Part 1, Episode 13: "Coach in a Blue Dress"

“This hasn’t been a bad week, has it?” Conrad asked his trusty sidekick, John Smith.

“No sir, not bad at all. For here, it’s been very quiet,” John replied.

Indeed, this was the first week of the fall sports season that had gone by without incident, a milestone Conrad was taking a moment to savor late Friday afternoon. John was in his office providing his rundown on how the various Fighting Ferrets’ varsity teams were faring on the field, and for the first time there were no new off-the-field issues mixed in.

The men’s and women’s soccer teams had emerged as the most likely teams to challenge for a fall championship in the Little Atlantic Conference, the league that Farnsworth University joined nine years ago. Conrad was still amazed that the Ferrets had not won a single league championship in any sport. Not all of the teams were as bad as the football squad, but Farnsworth had seldom even fielded a competitive team during their dismal sports history.

Last week had seen one of the cross-country runners disqualified from a meet because she had wandered off the course, but that hardly ranked as a major issue. It would have been, Conrad thought, if she were driving the team bus. Neither the men’s or women’s cross-country teams were very good, so it was not like that misdirection had really cost the team anything.

Soccer, however, was a different story. Both the men’s and women’s coaches had adopted a strategy last season of recruiting any foreign-born player in the region that was not good enough to earn a scholarship from a Division I or II school. This resulted in their rosters reading like a United Nations meeting, but these kids also knew how to play soccer.

Even more significant, in most cases they had grown up with their primary athletic focus on soccer (some players still called it football), and it was not a default choice for them after failing at football or basketball. This infusion of talent had helped the Ferrets place a strong third in the LAC last season in both men’s and women’s soccer, and they were challenging conference powers Conservative Arch University and Wright Wing College for first place so far this year.

Finishing his roundup, John told Conrad that the volleyball team appeared to be destined for the middle of the pack in the conference, and the field hockey squad had won twice more since collectively reigning in their tempers.

John understood that he was not to bring up the football team unless there was a very compelling reason to do so. This unspoken directive was not difficult for John to comply with, since he did not want to address that depressing subject any more than Conrad did.

There was, however, a football related matter that he did need to discuss. “I’ve got some information for you on the halftime show next week for the Key College football game,” he told Conrad.

This was a matter of great concern for Conrad. Last Monday, he had received a call from Mr. Farnsworth imploring him to find something tangible and constructive for Four F to get involved with. Without thinking, Conrad had blurted out, “Well, he could put together a halftime show at our next home football game.” The Old Man loved the idea, thanked Conrad for suggesting it, and went about engaging Four F in planning “a halftime spectacular,” as he referred to it.

To Conrad’s way of thinking, this could be a spectacular disaster, but he really had no choice but to observe and hope no one got hurt. Four F had been secretive about this project, which made Conrad even more apprehensive. Feeling that being forewarned led to being forearmed, he had directed John Smith to sniff around and find out what he could about Four F’s plans.

Conrad now sat back in his chair and braced himself for John’s report. “Okay, tell me what you found out,” he said.

“He’s doing a Civil War theme. He’s got some exhibits out front during the pre-game, they’re doing a battle of the Monocacy reenactment at halftime, and anyone wearing a Civil War uniform gets in free,” John told him.

“You’re putting me on. He’s got people to do a freakin’ Civil War reenactment in fifteen minutes?” Conrad asked incredulously.

“Apparently. Civil War reenactments are a big deal up here. The Monocacy Battlefield is just a few miles away from here, and we’re not all that far from Antietam, which was the bloodiest battle of the Civil War,” John replied.

“Okay, but tying it in with a football game?” Conrad asked, maintaining his incredulous tone.

“What I heard is he’s trying to make Farnsworth U and Key College into a Civil War type rivalry. The outcome should be just about as bad at the Monocacy battle. The North gave the South a real butt-kicking in July 1864, and I doubt we’ll be much more competitive with Key,” John offered.

“Yeah, even if we were armed,” Conrad mused. “Boy, give our quarterback a loaded gun and the safest person in the world would be the one he is aiming at.”

John chuckled at the thought of their scatter-armed quarterback, Seymour Singletary, trying to hit a target with a gun. “Precision is not exactly his strong suit,” he replied.

“Why is it that I spend more of my time worrying about casualties at our events than us actually winning some of them? We need to get that fixed,” Conrad said, with John nodding in agreement.

The next day he observed the Ferrets suffer yet another blowout loss on the football field, this one 41-6 at Shallow Valley College. Conrad decided on the drive back to Midville that he would head directly for the Chaps and Spurs sports bar and begin unwinding a bit earlier than usual.

Upon arriving at the bar, he quickly scanned the crowd for his friend Frankie. Conrad did not find her, but he was not disappointed, either, since it was still late afternoon and he had not seen her there ahead of the early evening hours. He was able to snag an empty pool table and shoot by himself for a while. Conrad had determined that there would be no rematch with Frankie this week. After suffering through another football debacle, he did not need to be humiliated again in billiards.

As he had hoped, Conrad became totally focused on shooting pool. After a while, he didn’t even pay attention to any of the multitude of college football games on the televisions scattered throughout the bar. He was in the zone and began reconsidering taking Frankie on, but figured he would be better off quitting while he was ahead.

Conrad had lost track of how many racks he had played when he looked up at the clock and saw that it was nearly 8:00. He had held the table for over two hours and saw that there was still no sign of Frankie. With his concentration broken, he finished his current rack and yielded the table. After settling up with the cashier, he sat by himself at the bar and caught up on the day’s football scores.

At it approached 9:00, Conrad was considering leaving while he was still fit to drive himself home. He was startled to feel a tap on his right shoulder and hear a raspy, “you wanna buy a friend a drink?” Frankie had finally arrived and she looked really beaten down.

“Wow,” Conrad thought, “things must be really tough at work for her.” “Sure,” he said. “I was afraid you weren’t coming tonight. This is the highlight of my social life, you know.”

