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 Despite how cold and withdrawn Camilla had become around him the past few years, he had to admit she was still a good and loving mother.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.”