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.