“Yeah, mine too, I’m afraid,” Frankie said. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Conrad said wearing a rueful grin. They were indeed two lost souls finding temporary refuge in each other’s company. That was OK with him, because there were worse ways to spend a Saturday night. Being alone, for example.

“You look like you’ve had a rough week. Things getting worse at work?” Conrad asked, trying to draw Frankie out.

“Not so much worse as just staying really, really bad. It’s wearing me down, Conrad. I feel helpless. I’m not this bad, but you couldn’t tell it from the results,” Frankie said, the frustration building in her voice.

“Why don’t we get a table and throw down a few?” Conrad suggested.

“That sounds like just what the doctor ordered,” Frankie quickly agreed.

After sharing a couple of pitchers of beer, Conrad noticed Frankie beginning to wind down. They began focusing on the Texas A&M-LSU game, and Conrad was impressed with how much Frankie understood about the X’s and O’s of football. “See, LSU is playing a 3-4 defense, but they don’t have any pass rush on either edge. There’s no way you can pressure a quarterback in that defense without at least one guy coming from the outside to compliment a good push from your interior linemen,” Frankie observed after watching A&M convert two third-and-long situations due in part to their quarterback having plenty of time to throw.

“You really know your football, don’t you?” Conrad commented.

“Yeah, I grew up in a family that was football nuts, and grew to really love the game. I don’t think there’s anything that gives me more pleasure than watching a good football game,” Frankie replied.

“Anything?” Conrad asked mischievously.

“Yep. Anything.” Frankie responded firmly.

If memory served, Conrad could think of something he used to do what seemed like eons ago that beat watching any sporting event, but it probably wouldn’t help anything to bring that up now, he thought.
They sat quietly for a while, drinking and watching football, neither in any hurry to leave and rejoin the real world.

Eventually Conrad felt himself drifting off. Later, he began stirring and immediately noticed he had a pounding headache. “No,” he thought, “pounding doesn’t do it justice. It’s more like a jack hammer drilling on top of my head.” He struggled to sit up and, noticing he was wearing only his underwear, saw the sun streaming in through the window. “Looks like a nice day,” he thought.

As he was slowly gathering his wits about him, he realized that he was in unfamiliar surroundings. “Where am I?” he wondered. “Geez, how much did I have to drink last night?”

Slowly turning his head so he could take in the entire room, he saw a dress draped over an overstuffed easy chair. “That looks familiar,” Conrad thought. “I know-that’s the blue dress Frankie wore last night.”

He suddenly sat up straight, his back completely rigid, and put his hands up to cover his face. “Oh crap,” Conrad thought, “did I take advantage of her last night? Or did she take advantage of me?” He then dropped his hands down to his side and eased his body around so he could see the other side of the bed. He saw a figure lying next to him with shorter hair than he remembered Frankie having. “Guess she wears a wig,” Conrad thought. “Oh man, what have I done?”

As if on cue, the other person in the bed began stirring. Conrad, curious to see what Frankie was wearing (and praying she was wearing something), reached over and lifted the covers up to peek underneath. What he saw was another man clad in only boxer shorts.

Conrad leaped out of bed and began screaming, “What the hell is going on here! What the hell is going on here!”

The other man in the bed struggled to sit up. He managed to say, “For God’s sake, Conrad, will you keep the noise down! I’ve got a bear of a hangover.”

Seeing who the man was set Conrad off again. “What are you doing here! Where’s Frankie?”

The man just sat there and gave Conrad one of those “how stupid are you?” looks. Truth be told, Conrad felt very stupid at that moment as he looked back toward the disheveled man.

It wasn’t bad enough that Frankie was apparently a cross-dresser who Conrad mistook for a woman. That was a scene out of a bad sitcom. It was much worse that he knew who the man was. That was a scene out of an “R” rated movie. It was infinitely worse that the man was the Farnsworth football coach Frank “Stump” Williams. Conrad was then struck with terror. He frantically looked around the room for a video camera, wondering if he had starred in a porno movie last night.

“Tell me we didn’t do anything last night!” Conrad demanded.

“What do you think I am, queer?” Frank asked. “No, we didn’t do anything, you moron.”

“Then how did I wind up in bed with only my skivvies on?” Conrad asked.

“Look, just calm down and don’t get your ‘skivvies’ all in a bunch,” Frank began. “We both had a lot to drink and by closing time neither one of us could even think about driving. I was still lucid enough to ask for a cab to be called for us. I had him drop us off here for the night.”

“Okay, but how did I wind up in bed with you?” Conrad pressed.

“I tried setting you up on the couch,” Frank responded, “but you kept rolling off onto the floor. I was pretty shaky myself, so I finally said the hell with it and dragged you in here. I guess I took your clothes off, I don’t really remember because I passed out pretty soon after I got you in bed.”

Conrad was quiet for a few moments. Rolling off the couch several times did help explain this dull ache he noticed in his left shoulder. He had a lot of information to process in a very impaired condition. After most of the facts had adequately sunk in, he asked, “Frank, why did you do this?”

“Do what?” Frank asked.

“Do what!?” Conrad screamed. “Dress up as a woman and act like my friend, that’s what! You knew who I was, damn it! What kind of sick game were you playing?”

The room fell uncomfortably quiet for several minutes. Finally, Frank broke the silence. “I wasn’t playing a game, Conrad. You of all people know what I’m going through right now. The football team is hopelessly bad. We’re a laughing stock in town and on campus. I just needed a little refuge where I wasn’t ‘Stump’. I needed a friend, Conrad, and no one around here would be one to ‘Stump.’ I thought they might be to Frankie, though.”

Conrad felt some of his anger abating and being replaced with sympathy. “So, if you don’t mind me asking,” Conrad began hesitantly, “how long have you been dressing up like a woman?”

Frank fixed a “you just don’t get it” look upon Conrad then replied, “I don’t dress up like a woman, Conrad. I AM a woman.”

Part 1, Episode 12: "An Addition to the Family"

Conrad began stirring from his impromptu nap and felt two beady little eyes staring at him. When his eyes flickered open, he saw a small furry object perched on his chest, apparently scoping him out. Instinctively thinking this animal was a robust mouse, he jumped off the couch and screamed. The animal, probably terrified at the racket Conrad was making, dug in with his claws and hung onto his shirt.

