?”

“Yes, even worse than that. As long as he doesn’t do anything to put the school’s integrity into question, he needs to finish out the year.”

“It’s going to be a very long season, my boy.”

“It seems like it already has been, sir.”

“Well, there is one thing I can do to improve the situation.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I liked your comments during the game. I thought you had a lot of insight into what was happening down on the field. I know Troy Flemstone can be a bit hard to understand at times, so I’d like you to sit in the booth with him and be his analyst.”

So Troy’s a bit hard to understand, Conrad thought. Yeah, just like Bobby Knight’s got a bit of a temper problem. “You mean on the air, sir?” he replied.

“Of course, my boy. I think you’ll make a fine team. Let’s start that next week at the McWorthy College game.”

“Okay, I guess, sir.”

Conrad stood and watched the Old Man head toward the exit of his box. He let out a sigh and thought it thertainly wath going to be a very long thethun.

Part 1, Episode 8: "The Plot Thickens (no, really, it does)"

I just don’t understand it!” Coach Knight ranted as Conrad drove them both back to the Farnsworth campus.

“I know Ron. I don’t get it either,” Conrad replied.

“Moran is just not a D1 player, especially not in a major conference. He’s going to be nailed to their bench for four years. Why would he want to do that instead of going somewhere he could play, maybe even be the star of the team?”

Coach Knight was referring to the stunning development that ended their meeting at Agnew High School. Less then 24 hours after obtaining a commitment from Mark Moran, Midville’s best high school basketball player ever, Knight and Conrad had watched in horror as he was extended a full scholarship offer by Edgar Allen Poe University.

The word had come from Mark’s high school coach, who had been contacted by EAPU’s athletic director Richard Dick. Mark appeared to be too stunned to react, but his father acted like he had just found a winning lottery ticket. His mother, predictably, cried.

“Why did the athletic director call and not their basketball coach? That doesn’t make any sense,” Knight said, continuing his rant.

“No it didn’t,” Conrad thought. The only idea that had come to him was that Dick, who he and most staffers in the EAPU athletic department had referred to as “Double Dick,” was hell-bent on doing further damage to Conrad’s already seriously wounded career by stealing Farnsworth’s prized recruit. “Why would he go to this much trouble to keep me down,” Conrad thought, “hasn’t he already won?” “By framing me and getting me fired, hadn’t he already delivered the knockout punch? Was he just doing this for spite? Didn’t he have better things to do? Or was there some other secret, diabolical reason? What was this, ‘As the Ferret Turns,’ Conrad wondered.



The two defeated men returned to campus, Conrad thought, just in time to avoid Coach Knight having a stroke. Now into the early evening, Conrad returned to his office not quite ready to ingest his nightly Super Star Burger combo (no cheese, only ketchup). Expecting to find an empty office, he was surprised to find the reporting duo from the Frederick Star-Bulletin, editor Buddy Wright and Farnsworth beat writer Jimmy Harris, seated in front of his desk.

“Well, look what slithered in,” Conrad began. “We’ve got to tighten up security around here.”

“Oh, so now you’ve got a comedy routine,” Wright responded. “I hope that works out better for you than this gig.”

“Gee, I didn’t think you cared,” Conrad replied as he plopped into his chair. “What can I do for you ink-stained wretches?”

“We wanted to follow up on the Moran story, Conrad,” Harris said.

“What’s to follow up?”

“Cut the crap, Conrad,” Wright blurted. “We got a tip a little while ago that Moran got a full ride at EAPU. Do you want to confirm that?”

“Don’t you mean Moron,” Conrad tersely replied.

“Cute. Well, what do you have to say about it?” Wright pressed.

It had been a long day for Conrad by this time, and in his fatigued state he felt the frustration of this day and most others since he had first stepped foot on the Farnsworth campus welling up inside of him. His chest was tightening and he could feel the warm sensation of his face and ears reddening. He knew he should walk away and take a moment to pull himself together, but he chose, instead, to let the emotion out in a tsunami of anger directed at Wright.

“Look, you piss poor Perry White wannabe, this never would have happened if your paper had spelled the kid’s freakin’ name right! He was a done deal, he wanted to play here, he wanted to graduate from here. But nooooo, your birdcage liner of a paper couldn’t be bothered to spell his freakin’ name right! That opened the door for his parents to try and get him away from here and into the big time. You know what, that kid is not a D1 player, yet thanks to your fishwrap he’s going to EAPU and sit on the freakin’ bench for four years. Why? Because you couldn’t spell his freakin’ name right, that’s why?”

Conrad stopped to draw a breath, and Wright interjected. “Are you finished or do you wanna stay on your little soapbox for a while?”

Conrad glared at his adversary for a moment, then slowly said, “Get out of my office. Get out now before I THROW YOU THROUGH THE FREAKIN’ WINDOW!”