“Get off, get off!” Conrad shrieked, terrified of being bitten by this potentially disease-ridden vermin. Afraid to touch it, Conrad swung his torso rapidly from side to side, trying to shake the creature off his shirt. When this didn’t work, he began looking for an object to pry it off, perhaps a pancake turner or spatula.

As Conrad began rummaging around the kitchen, the door opened and Freddie walked through. “Hey, Conrad, I’m glad to see you’ve met Junior. Isn’t he adorable?”

Conrad stopped dead in his tracks. Freddie, the guy in the ferret suit, had obtained a pet mouse, he thought. “Is there any way to get Junior off me?” Conrad asked, his tone betraying his agitation.
“Sure. Come here, Junior,” Freddie said, approaching Conrad and extending his left paw, or arm, or whatever it is. Obediently, Junior detached his front claws from Conrad’s now ruined dress shirt and placed them on Freddie’s fur. He quickly followed with the back claws and snuggled Freddie’s arm, paw, whatever.

“WHAT is Junior?” Conrad adamantly asked Freddie.

“Why, he’s a little ferret kit. I just picked him up today. What did you think he was?” Freddie replied.

“I was afraid he was a big mouse. I’d drifted off to sleep on the couch and woke up with him on my chest staring at me. Would it be too much to ask for a heads up when you do something like this?” Conrad asked.

“I’m sorry, pal. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Sorry he startled you.”

“To someone who wears a ferret suit 24/7, it’s not a big deal bringing home a ferret. To ordinary civilians like me, a little warning would be most helpful.”

“Gotcha. Sorry about the shirt.”

“Something tells me that won’t be the only casualty in the weeks ahead. Junior, huh? As in Freddie Junior?”

“What else?” Freddie shrugged.

“Have you got everything set up for him?” Conrad asked. “Meaning, do I have to watch where I walk?
Does he need to be taken out to go potty?”

“Ferrets use a litter box, and I’ve already got that set up in my bathroom. See, I got them to put a little trap door in my bedroom door so Junior can go in and out at night,” Freddie pointed out.

“No cage?” Conrad asked.

“I’m going to try not to resort to that. This place is small enough that I hope he can just have the run of things without a jail cell.” Freddie replied.

“He really is a little thing. How old is he?”

“About 12 weeks. He might grow to about five or six pounds, but probably no bigger. Ferrets, present company excluded, are tiny little animals.”

“He is sort of cute,” Conrad admitted. “Where did you get him?”

“Father Ferret, the original Farnsworth mascot, has a side business where he breeds them. I had asked him a while back to pick one out for me, and he called over the weekend to tell me that this one had been weaned from his mother. I waited until I could get the trap door and all the supplies before I picked him up.”

“What does he eat?”

“There’s special ferret food, but he can also eat most types of cat food. He’ll probably eat healthier than you, Conrad.”

Conrad let out a chuckle. “I think most living organisms do better than daily Galaxy Burger combos. Well, welcome to our home, Junior,” Conrad said and reached out to pet Junior.

Perhaps interpreting it as an aggressive move, Junior chomped down on Conrad’s approaching hand while still clinging securely to Freddie.

“Ow! Damn it, that hurt!” Conrad yelled.

“Hey, do you mind? No swearing in front of the child,” Freddie said.

“Fine. Tell your child I’m not a snack, OK?” Conrad snapped.

“Yeah, we’ll work on that. They tell me sometimes it takes up to a year for a ferret to become attached to someone, so be patient. I’m lucky he’s taken to me so quickly,” Freddie replied.

“He probably thinks you’re his mother. Your fur is even a similar color,” Conrad observed, noticing the similarity in the light brown fur with almost an orange tint that both Freddie and Junior displayed. “In fact,” Conrad added, “I think he has your eyes.”

“Well, I guess that makes you his uncle,” Freddie said.

“Great,” Conrad replied sarcastically. “He’s not going to howl or make any strange noises during the night, is he?”

“No, he won’t make much noise at all. He’ll probably sleep something like 16-18 hours a day, too. If there are any strange noises coming from my room, they’ll be mine.”

As he thought of being able to sleep that much for even one day, Conrad felt a moment of jealously toward his newest roommate. “So why did you get him, Freddie?” he asked.

“I guess I just wanted someone to love,” Freddie softly replied while he petted Junior.

Saturday brought the event Conrad had spent the last week dreading, his debut as analyst on the Ferret Football radio team. There was actually a part of him that was excited about doing a game broadcast for the first time. He had grown up listening to Baltimore broadcasting legend Chuck Thompson, and later Jon Miller, and the thought of dipping a toe into their line of work was somewhat titillating.

That excitement was overwhelmed by two factors. First, the Ferrets’ football team was abysmal. He didn’t want to be too hard on the kids since they were probably doing the best they could, but their best clearly was not suitable for college football at any level. Second was the minor problem that he really could not understand the play-by-play announcer, Troy Flemstone--a small college announcer with an All-American lisp.

Conrad found some solace in the fact that most if not all the listeners shared his problem with Troy and would be unable to tell if his comments were appropriate follow-ups to what Troy had just said. Therefore, he would just talk about what he saw and not worry too much about trying to be in sync with Troy. He would also hope the game was not a massacre.

Mercifully, WFUR did not carry a lengthy pre-game show like major colleges did. Kickoff was scheduled for 1:05, and the broadcast did not begin until 1:00. Promptly at 1:00, Troy opened the broadcast, “Good afternoon, Ferret fanth, and welcome to another exthiting afternoon of Ferret football.” That wasn’t too bad, Conrad thought. If he will just stay away from words with “s” in them, this might not be too painful.
“Yeth, fanth, ith a beautiful thunny afternoon here in Eath Wethgate.” “Never mind,” thought Conrad.