Conrad would have chased down those words and stuffed them back in his mouth if he could have. The idea of him actually carrying out his threat was laughable, since Wright had as least 50 pounds on Conrad, but no one was laughing. He had crossed a line here and undoubtedly made things even worse for himself. If he had not realized that on his own, the gleam in Wright’s eyes as he stood to leave and the look of dread in Harris’s would have clued him in.

Back in his suite and desperate to hear a friendly voice, Conrad called his best friend Nick Petrocini. They had not kept in touch very well since Conrad had started at Farnsworth, but Nick could be counted on for an encouraging word whenever he needed it.

“Hello,” Nick, picking up on the fourth ring, answered.

“Hey Nick, it’s Conrad. How’s it going?”

“Hey buddy, it’s going ok,” Nick replied hesitantly. “How are you?”

“I’m hanging on by my fingernails, man. It’s been tough here,” Conrad said, preparing to unburden himself as he had done so many times over the years. Before he could, however, Nick cut in.

“Hey pal, we’ve got come company over here tonight. Can I catch up with you a little bit later?”

Conrad, taken aback, said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Great,” Nick hurriedly replied. “Talk to you later.” Nick hung up.

Conrad sat holding the phone for a moment. He had left messages for Nick recently that had not been returned, and now he had been blown off when he really needed a friend to talk to. Then Freddie arrived home.

“Hey Conrad, did everything work out with the basketball kid?” Freddie asked.

“They worked out so well you just might have the place all to yourself this time tomorrow,” Conrad told Freddie later that evening.

“Oh yeah,” Freddie responded. “Are you getting your own place?”

“I’ll have to if the Old Man fires me.”

“Fire you! Why would he do that? This whole mess wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but I threatened that idiot sports editor at the Star-Bulletin earlier.”

“I assume you were going to do more than cancel your subscription.”

“You could say that. I told him if he didn’t leave, I was going to throw him out the window.”

“Oooo, that’s bad, Conrad.”

“I know it is. I just snapped. This was just the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Will you be relieved if he does fire you since you’re so unhappy here?”
“That’s a good question, and surprisingly enough I think the answer is no. Sure, it’s been really frustrating here but I think this program has a lot of potential. The way the town responds to you, all we have to do is give them some teams worth rooting for and they’ll fill the stands. With that spirit and the resources the Old Man is willing to commit, this really could be something special.”

“Well then, I don’t believe that great ferret in the sky brought you here just to get kicked in the ass. I’m sure everything will work out. Hey, since there’s nothing on TV tonight, would you like to go and catch a movie?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company, Freddie.”

“I know, but that’s OK. I can be charming and witty enough for the both of us. What do you say?”

Conrad, smiling for the first time today, replied, “You are one charming ferret. Just don’t take advantage of me, OK.”

Freddie laughed and responded, “I’ll try, but after all I AM just a dumb animal, albeit with opposable thumbs.”

Conrad’s smile widened as they headed out the door. “You’re much more than that, my friend.”

As Conrad expected, Buddy Wright wrote a withering editorial in the next morning’s Star-Bulletin calling for the Old Man to fire Conrad. Wright called him “the embodiment of The Peter Principle. After a long career in a support role for EAPU’s athletic department, Kondratowitz had yet to demonstrate any vision for Farnsworth’s athletic program or the ability to lead people in any direction whatsoever.” “That termite probably misspelled my last name on purpose,” Conrad thought.

Wright also pointed out, “Kondratowitz clearly has no people skills. He resorts to intimidation, screaming, and threatening people to get his way.” Wright did not mention the previous day’s incident directly, but he would surely use that if pressed to support this allegation.

The editorial ended with a call for the Old Man to “cut his losses and remove this cancer from the otherwise beautiful Farnsworth campus. Like any malignant growth, Kondratowitz needs to be neutralized immediately to insure the health of everything around it.” It was the first time that Conrad could remember being compared to a tumor.

Conrad read the piece over several times, then neatly refolded the paper and headed to Galaxy Burger. While at the student union, he could tell who had read Wright’s column. Those were the people who averted their eyes when he came into their line of vision. After coming there two or three times every day, the people at Galaxy Burger had become like an extended family, but even they kept their distance this morning.

When he arrived at his office, Gretchen met him with a sympathetic “keep your chin up” smile. Once he was settled behind his desk, she walked in and said, “Mr. Farnsworth wants to see you in his office at noon.” Conrad thanked her for the message, then she turned around and said “I’m sure everything will be all right.”

“Thanks,” Conrad said, “I hope so.” He then looked up at the clock, which read 9:05. Well, three hours until I see if I get the pardon from the governor, Conrad thought.

Arriving at the Old Man’s office at 11:45, Conrad first faced the unpleasant task of speaking to Kate. Conrad had heard her referred to as a watchdog for the old man, the only debate focusing on whether she more closely resembled a rotwiller or a pit bull. When Kate saw him, she said cordially, “Mr. Farnsworth is expecting you. Go on in.” “So she can be civil,” Conrad thought. “She’s probably just trying to get me to let my guard down before the Old Man whacks me,” he concluded.

“Connie, my boy. Have a seat,” the Old Man warmly greeted him. Conrad, distracted by fear for his job, mistakenly sat in the plush leather chair directly in front of the Old Man’s desk. He felt the man-eating piece of furniture engulf him too late to gracefully extricate himself from it’s grip.

“Yesterday was a tough one, wasn’t it my boy,” the Old Man began.

“That, sir, is an understatement,” Conrad replied.
“I bet you’re wondering why EAPU would bother swooping in and grabbing a recruit from a Division III school like ours, aren’t you?”

“I sure am, sir.”

“So was I, my boy. I got a call last night from the editor at the Star-Bulletin, Sam Grant, telling me about the column Buddy Wright had written for this morning’s edition. He also seemed puzzled that EAPU would target Moran. It just didn’t make sense to him.”

The Old Man stopped for a moment, obviously relishing whatever story he was about to tell Conrad and. It was also apparent he was going to take his sweet time before entering into a discussion of Conrad’s job status.

After the dramatic pause, the Old Man continued. “People in management positions don’t, as a rule, make decisions arbitrarily. In order to understand why someone takes a specific action, one must obtain enough information to determine his reasoning. That’s what I spent last night and this morning doing. I have plenty of connections in every walk of life, my boy. After all, I’m rich.”

The Old Man paused again, then resumed his tale. “It was obvious that Mr. Dick at EAPU had an axe to grind against our school, and your presence here would logically seem to be the only reason for that, wouldn’t you agree, my boy?”

“Yes sir, that’s the only thing that makes any sense,” Conrad replied, preparing to be thrown overboard to save the school from the wrath of the Ravens.

“Of course it is. Now the greater question is, why would he still target you? In fact, why was he so worried about you that he hatched his scheme to drug you and take photos of you with the dean’s wife, with whom Mr. Dick is having an affair, by the way.”

The thought of ‘ol Double Dick having sex added to the queasy feeling in Conrad’s stomach. Why would the dean’s wife fool with scum like him, anyway,” he wondered? “No time to worry about that now,” Conrad thought, “I’ve got my own problems right here.”
“I’m sure you remember, Connie, that your demise was the second shocking story to come out of EAPU in recent months. The first one was…” the Old Man paused waiting for Conrad to finish the thought.

“…..EAPU gaining admission to the Enormous East Conference. Nobody thought we had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting in, especially since we would be the 13th team. All the experts thought the EEC was locked in at 12 schools.”

“Exactly. Do you remember who made the big push for them to gain acceptance, even threatening to pull his own school out and join the Mid-Atlantic Conference?” the Old Man asked.

“Sure. It was the president at Liberty Bell University in Philadelphia. They’re one of EPAU’s biggest rivals. Their support for EAPU came completely out of left field.

“That’s right, my boy. Just like your dismissal,” the Old Man paused again, waiting to see if Conrad could fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

After pondering things for a few moments, Conrad, who had been staring down at his shoes, looked directly at the Old Man and with a sense of astonishment, asked, “You don’t mean?”

“I do indeed, my boy. Your former employer had used the same tactic to gain MWU’s support that he used to remove you. As the colloquial phrase goes, he had pictures. You are still a target because he lives in fear that you will find out and blow the whistle.”

“Wow!” Conrad exclaimed. “How can I do that without any hard evidence?”

“That, my boy, is for you to figure out. I’ve given you the ammunition, now you need to strategize how you will use it. And be sure of this, you must use it, and promptly. We cannot afford to have this fool make Farnsworth University his personal punching bag. Richard Dick must be neutralized.”

The Old Man paused, then concluded the thought, “Connie, your continued employment here depends on it.”

Part 1, Episode 7: "Who's The Moron"

“Have you seen this morning’s paper, Conrad?” Old Man Farnsworth bellowed into the phone.

“No sir, I haven’t,” Conrad replied, still groggy after being jarred awake by the phone ringing at 6:00 AM. He forced himself to sit on the side of his bed in an effort to clear the cobwebs out of his head.

“Well, you need to, my boy. And then, you need to FIX IT!” the Old Man screamed.

“What are you so upset about, sir?” Conrad asked.

“You’ll see. Keep me posted throughout the day on how this happened and what you are doing to fix it!”

“Yes sir.” Conrad heard the phone go dead. “Now what?” Conrad said out loud as he shuffled toward the front door to grab the paper and find the offensive story.

While Conrad waited for his first pot of coffee to brew, he opened the Midville Star-Bulletin and, as he normally did, went directly to the sports section. He began reviewing the headlines. “Orioles Lose Third in a Row.” “Nothing I can do about that,” Conrad thought. “Redskins Offensive Line Decimated by Injuries.” Not my fault, Conrad mused. Then he found the source of the problem.

“Moron Commits to Farnsworth.”

“OH MY GOD!” Conrad shrieked. “OH MY GOD!”

Freddie, startled by his friend’s screaming, bolted out of his room. “Conrad, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Take a look at this,” Conrad replied, pointing to the front page of the sports section.