His hopes for a competitive game were also quickly dashed. The Holy Terrors of St. McDonald’s College tore through the Fighting Ferreth’, er Ferrets’ defense like cheap tissue paper. St. McDonald’s marched the length of the field the first four times they touched the ball and held a decisive 28-0 lead early in the second quarter. At this point, as near as Conrad could tell, Troy lost interest in the game and started telling stories. He could occasionally make out a down and distance call from Troy, but otherwise just waited for him to draw a breath before inserting some pertinent information about the game.

The station ran pre-recorded interviews at halftime, giving Conrad a few moments away from Troy where he could try to unwind. When Conrad returned to the broadcast booth just before the second half kickoff, Troy commented on Conrad’s analysis. “You’re doing jutht a thwell job, Conrad. Are you thure you’ve never done thith before?” Troy asked.

“Nope, this is my first time. I guess I picked up enough listening to the pros do this over the years that I’ve got somewhat of a clue.” Conrad responded.

“Well, if you ever dethide to leave thporth adminithrathration, you thould conthider broadcathting,” Troy added.

“Thankth,” Conrad replied.

By the time the clock had mercifully run out on the drubbing, a 48-3 loss for the Ferrets, Conrad had to restrain himself from running out of the booth. Troy seemed to be a genuinely nithe man, but that lithp made Conrad crazy! I can’t thtop lithping! HELP!

Sorry about that, folks. As I was saying, Conrad quickly bolted from the booth toward his car, eager to leave today’s carnage behind and return to Midville. More specifically, he was excited about returning to “The Chaps and Spurs Sports Bar,” hoping to run into Frankie again. It was too early to head there, however, so he returned back to his suite to watch the late afternoon football games, glad that today’s debacle had not totally killed his interest in the sport.

He entered the suite carefully, lest Freddie’s adopted son Junior dart out the open door. After turning on the television and quickly surfing the televised football games, he settled on the Florida State-Notre Dame contest. He fetched a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat down to enjoy the game. When Florida State jumped out to a 21-0 lead, he became restless and decided to do some work to help him prepare for the next week.

When he wasn’t on the job, Conrad often left his laptop computer out for occasions like this. There had never been any reason not to. Freddie was respectful of Conrad’s property, so there was no issue with it being misused. The dynamics had changed, however, a thought that occurred to Conrad when he tried to turn his computer on. Nothing happened, no noise, no light on the screen, nothing. When Conrad went to hit the enter key, just in case that would help, he felt a sticky substance on the key. Curious, he checked the rest of the keyboard and found that most of the keys on the right half were now sticky.

As he was speculating on what had happened, he saw Junior pop through the trap door from Freddie’s room. He scampered around the living area and headed toward the kitchen. Junior then climbed up a chair and secured himself on the kitchen table, the place that Conrad had left his laptop this morning. He then watched Junior proceed to tinkle on the table. It immediately became obvious to him what the sticky substance on his computer keys was, and that ferret urine had probably seeped into the unit and burned out the motherboard, making it useless.

As he raced to wash his hands, Conrad was relieved that he had backed up his data on Friday. He did wonder how he was going to explain this on a purchase requisition when he ordered a new computer.

Given the options of staying in and watching a lopsided football game, waiting for Junior’s next move, or contemplating his navel, Conrad decided to get cleaned up and head out to the sports bar early. He figured he could occupy himself shooting pool while he waited to see if Frankie showed up.

When he entered “Chaps and Spurs”, he found that Frankie had already arrived. He spotted her at one of the pool tables stuffing some money into her purse. He realized she WAS a hustler and had gone easy on him last week. This will not do, he thought. “I’ve got just enough male ego left that I will not let a woman feel she has to let me win at billiards,” he thought.

“Hey lady, can I take next?” Conrad asked as he approached. There were several men in her general vicinity, and they giggled at what Conrad had said.

“Sure, I’ll take your money,” Frankie replied. She proceeded to do just that. Frankie played free and easy, while Conrad found the harder he tried the worse he played. At five dollars a game, Conrad’s funds were quickly exhausted. He thought she threw a couple of games his way just to extend their playing time, but eventually he was playing so poorly she couldn’t even let him win.

Sensing Conrad’s frustration was close to getting the best of him, Frankie said, “I’m hungry. Winner buys dinner.” Already tapped out for the night, Conrad quickly agreed.

As they sat and ordered their first round of drinks, Frankie noticed Conrad ruefully shaking his head. “What’s bothering you, Conrad? I hope it’s not just the ass kicking I gave you over there,” Frankie said.

“No, it’s just been that kind of day. I had to sit through an awful football game doing a radio broadcast with a guy I can barely understand, then I come home and found the ferret had peed on my computer,” Conrad offered with a sigh.

“Geez, I thought he would have been house broken by now,” Frankie said.

Conrad chuckled, “No, no, not the mascot. He just got a little pet ferret who apparently needs remedial potty training.”

“Ok, that makes more sense, I guess. Sounds like a tough day,” Frankie replied.

“Yeah, and getting emasculated at the pool table was a fitting way to wrap it up,” Conrad said. “Hey, enough about me. Are things going any better for you at work?”

“Can’t say that they are,” Frankie replied.

“You told me you’re a manager, right?” Conrad asked.

“Yeah. I’ve got several assistants working for me, and a team of about seventy people overall, counting interns,” Frankie said.

“Wow, that’s a big group. I know you told me last week you’ve got some serious performance issues to deal with. What seems to be causing them?” Conrad asked.

“Have you heard the phrase ‘You can teach a pig to sing, but in the long run it wastes your time and annoys the pig’? Well, that’s what I’m up against. We just haven’t got enough talent to be very good, and it’s just getting really frustrating,” Frankie said.

“That reminds me of the debacle I watched today. Our football team is just unspeakably bad. At your job, have you ever thought about blowing it up and trying to start from scratch?” Conrad asked.

“All the time, my friend, all the time. It’s too late for that in my situation, though. Pretty soon I imagine I’ll have to get on with the rest of my life,” Frankie said.

“Take it from me, since I’ve very recently experienced that situation. You just never know where fate will lead you.” Conrad said, concluding the serious discussion for the evening.