“Hmmm, Orioles lost third in a row,” Freddie said, studying the newspaper. “What, did you have money on the game?”

“No, not that. This!” Conrad said, pointing to the offensive headline.

“Geez, that kid has a funny name. I bet he catches grief at school,” Freddie pointed out.

“I guess he would, if that was actually his name!” Conrad replied, his voice rising with every syllable. “The kid’s name is Mor-AN, not Mor-ON. We actually land a stud recruit and his name can’t even get spelled right!”

“Yes, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it,” Freddie astutely observed. “Is that what the phone call was about?”

“Yeah. It was the Old Man.”

“Oh crap. If he’s calling directly and not having Kate do it, that means he’s royally pissed.”

“He clearly conveyed that during our little chat. I’ve got to report back to him on how this happened and what damage control we’re going to do.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“No, I can’t think of anything. I might need you later to help pull my foot out of somebody’s ass, though.”

Conrad quickly showered, dressed, consumed most of the pot of coffee, and hustled to his office. The situation was urgent enough that he even skipped his early morning visit to Galaxy Burger. Conrad wondered if they would send a search party for him.

As he walked to his office, he saw Ron Knight waiting for him. Fortunately Gretchen was not there so he would not have to deal with animal noises in the background. Conrad motioned Ron into his office and toward his small outer table, then closed the door.

“I assume you saw the Star-Bulletin’s sports page this morning?” Conrad began. “Real shame about the ‘Skins offensive line, isn’t it?” His attempt to lighten the mood failed miserably. Knight didn’t even blink while he was staring down Conrad.

“I’ve already heard from Mark,” Knight began. “His parents are beside themselves. His mother won’t stop crying and his father already broke two lamps. This kid has been taunted all his life, being called ‘Moron’ rather than ‘Moran.’ Today’s announcement was supposed to be the crowning achievement of his athletic career, and to see that particular mistake ruin it has sent the whole family into a tizzy.”

“How does the kid feel about it?” Conrad asked.

“He doesn’t think it’s that big a deal,” Knight responded. “He’s used to catching crap about the name and just shakes it off. His parents don’t seem to be that enlightened though, and that could be a problem.”

“Do you think there’s a chance he might not come here?” Conrad asked, concern prevalent in his voice.

“I’m afraid there’s a VERY good chance we’ll never see him!” Knight replied, the frustration evident in his tone and his body language, not to mention the veins bulging from his forehead.

“All right, we need to get into full damage control mode,” Conrad said in as decisive and energetic a tone as he could muster. “I’ll work on finding out how this got in the paper and who is to blame. You contact Mark’s coach at Agnew High and try to set up a meeting this afternoon with him, Mark, both of his parents, you, and me. By then we should know what corrective action to take, and that along with the right amount of groveling might save the day.”

Knight still seemed skeptical but also appeared energized by having a plan of action. “Ok, I’ll set it up. I’ll call Gretchen and let her know when and where.”

“Good. I’ve got to get to work on my end now. Hang in there, Ron. I’ll talk to you later.” Conrad gave Knight a slap on the back as he stood to leave. Conrad then rummaged through his wallet to fish out the business card that Jimmy Harris had given him yesterday.

“Hello,” Harris answered, apparently not fully awake at this early hour.

“Jimmy, this in Conrad over at Farnsworth. I’m sorry to bother you this early, but do you know how I can get in touch with your charming sports editor.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Jimmy replied more alertly.

“Have you checked out your paper this morning?” Conrad asked.

“Kind of hard to do when I’m asleep, so no, I haven’t,” Jimmy said.

“Can you put your hands on it while I’ve got you on the phone?” Conrad asked.

“Yeah, I guess so,” a puzzled Jimmy replied. “What happened, didn’t the release about Moran not get in?”

“Oh, it got in all right. Take a minute and check it out.”

“OK, sure. Hold on.”

Conrad could hear Jimmy shuffling through his apartment, opening the door, ruffling through the paper, then crying out, “Holy Crap!”

“Conrad, this is terrible. That kid’s parents are really uptight about the name thing. How in the world did this happen?” Jimmy asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How can I get in touch with Wright?” Conrad asked.

Jimmy quickly gave Conrad his editor’s cell phone number.

“Hello?” a groggy Buddy Wright said into his phone.

“Hello jackass. This is Conrad from Farnsworth. Is editor just a ceremonial title or do you actually look over what gets printed in your sports section?”

“Look, don’t get so snippy with me,” Wright replied, quickly gathering his forces for battle. “We got a press release saying you signed Mark MORON, so we printed Mark MORON. Seems to me he wouldn’t be the only moron in the athletic department.”

Conrad was momentarily stunned. Could this be a self-inflicted wound from inside his own organization, he wondered. “You’re telling me that there was a typo in the press release and you just ran with it. Everyone in Midville knows who this kid is, how could you print a story with his name spelled wrong, especially THAT way?”

“Hey, someone on your end screwed up. Get things fixed in your own house before you worry about how I run my sports section.” Conrad heard a click, indicating Wright had hung up on him.

Conrad took a few moments to stew, then chose his next course of action. He grabbed his phone and pushed the button for Gretchen’s desk. She answered first with whimpering, then by asking Conrad what she could do.

“Tell Gabe Sullivan to get his ass in here IMMEDIATELY and bring the press release he sent out last night regarding Mark Moran.” Conrad barked into the phone.”

“Yes sir. Is everything going to be alright with that?” a concerned Gretchen asked.

“I don’t know yet.” Conrad replied.

After about fifteen minutes had passed, Gabe Sullivan sauntered into Conrad’s office, hearing a loud snarling from Gretchen’s cubicle as he did so.

“Hey, I hear you’ve got a bit of a problem with the new basketball recruit.” Gabe said in his typical breezy manner.

“Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you?” Conrad asked. “Let me see the press release.”

“Here you go,” Gabe said, handing over the document.

Conrad took a few moments to review it. He then looked up at Gabe and said, “Gabe, how do you spell Moran?”

“M-o-r-a-n I guess. Why?”

“Why,” Conrad asked, struggling to contain his temper. “Because you spelled it m-o-r-o-n on the release, that’s why!” Conrad bellowed. “Because the Star-Bulletin ran it that way, that’s why! Because his parents are so pissed he might not come here after all, that’s why!”

Gabe was unsuccessfully trying to suppress a chuckle. “Gee, missed it by thaaat much. I guess they need to hire better copy editors, there, don’t they?” he asked.

“Maybe, but WE need an SID than can spell our star recruit’s name right.” Conrad said. “Gabe, you’re fired.”

“What are you trying to say, Conrad?”

Conrad sat and stared at Gabe for a moment thinking he could have a more intelligent conversation with his office door. “What I’m telling you is to clean out your desk and be out of this building in one hour. Don’t touch a computer or anything else that can transmit information.”

“So I’m fired?” Gabe asked, stunned by this turn of events.

“Yes, Gabe, you’re fired. Vacate the premises!”

“OK. Hey, can I use you as a reference for my next job?”

“Please do,” Conrad responded fighting to contain an evil laugh. He then called Old Man Farnsworth’s office to give his first report of the day.

Coach Knight had succeeded in setting up a meeting with all of the parties involved with Mark Moran’s recruitment. When they entered the office of Agnew High coach Monty Mandell, they found Mark was already there with his mother Agnes and his father Morely.

Conrad and Coach Knight introduced themselves to Coach Mandell, who in turn introduced them to Mark’s parents. Agnes, a petite 50-ish lady wearing a plain pastel blouse and equally plain slacks, started crying. Morely, wearing a navy blue suit with wide lapels and an equally out-of-style wide red tie, sat with his arms folded, refusing to accept the offered handshakes.

Conrad began the meeting with the first in what he anticipated would be a series of apologies. “First, Mr. And Mrs. Moran let me profusely apologize for the mistake in the press release. My now ex-sports information director did a very sloppy job with it, and the Star-Bulletin decided to run it as is for reasons that are not clear to me.”

Morely Moran interrupted Conrad. “I’m not interested in your apologies! I’m tired of my son being humiliated by having his name twisted like that! It’s bad enough he has to deal with it from opposing players and fans, but to see it in the newspaper on what should have been the greatest day of his life was too much to bear!” Agnes Moran moved from weeping into full-fledged bawling.

“Don’t you mean what should have been the greatest day of YOUR life dad,” Mark Moran interjected. Mark was hardly an imposing figure, standing barely six feet and barren of any clear muscle definition. “Don’t you mean you’re tired of YOUR name being twisted? I’ve told you a thousand times I don’t give a crap about name-calling. That’s part of being a ball player, being able to take abuse and respond by playing even better. I love knocking down a jumper over someone who’s just called me a moron, and I give crap right back to them.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Morely Moran’s nostrils flared in anger, and he prepared to address his son, but Mark continued. “You can’t do that, though, can you dad? You’ve got to sit there and take it. You’re the one who had to catch grief at the office today because of the newspaper article, and you couldn’t do anything about it. It pissed you off, and now you’re going to use me as a tool to finally get payback from somebody, aren’t you?”

Agnes chirped, “Don’t address your father like that, Mark. I’ve taught you better than that.”

Morely gathered himself and, ignoring what Mark had said, addressed Conrad and Coach Knight. “If your so-called institution of higher learning can’t even spell my kid’s name right, why in the world should I entrust his college education and basketball career to you?” he said in a cold, sarcastic tone.

Coach Knight responded, “Mr. Moran, everyone makes mistakes. People ultimately succeed not by being perfect, but by how well they overcome those mistakes. Sure, this was a very unfortunate and regrettable error that has embarrassed your family. That doesn’t change the basic reasons why your son wanted to attend Farnsworth.”