Part 1-Episode 11: Changing Directions

“Hi daddy!” the little voice shrieked enthusiastically into the phone.

“Hi Connie. How’s my little sweetheart doing?” Conrad asked.

“I’m real good. I’m having lots of fun out here. It’s really neat!” the little girl responded.

As soon as Conrad had signed the papers for their legal separation, his wife Camilla, as per terms of the agreement, was free to take their precocious four-year old daughter and move back to her home town of San Diego. Conrad had signed them on a Monday, and by Saturday she had rented out their home and swept Connie off to stay with Camilla’s parents.

Being over 3,000 miles away from his beautiful little daughter deeply troubled Conrad, but the truth was that he had not been that great of a father before he and Camilla split. Shortly after Connie was born, Conrad and Camilla’s marriage, never rock solid from the outset, slipped into a slow, painful, death spiral. Camilla gradually built her own life as a mother and a research scientist at Johns Hopkins, a life that included less of Conrad as time passed. Unable to penetrate the wall that Camilla built around herself, Conrad dove into his work, spending more and more time at EAPU and related sporting events. The cost of this escapism was the relationship between him and his daughter.

Conrad loved Connie to pieces; he knew that. At this point in her young life, she had plenty of love for him, too. Connie had always treasured every moment Conrad spent with her, making that time very special to him. Taking a few minutes to play with her, read to her, or just hold her while she sat in his lap, was better than any feel-good drug in existence. He had only seen Connie once since he and Camilla had split, and that was for less than an hour the day before they left for California. Even though he never spent an abundance of quality time with her, knowing that his little princess was so far away left the feeling that there was a hole in his heart

Conrad could have fought for temporary custody, but he decided not to. With the kind of hours he needed to put in at Farnsworth, there would be precious little time to also be a daddy. Despite how cold and withdrawn Camilla had become around him the past few years, he had to admit she was still a good and loving mother. Being with her grandparents, two good people who lived in a very nice section of San Diego, would help provide Connie with a nurturing environment. Conrad’s selfless act of letting Connie go to California may have been the first true parenting decision he had made since she was an infant.

It was obvious during this phone call that Connie was having a blast in San Diego. She loved being around her grandparents, the weather was spectacular and led to plenty of quality playground time, and she had made an abundance of new friends. Conrad listened to her detailed description of these new friends and a virtual play-by-play of her activities since arriving out there. She sounded like a very happy little girl, which made him feel very warm inside.

Then, as her mother was nagging her to end the call, she said “I miss you daddy,” in such a sweet tone that it nearly broke Conrad’s heart.

Fighting to hold back tears, he said in a cracking voice “I miss you too, Connie. Have fun and know that Daddy loves you.”

As he was finishing the sentence, Camilla took the phone and, in a particular icy tone, told Conrad, “Make sure the check’s on time this month.” She then hung up the phone.

Connie was still very much on Conrad’s mind the next morning, as he had been through much of a very restless night. Surprisingly, there was another person who Conrad’s thoughts kept coming back to.

After the Galludet football game, Conrad had wandered around downtown Midville and eventually stepped into the “Chaps and Spurs Sports Bar.” As advertised, the place was all about sports and drinking. With three big-screen televisions and dozens of smaller ones scattered throughout the bar, restaurant, and recreation areas, you couldn’t avoid whatever games were being broadcast even if you wanted to. Conrad was particularly impressed with the monitor that was imbedded in the wall over the urinals in the men’s room.

There were Farnsworth pennants, football schedules (Conrad gave a fleeting thought to tearing those down) and photos of Ferrets’ sports blended in with those of the area’s pros and big schools throughout the building. Conrad saw at least three pictures of Freddie in action prominently displayed in the restaurant area. Unlike most sports bars, however, this place was more than just a collection of memorabilia and beer signs. It was nicely decorated with attractive window treatments, featured a bright mix of pastel colors, and was also spotlessly clean, all unique compared to other sports bars Conrad had visited.

After grabbing a bite to eat that evening, Conrad made his way over to the billiards room, where he could sit by the railing and keep his eye on several college football games at the same time. Always having been a University of Maryland fan, most of his attention was focused on their game with West Virginia.

After sitting for a while, he started to feel restless. Surmising that he needed to do something to burn off the frustration of the day, he went to get a rack of balls to shoot at the pool table that had just opened up. When he got to the desk, he found that someone had beaten him to it. As he considered whether or not to leave and head back home, he heard a husky female voice say, “Hey, you wanna share a table?”

Conrad turned and saw a short, squaty woman who appeared to be at least in her late 40’s holding a rack of billiard balls and what appeared to be her own custom made pool stick. “I don’t know. I’ve had a tough day, and I really don’t feel like getting hustled by a woman. No offense.”

“None taken,” she replied. “Don’t freak out because I’ve got my own stick. I’m not really that good, and I’m not all that sober either. You won’t get hustled.”

After considering her offer for a moment, Conrad decided to grab a stick and join her. She had not lied to him. This lady, who he discovered was named Frankie, wasn’t a very good pool player. It didn’t matter, though, because he was finally able to start putting the miserable experience at the Galludet game behind him and focus on shooting pool. As the evening progressed, he found himself paying less attention to making shots or the football games still in progress overhead. He and Frankie had started talking and kept it up until they both tired of billiards and grabbed a table in the bar.

Conrad was not attracted to Frankie in anything resembling a sexual way, but he was smitten with her nonetheless. It had been years since he had been able to have a lengthy conversation about himself, his dreams, his problems with Camilla. Now he was with a woman who immediately seemed to understand him better than she ever had.

The conversation was hardly one sided. Frankie apparently felt as comfortable with Conrad as he did with her. She told him about how she was struggling with her career, worried that she had chosen the wrong path. Frankie was afraid she would lose her job by the end of the year and was unsure of what the future held. She also talked about how her marriage ended, and the two swapped “war stories” regarding their spouses.

As the clock approached midnight, Conrad prepared to leave and impulsively took her hand, “Thanks for a great evening. I really enjoyed being with you, Frankie. Good luck with your work situation.”