Conrad then stepped in, following the rhythm in which he and Coach Knight had rehearsed this pitch on the trip over from Farnsworth. “Coach Knight is known as one of the best teachers of fundamental basketball in this region. Mark has indicated he wants to go into coaching, and learning from Coach Knight would be very beneficial. Farnsworth also has one of the best sports management curriculums on the east coast. All of that is still there for him, including a fully comprehensive financial aid package.”

“Financial aid. Humph!” snorted Monty Moran. “My kid deserves a full ride, not some charity handout. He’s a great ballplayer, the best basketball player to ever come out of this town. He should be treated as such.”

“Don’t you mean you’re embarrassed that I qualify for financial aid, dad?” Mark chimed in.

The tension in the room grew even thicker as once again there was silence. It was broken by a student frantically knocking at Coach Mandell’s office door.

Coach Mandell stood, opened the door, and barked at the student, “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m in a very important meeting here?”

“But coach, there’s a phone call waiting for you. He said he had to talk to you right away! It was urgent!” the student blurted out.

“What could be so urgent that I need to interrupt this meeting?” Coach Mandell bellowed.

“I don’t know, but the man said his name is Richard Dick, and he’s the athletic director at Edgar Allen Poe University in Baltimore,” the student replied, practically begging Coach Mandell to follow him.

Mandell froze in his tracks. What could the athletic director at EAPU, one of the most powerful athletic administrators in the state of Maryland, want with him? He decided that he was sure going to find out, especially since this situation appeared to be at a stalemate.

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Mandell told the student messenger. “Excuse me folks, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Conrad sitting silently, felt like he was watching the clock ticking down to :00. He was on the short end of the score, and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.

Part 1, Episode 6: "Media Daze"

“Is anyone else here?” Conrad asked Gretchen.

“No sir,” she replied, “just these two gentlemen from the Midville Star-Bulletin.”

Conrad didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. After Old Man Farnsworth’s unfortunate appearance on the previous day’s “Ferret Forum,” Conrad had braced himself to face a hoard of media vultures this morning. Seeing only two reporters from the local newspaper allayed that fear, but also made him wonder what WOULD have to happen to garner much attention from the press at Farnsworth. Maybe the Old Man would have to actually have a threesome on the air. “Good lord, don’t let the Old Man hear that,” Conrad thought, “he just might try it.”

Conrad then turned his attention to the two reporters. “Hi, I’m Conrad Kondratowicz. Come on in.” Conrad motioned the reporters to his office, where he plopped in his chair, now upright, behind his desk.

The oldest reporter, a 50-ish man with a burly figure and only faint remnants of a hairline, introduced himself. “I’m Buddy Wright, the sports editor at the Star-Bulletin. This is Jimmy Harris, our Farnsworth beat writer. I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot of him.” Harris, a handsome young man who Conrad surmised was probably a recent college graduate, had tightly cropped sandy blonde hair and a serious, intense face. He nodded at Conrad when his boss introduced him.

Conrad, attempting to keep the mood light, asked Wright, “Does that mean I won’t have the pleasure of your company very often?”

Wright looked in Conrad’s general direction and replied, “Not if I can help it.”

“Boy, this guy is a real ball of fire,” Conrad thought. He then seized the initiative and began a dialogue with the reporters. “I suppose you want some comments on Mr. Farnsworth’s appearance on ‘Ferret Forum’ yesterday. Let me just say that while Mr. Farnsworth may lead a lifestyle that makes some people uncomfortable, it does not spill over into the philosophy of this school. Farnsworth University strives to attract the highest caliber of students, both academically and socially, and those principles are adhered to in the athletic department.”

The room fell silent for a moment, and then Wright spoke. “Nice speech, Conrad,” Wright said, “but that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Nobody around here thought much about what the Old Man said yesterday. We all know he’s a bit of a squirrel, but nobody gives a rat’s ass. He can do whatever he wants as long as he keeps sinking money into this school. As long as the kids and your little ferret friend keep their noses clean, there’s no story.”

Conrad sat back in his chair, stunned at what Wright told him. He thought this served as confirmation that he WAS in the Twilight Zone. Conrad just knew that Rod Serling himself would walk through the door any minute now. He gathered himself and asked, “OK then, why are you here?”

“Two things,” Write replied. “First, are you considering replacing Stump Williams? Second, how do you feel about the ferret being in a reality show?”

Stump Williams was the embattled football coach, or at least he’d be embattled if anybody really cared about football at Farnsworth except the Old Man. His four-year record of 4-36 (all wins over Galludet, the school for hearing impaired students) made this a valid question even if the new season hadn’t yet begun. “What is this about Freddie,” Conrad wondered to himself?

“Well, regarding Coach Williams,” Conrad responded, “I’m going to be looking closely at the progress of the football team this season. Mr. Farnsworth has big plans for the football program here, and that means we have to beat somebody other than Galludet. I’ll need to see the season play out before we make a move.”

“That means another crappy football season to suffer through, then,” Wright said. “What about the ferret?”

“What about him?” Conrad stalled.

“You know he’s going to be on television tonight. Fox signed him up for another one of those stupid reality shows. What comment do you have about that?”