“My pleasure, Conrad,” Frankie responded. “Maybe I’ll see you around again sometime.”

“I hope so,” Conrad replied as he made his way toward the exit. Boy, he thought, I don’t recall ever meeting a woman with such a strong grip. “Frankie could have broken my knuckles if she had wanted to,” he determined as he called for a cab home.

That afternoon, it was time for Conrad to get his mind clear of personal issues and focus on the upcoming field hockey game. Coach Cage, with surprising confidence, had assured him earlier that morning there would not be a repeat of the carnage that had occurred in the Ferrets’ first two games. Conrad had taken Cage at his word and begged his counterpart at St. Josephine’s College to send his team down to play their scheduled game at Farnsworth. Reluctantly, he had agreed and the team showed up as planned.

Much to Conrad’s relief, there was little sign of the anger the field hockey Ferret’s had vented in their earlier games. The Farnsworth team was much more physical than their opponents from St. Josephine’s, but kept their aggressiveness within the rules. The Ferrets were holding a commanding 2-0 lead late in the first half when one of the Farnsworth players missed a defensive assignment and gave a Gopher attacker a wide-open shot at the goal. She scored, cutting the Ferrets’ lead to 2-1. Conrad, along with the entire St. Josephine’s squad, held his breath, since opponents’ goals had precipitated much of the Ferrets’ violence in previous games. A disturbing amount of profanity was spewed by the Farnsworth players as they moved back to their positions, but, to Conrad’s relief, there was no fighting, pushing, biting, hair pulling, or stick swinging. It looked like coach Cage may have figured things out after all, Conrad thought.

The Fighting Ferrets continued to play aggressively but stayed under control and coasted to a 4-1 win over the St. Josephine Plumbers. Their coach seemed more relieved to escape Farnsworth without needing an ambulance than he was upset about losing. Conrad caught up with Coach Cage on his way to the locker room and said, “Coach, this looked like an entirely different team. What did you come up with?”

“I promised the team that as long as they did their part, I wouldn’t tell anyone about out team goals,” Cage responded.

Worried, Conrad asked, “You’re not doing anything like giving them money are you?”

“No, no, nothing at all like that,” Cage responded, chuckling as he did so. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. What we’re doing is completely within the rules.”

“OK,” a relieved Conrad said. “Keep it up!”

It was a lovely Thursday afternoon, and Conrad had decided to take full advantage of it by walking from his office to the field hockey venue, about ¾ of a mile away. As he began his return trip following the game, Jimmy Harris of the Star-Bulletin jogged up beside him.

“I’m surprised to see you at a field hockey game, Jimmy,” Conrad said, fully knowing why the reporter had covered the game.

“Given the way these girls started the season, I thought there was a decent chance something newsworthy would happen today,” Jimmy replied, clearly disappointed that the game was uneventful.

“Well, you’re in luck, then,” Conrad said. “You caught our first win of the season.”

“Yeah, that’ll make the front page,” Jimmy huffed.

“I’ve read your sport section every day,” Conrad responded. “This game story might actually make page one, although probably below the fold.”

“Oh, I know that,” Jimmy replied. “I meant the front page of the newspaper.”

“Geez, Jimmy, I don’t know if Bob Woodward started out covering college field hockey games,” Conrad playfully tweaked his companion.

Ignoring that remark, Jimmy said, “I hear the ferret was offered a position of the ballot for City Alderman and turned it down.”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“Did they think a guy in a ferret suit could actually win an election?”

“Well, the guy that traded Sammy Sosa for Harold Baines wound up getting elected President of the United States,” Conrad said, referring to George W. Bush, who was managing partner of the Texas Rangers at the time.

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” Jimmy agreed. “So what made him decide not to run?”

“I don’t know,” Conrad lied, “maybe he thought with his school schedule and mascot duties he wouldn’t have time to do a good job as an Alderman.”

“Maybe,” Jimmy said, “or maybe he just didn’t want people like me nosing around in his past or asking the question ‘why do you wear a ferret suit all the time.”

“Jimmy, I doubt very many of us want people trying to dig stuff up on us.”

“That’s a fair point, but we aren’t wearing a ferret suit 24/7 either. I bet there’s a fascinating story behind that. Boy, would I love to be the one to break it.”

“So ratting out the ferret is going to be your Watergate story?”

“Maybe. You know, I’ve got bigger plans than doing this stuff all my life. I don’t want to become like that loser editor of mine and get stuck in this Podunk town writing about nothing. I’m better than that. I’m going to be a real reporter, not just some schlub sportswriter.”

“Jimmy, before you started doing this for a living, were you a sports fan?”

“Sure. I collected autographs and sports cards just like any other boy.”

“Well maybe you can take the next step before you totally dismiss sportswriting as a worthless career path.”

“What do you mean the next step?”

“Here’s the deal. When you grow into adulthood, you can approach sports three different ways. First, you can go in other directions and think of sports as an occasional recreational diversion. Second, you can live and die with a particular team or teams. You can be happy when they win, you can be sad when they lose. Then there’s the third approach.”

“What’s that?”

“You can grow to understand what sports are really about. If all you follow are the numbers, you know, the wins and losses and player stats, you’re still only scratching the surface of what sports can offer. It’s really all about the people. There are good people and there are bad people. There are ones who heroically rise above seemingly insurmountable obstacles to succeed, and there are others who piss away an abundance of God-given talent. There are people who put their teammates first and make them better players, there are others who care only about themselves and the adulation they feel they deserve.”

“Okay, so what’s your point?”

“My point is this. A sportswriter has plenty of stories to tell, some good, some bad, and some very important. You can go in the direction of writing hard news and wind up spending your time sitting in endless government hearings or maybe hanging out in the city morgue every night. Or, you can get beyond the numbers in sports and write about the people. But you can do it in a way that doesn’t compromise them. There are enough people with stories to tell right here on campus that you don’t have to dig up one that won’t serve any good purpose.”

“In other words, stay clear of the ferret.”

“Now we’re communicating. You don’t have to sacrifice him to avoid turning into another Buddy Wright. People don’t have to be hurt for there to be a good story to tell.”