“I don’t think it’s fair to make any comment about it until I’ve seen it,” trying not to tip off that he had no idea what Wright was talking about. “Like everything else he’s done, I’m sure Freddie represents himself and the school very well.”

“Well, this has been a waste of time.” Wright said. “Come on Harris, let’s roll.” Wright stood up and headed out the door without looking back to Conrad.

“Nice meeting you,” Conrad called out to the exiting Wright.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Wright responded as he schlepped out the door.

“Conrad, I don’t know if you remember me,” Harris said, hanging back for a moment, “but I graduated from EAPU and covered the Ravens for the school paper.”

“Yeah,” Conrad replied, “I thought the name sounded familiar. I liked to keep up with ‘As the Raven Flies,’ it gave me a good handle on the pulse of the student body. Congratulations. I look forward to working with you.” Conrad then extended his hand to Harris.

Harris met Conrad’s hand with a firm handshake. “Same here, Conrad. Hey, I hear you might be getting a commitment from Johnny Moran. Good luck with that.”

Moran was possibly the best basketball player to ever come from the Midville area, and it looked like he might be playing at Farnsworth next year. As long as something didn’t happen to mess it up, Conrad thought.

Following his nightly pilgrimage to Galaxy Burger, Conrad arrived home to see Freddie running in his wheel with more gusto than usual. “What’s got you so excited?” Conrad asked.

“Big night, buddy,” Freddie puffed, apparently having been on the wheel for a while. “Tonight’s my network television debut!”

“So I hear,” Conrad replied. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“Sure, just let me finish up here and grab a quick shower. If a couple of young ladies knock at the door, let them in and be charming until I come out. Then I’ll take over. I invited them over to watch the show tonight.”

“You are a furry gigolo. You don’t have any male friends, do you?”

“Just you, Conrad. There’s only so much of me to go around, so I’ve had to chose who I wanted to spend my time with, a bunch of guys hanging around a bar getting drunk or young ladies that want to crawl inside my fur. What do you think?”

“I think you made the right call, Freddie,” a bemused Conrad replied as he sat down to devour his Super Star combo (no cheese, only ketchup).

While Freddie was still primping himself for the evening, Conrad heard a knock at the door. He shoved down the last bite of his Super Star Burger as he walked toward the door. Opening it, he found two lovely co-eds who were overdressed for a night of watching television. “Sharp looking ladies,” Conrad thought as he prepared to welcome them.

“Hi ladies. I’m Conrad, Freddie’s roommate. Come on in and make yourselves comfortable. He’ll be out shortly.”

“Hi! I’m Lola!” the blonde bubbled.

“I’m Lorna! We’re sisters! Nice to meet you sir,” the brunette added.

Conrad winced involuntarily, still not fully adjusted to the fact that he was twice as old as most college students, thereby making a salutation of “sir” appropriate, although still depressing.

“It’s my pleasure. Freddie asked me to be charming while you ladies were waiting, but I’m afraid that would be a poor opening act for the evening’s festivities. Why don’t I just make like a host and offer you something to drink?”

The girls looked at each other for a moment when Lorna shyly asked “How ‘bout a beer?”

Conrad estimated their ages at between 18-20 years old, and he quickly decided he did not need a charge of serving alcohol to minors added to his recent transgressions, real or perceived.

“How about some iced tea instead?” Conrad politely replied, trying not to sound like an administrator or parent.

Lola and Lorna exhaled and told him that would be fine. They sat with Conrad while he watched Sports Center until Freddie made his entrance.

“Who wants to rub up against some fur?” Freddie asked, spreading his arms open to their full wing span upon entering the living area. Conrad shot his hand into the air until Freddie’s glare suggested he return it to the armrest of his chair. Lola and Lorna jumped up and bounced over to embrace Freddie.

The mask of his outfit was shaped in such a way that his lips could be seen, and therefore kissed. The girls took turns swapping spit with Freddie until he said, “That’s enough for now, girls. We’ve got to get ready for my network debut!” The sisters squealed and sat to either side of Freddie on the couch. Conrad, off to one side sitting in his recliner, put his hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter.

Freddie explained to Conrad and his guests the premise of the show. Once they heard the title, “My Big Furry Fiancée,” it wasn’t hard to figure out. This was another reality show where a beautiful young girl brought home an unconventional man and tried to convince her family that she truly wanted to marry him. They weren’t really getting married-they only had to fool her family into thinking that to win a million dollars. Tonight was the first of three episodes, which had been filmed over the summer.

Conrad had prided himself over the years in avoiding the trend toward getting hooked on stupid reality shows. It helped that he did not have much time to budget for television, and most of that was taken up with sports. He had to admit, though, that he probably would have at least sampled this show even if he did not know Freddie. Watching a girl bring home a guy in a ferret suit as her fiancé did seem to have plenty of potential for entertainment.