They had reached the entrance to Farnsworth Forum, and Conrad placed his hand on the door. He hesitated for a moment and turned back toward Jimmy “Think about it, Jimmy.”

Part 1, Episode 10: "Leading the Followers"

“Wow, Conrad! What do you think I should do?” Freddie asked.

Conrad, sitting across the table from him, smiled and shook his head. The wonder that is Freddie Ferret continued to amaze him. Freddie had received a phone call earlier that evening from Dirk Smithson, the leader of the Democratic Party in Midville. Dirk informed Freddie that one of his party’s candidates for Midville City Alderman had fallen ill and would have to drop out of the primary election, which was only eight days away. Without this candidate, one of the seats would go uncontested to the Republicans. Smithson had asked Freddie to fill that slot.

“Is this something you would want to do?” Conrad asked.

“Sure. My second degree is in political science. I’m working on one now in psychology. If anything, I’m probably overqualified for a local position like this,” Freddie replied.

“If his current degree program was in abnormal psychology, that would make Freddie more qualified to be athletic director here than me,” Conrad thought. “Well, you sure do know Midville, and the town just loves you,” Conrad said, rubbing his goatee as he pondered this unlikely situation.

“Yeah, if an actor could be elected President of the United States, why couldn’t a ferret win a city alderman’s seat?” Freddie chimed in.

Freddie had a good point, Conrad thought, but there was a factor he had apparently not addressed. “Even as popular as you are, though, it would not be easy to win this election.”

“Why not?” Freddie asked, surprised at the skepticism implied in Conrad’s tone.

“You need to remember,” Conrad continued, “that this is a staunchly Republican area. They have most of the political muscle in this town and quite likely won’t look very kindly upon an interloper in a ferret suit. They’ll pull out all the stops to make sure you don’t win.”

“Yeah, but what can they really do to me, Conrad?” Freddie asked. “My public persona is comparable to a Boy Scout.”

“What about the ladies?” Conrad asked.

“That wouldn’t be a problem. I joke with you about being a furry gigolo, but I am not a ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ or one-night stand ferret. I’m very nurturing and sensitive,” Freddie said defensively.

“Ok, then what about your past. I’m assuming you weren’t born in the ferret suit. Are you up to someone digging around in you pre-Farnsworth days and making public anything that might embarrass you and cost you votes?” Conrad countered.

Freddie fell silent and stared at the floor. After a few moments, he broke the silence. “I guess I should really think about this before I jump in,” he said softly.

Earlier that day, Conrad had met with his intern, John Smith, to go over the Fighting Ferret results so far in the fall season. Conrad had tasked John to attend as many games for as many sports as possible, serving as his eyes while Conrad was still trying to pull things together in the office. None of the teams were faring very well in the early going, but there were two in particular that required special attention.
“What’s going on with the field hockey team?” Conrad asked John.

“They’ve lost their first two games, 7-1 to Central Maryland College and 6-1 to Southern Penn,” John replied.

“Geez, those are some bad whippings for field hockey. I thought we had some pretty good players, or at least that’s what Coach Cage told me,” Conrad said. “Why do we have a male field hockey coach, anyway?”

“Four F hired Gene Cage after your predecessor quit. His philosophy, if you can call it that, is that women aren’t good leaders, and therefore not qualified to be coaches,” John told Conrad. “It didn’t go over very well with the players, and they’re taking their anger out on anything around them.”

“How so, I’m afraid to ask,” Conrad said.

“They’re getting penalty calls out the wazoo,” John replied. “If the other team has the nerve to score a goal, the player that scores is getting pummeled with fists and sticks. That usually gets at least one of our players ejected, and just like in soccer, when a player is ejected in field hockey, the team plays short-handed the rest of the game.”

“That’s not good,” Conrad said, stating the obvious.

“It gets worse,” John continued. “With our team playing shorthanded, we’re more likely to give up another goal, which starts another fight and gets another player ejected. It’s like the proverbial snowball rolling down the mountain.”

“Yeah, a really pissed off snowball with a weapon,” Conrad added.

“Take our last game against Southern Penn,” John added. “We were up 1-0 with less than ten minutes left in the game. They scored, we started a fight, they scored again, we started another fight, and by the end of the game we only had five players left on the field. They probably could have scored ten goals but they were afraid of suffering more casualties. The players have also taken to carrying their sticks around everywhere they go.”

“So girls are getting hurt in these fights?” Conrad asked.

“Oh yeah, the report from the Southern Penn game was two concussions and a broken arm. We’re supposed to play St. Josephine’s on Thursday and they’re threatening not to show up.”

“I’ll talk to Coach Cage and let him know he’s got to get control of his team. Now you told me we were also having problems with the water polo team.”

“Yeah. Believe it or not, several of the guys still can’t swim very well.”

“I remember Coach Fishwell being concerned about that the first week of school. He asked for a lifeguard at practice, for God’s sake.”

“I think you’d better make sure one is there sir, or else we might lose one of players.”

“Wow, we’re that bad? That does explain how we could lose the opener 14-0.”

“Sir, it was so bad one of our attack men received a pass and refused to take one arm out of the water to catch it. He stopped it with his head and pushed it forward with his nose like a freakin’ seal! He was afraid he wouldn’t stay afloat if he didn’t do it that way. I also think I saw a couple of our defenders doing the dog paddle trying to stay afloat.”

“Wow, that’s pathetic! I’d better get Coach Fishwell in here and how he plans to improve on this.” Conrad stopped and shook his head, “Whose bright idea was it to have a water polo team anyway, for crying out loud?”

“Four F’s sir,” John replied. “Coach Fishwell met with him last year and sold him on the idea.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Conrad said, then let out a deep sigh.

Later that week, Conrad met with his beleaguered field hockey and water polo coaches, amazed that such low profile programs were quickly reaching the point of becoming a major disaster for the athletic department and Farnsworth U as a whole.

First, he talked with Gene Cage, the alleged leader of the field hockey Ferrets. “Gene, you know we’ve got
a serious problem with your team, don’t you?”