Freddie’s partner in this attempted deception was a college student named Julie. She was a southern California native and attended UCLA. Her family was quite well off financially. Her father was an attorney and her mother was a professor at Loyola Marymount University. She had two older brothers, one attending law school, the other a computer software salesman.

The first half of the opening episode provided the expected conflict. Julie’s family was polite to Freddie’s face, even though they were clearly off-balance upon meeting him. Later, when Julie and Freddie had retired to their rooms, the venom toward what they perceived as their confused or rebellious daughter and the clown in a ferret suit provided some humorous scenes.

Shortly after the midway point of the program, the cameras found Freddie and Julie alone in their separate rooms. Freddie spoke about how beautiful and sweet Julie was and how he hoped they could still be friends after this game was over. Julie, however, was anything but sweet in her comments about Freddie.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to convince my family that I want to marry some loser in a ferret suit! They know I have more sense than that! I’ll just have to make them think I’m rebelling against them, and maybe throw in how sorry I feel for him,” Julie told the camera and, as a result, America at large.

“I just hope he doesn’t get some crazy idea like there is actually something between us. Eeewww! He really creeps me out! My skin wants to crawl when he touches me with that stupid suit. I just don’t get what would make someone wear a ferret suit all the time. He can’t be right in the head, can he?”

The program cut to a commercial after those comments, and the room fell silent. Lorna perked up, “What a BITCH! If she had made any effort to know you, Freddie, she would have found out how wonderful you are!”

Lola added, “How DARE that bleach blonde bitch dump on you like that! I want to scratch her face off! You deserve a lot better than that, Freddie!”

“She’s right, Freddie, “Conrad added in a calm, soothing tone. “You deserve a lot better than that.” He watched his ferret friend sit erect with his arms folded for several minutes before gradually unwinding and holding the girls close to him again.

The rest of the episode focused on setting up Julie’s “impossible mission” in trying to convince her family that she had taken leave of her senses. Freddie shared with Conrad and the girls how the producers had tried to push him into acting more “ferret-like.” Instructions he had refused to follow included trying to dig a hold in Julie’s parent’s garden and chasing their family poodle as if he was stalking it for food, which ferrets didn’t do anyway.

As the program ended, Freddie stood up, motioned toward his room, and said, “Ladies, why don’t you go in and make yourself at home. I’ll be with you in just a minute. The sisters stood up, gave Freddie a quick hug, then bounced toward his room.

Freddie stood looking at Conrad, who was already in full channel surfing mode. When Conrad finally noticed his friend, he asked “Something on your mind, Freddie?”

“Yeah. Can I ask you something and get a straight answer from you?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Do you think I embarrassed the school by doing that show? Do you think I embarrassed myself?”

Conrad pondered his answer for a moment, then responded. “I don’t think you embarrassed anyone, Freddie. Now this might not have been the best career move you could have made, but I assure you that you don’t owe an apology to anyone.”

Freddie stood for a moment, looking down at his feet. “What Julie said about me really hurt. Is that how people think of me-that I must be crazy or impaired?”

“You’ve gotta admit that a guy wearing a ferret suit 24/7 is waaay off the beaten path,” Conrad replied. “The mistake Julie made, and I’m sure other people make, is judging you by the suit and not getting to know the man inside of it. The students here at Farnsworth, the people in Midville, many of them HAVE made the effort, and they LOVE you. I’ve only known you for a short time and I’ve already figured out that what Julie spewed out was a load of crap.”

“You really think that?” Freddie sheepishly asked.

“I know it. Now go unwind with your lady friends and do try to keep it down to a dull roar tonight, OK?”

“You got it. Thanks.” Freddie then walked over to Conrad, who was also standing by now, and shook his hand. He then moved a couple of steps away, then surprised Conrad by returning for a quick hug.

“Hey Freddie,” Conrad asked as Freddie was reaching for the door knob to his room, “did you win the money?”

“Sure did!”

“I’m not surprised. You are one smooth Ferret. So what did you do, invest it?”

“A little bit, but I gave most of it back to the school.”

“What!”

“Yeah, without good ‘ol FU there wouldn’t be Freddie Ferret, so I thought the school should get the biggest chunk of my half.”

Conrad could see that his furry friend did not want to make a big deal out of his generosity so he did not ask any more questions. As Freddie slipped into his room, Conrad pondered what a fascinating ferret, er, person, his roommate was.

Within moments, Conrad heard giggling coming from inside Freddie’s room and the phone ringing. He had been waiting all evening for a call from men’s basketball coach Ron Knight confirming they had received the commitment from Jimmy Moran. After answering the phone, Conrad heard three magic words, “We got him!” Knight had just finished talking to Moran and quickly passed along the good news.

“Great work coach,” Conrad said while pumping his fist with his spare hand. “Congratulations! Just call Gabe and have him put out a press release. We should still have enough time to make the morning papers,” Conrad responded.

“Will do, Conrad!” replied the exuberant Knight. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“OK Ron. Good job,” Conrad responded. He then shut off the television and proceeded to his room, wondering if he remembered the last time he ended a day with such a warm fuzzy feeling.