“I know, we’re not playing very good defense,” Cage responded.

“No, not that. I’m talking about your girls’ propensity toward creating anarchy.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Your players need to stop beating the crap out of the other team’s players, is that clear enough? That is one angry group you’ve got there Gene, and you’ve got to get it under control.”

“Well, I know they can get a bit overly aggressive at times…”

“Overly aggressive?! They’re putting people in the hospital, for God’s sake! I’ve heard they’re even carrying their sticks around to class, practically daring anyone to mess with them. Fortunately, nothing has happened yet, probably because they’ve scared the crap out of everyone. You’ve got to get this thing ratcheted down in a hurry or else no one will play us, and we could be facing lawsuits from your team’s victims.”

“Lawsuits? On what basis?”

“Coaching negligence would be my best guess.”

Cage looked down at the floor and, after a moment, began to cry. “I don’t know what to do, Conrad. The girls hate me! I’m afraid if I try to correct them, they’ll turn on me. You’ve heard what they can do. If they go after me, you might need dental records to identify the body!”

Conrad sat stunned for a moment. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Coach Cage, but he knew this wasn’t it. Conrad spent a few moments fighting the urge to get Cage to pull himself together by slapping him. Finally, he came up with a non-violent approach.

“Gene, if discipline and fear won’t work on these girls, try motivating them,” Conrad began. “Give them some goal they can reach that will mean something to them. That way they can gain more of a sense of accomplishment by putting the ball in the goal and focus less on putting their opponents in the hospital. If they can channel this anger into some positive energy, you just might have a really good team. Better yet, we won’t get sued.”

Cage thought for a moment then asked, “How would I do that?”
“I don’t know,” Conrad replied. “You’re the one that spends time with these girls so you need to figure out what would motivate them. You’ve got until Thursday afternoon. St. Josephine’s is threatening not to come here for the next game, but I’ll call the school and assure them you will have the problem under control.”

“What if I haven’t figured it out by then?” Cage asked.

“We’ll forfeit the game and bring in someone who can motivate these girls and get them to quit hurting people and putting the school at risk,” Conrad replied firmly with his eyes fixed on Cage’s. The coach then stood up without saying anything further and shuffled out of Conrad’s office with Gretchen’s meowing in the background.

The next day, Conrad met with Biff Fishwell, the water polo coach. Fishwell had grown up in the Midville area and became a collegiate water polo star at Western California, helping lead them to the 1997 national championship. After moving back to Maryland to take a federal government job, he found he still had the itch for water polo. He had approached Four F last spring about getting Farnsworth U to field a team, and Four F quickly agreed.

It appeared to Conrad that Fishwell might have been an outstanding player but had no particular aptitude toward coaching water polo. After speaking with him for a while and realizing just how clueless Fishwell was, Conrad called the Farnsworth swimming coach, Sam Schwimmer, and offered him a bonus if he would spend some time with the water polo players and teach them how to swim. Coach Schwimmer had watched the 14-0 loss to Ike and Mike College and had already been considering volunteering his services. A bonus made him even more willing, although he was understandably puzzled how a collegiate team in a water sport could need swimming lessons.

Shortly after Conrad hung up with Coach Schwimmer, Gretchen announced that Freddie was holding on the phone for him. “Hey Freddie, what’s up buddy?” Conrad said as he took the call.

“Conrad, I’m still having trouble deciding about running for Alderman, and the party is pushing me for an answer. You and Mr. Farnsworth are the only people I can really talk to about something like this. If I can get in with him this afternoon, are you available to sit with us and help me figure this out?”
“Sure, Freddie,” Conrad replied. “I’m pretty open this afternoon, so just have Kate call Gretchen and let her know when I should come over.”

“Thanks a lot, man. I’ll see you later,” Freddie replied.

After they finished talking, Conrad sat back and pondered what was going on inside the head of his furry friend. It was very obvious that Freddie wanted to run for the Alderman seat, but what was he afraid of? Was there something so bad in his past that he would give this up just so he would not risk its disclosure? Would this secret explain why he was so happy living in a ferret suit, an issue that he had not yet taken up with Freddie? “I bet the Old Man knows,” Conrad thought, “he seems to have a very paternal relationship with Freddie. I wonder if I can get him to tell me?”

Conrad arrived at Mr. Farnsworth’s office a few minutes before the scheduled 3:00 PM meeting and found Freddie chatting up Kate. Watching them interact, Conrad was surprised to find that, when she was not wearing her “Satan’s Mistress” scowl, Kate had an alluring spark in her eye and was not unattractive. Maybe she didn’t actually fly in to work on her broom every morning, he thought.

Shortly after 3:00, Kate ushered them into the Old Man’s office while, it appeared to Conrad, still displaying that spark when she made eye contact with him. The meeting was a short one, with Mr. Farnsworth and Conrad both expressing concern about the background search the media and the Republican Party would perform once Freddie announced he was a political candidate. Ultimately, it was important enough to Freddie to keep his past a mystery to the public that he decided to turn down Dick Smithson’s offer.

Freddie, dejected over having to pass on his opportunity to run for office, left quickly after the conversation was over. Conrad hung back for a moment, hoping for a private word with the Old Man.

“Mr. Farnsworth,” Conrad asked when they were alone, “what could be so bad in Freddie’s past that the fear of disclosing it would make him pass up the chance for something he very clearly wanted to do?”

The Old Man flashed a very stern look in Conrad’s direction and said coldly, “Don’t go there. Just don’t go there.”

Taken aback by the firmness of Mr. Farnsworth’s response, Conrad quickly excused himself and left the office. As he blew by Kate’s desk, he could feel her gaze upon him. It was not the glare that he had grown accustomed to receiving the first few times he came in contact with her, either. It felt more like the brief glimpse he caught just before entering the Old Man’s office. By the time he stopped to turn around and meet her eyes with his, Kate had turned away and become engrossed in whatever was on her computer screen.

As he walked back to his office, Conrad wondered if he would ever figure out the strange cast of characters he now worked with.