Part 1, Episode 17: "Talk Soup"

Conrad arrived at Old Man Farnsworth’s office a few minutes before nine the next morning to a warm greeting by the ice maiden herself, Kate.

“How are you feeling, Conrad?” she asked.

“I’ve got a mother of a headache, but other that that I’m fine. Anyway, you’ve got to play hurt if you going to be successful, you know.”

He received a warm smile followed by a reassuring, “I’m glad you’re okay. They’re ready for you.”

Conrad was surprised, knowing that Four F’s attention to detail, or lack of same, meant that he was seldom on time for any scheduled event when he bothered to show up at all. Could he actually witness Four F getting dressed down by the old man? He could only hope.

“Connie, please have a seat,” Mr. Farnsworth warmly greeted him. Four F was sitting across the desk from his grandfather, the look on his face indicating he had already had a piece of his ass chewed off by the Old Man.

“Obviously, we need to talk over the unfortunate events of Saturday,” Mr. Farnsworth began. “Connie, first of all I’m glad you weren’t more seriously injured. I understand you saw Troy yesterday. How is he?”

“They’re operating on his collarbone today,” Conrad answered. “He’ll be in rough shape for awhile, but he’ll be fine eventually. I don’t think we should even try to do a football broadcast next Saturday.”

“I agree, Connie,” the old man said. “I doubt it will be much fun for our loyal listeners, either. Anyway, Frederick and I have spent some time chatting about what went wrong on Saturday. What’s you’re take on it?”

Conrad sat for a moment, carefully considering how to proceed. “I actually thought the pre-game activities went pretty well. I think the full-blown reenactment, particular the horses, was too much to squeeze in at halftime. Fred, you shouldn’t have had to tell the guys with the cannon not to load it with live ammunition…”

Four F jumped in, “See, I told you, Grandpa!”

Conrad continued, “…but when you organize an event with as many moving parts as the Civil War deal on Saturday, something will invariably go wrong that you had no reason to anticipate. That’s why either you’ve got to be there, or designate someone reliable to cover it. There’s always something that needs an impromptu decision or that requires intervention. You just can’t have an activity like that run itself, no matter how much preparation went into it before hand.”

Four F slumped in his seat. Conrad thought he saw Four F’s lower lip sticking out, but he figured he must have just been imagining that.

“Thank you for your input, Connie,” Mr. Farnsworth interjected. “I owe you an apology. I know you were hesitant to go along with this idea, and I overruled you. As a result, you and Troy were hurt, and I’m thankful there weren’t more casualties.”

The Old Man paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and continued. “Frederick, you are on leave without pay until Connie and I can determine a suitable role for you. I want to fine a spot for you here, but I’m not going to rush into something this time. Connie, you can look at this more objectively than I can. I need your help figuring this out.”

“You’ve got it sir,” Conrad said eagerly.

“That will be all Frederick. I’ll be in touch,” Mr. Farnsworth said, dismissing his grandson.

Four F schlepped out of the room, staring at the floor the entire way.

The Old Man then turned his attention toward Conrad. “Now, my boy, you said there were a couple of items you needed to discuss with me.”

“Yes sir,” Conrad replied. “First off, will the school pay Troy’s bills if he consents to begin therapy to get rid of his lisp?”

“Speech therapy?” Mr. Farnsworth asked.

“No, more like psychological therapy. You know, with a shrink,” Conrad said.

“Are you saying Troy is disturbed?” the Old Man said with a trace of indignation in his voice.

“No sir, not at all,” Conrad said, trying his best not to be defensive. “I talked with him for a while yesterday, and from what he said, the recurrence of his lisp was due to a psychological trauma. If he can work with someone to resolve that issue, it should clear up his lisp.”

“Did you mention this idea to him?” Mr. Farnsworth asked.

“Yes, and he was quite receptive,” Conrad said. “He just said he couldn’t pay for it.”

“Well, I certainly can, and I will,” the Old Man said decisively. “I’d love to see him back to what he was. Tell him to send the bills to me. Stay on top of that and make it happen, will you Connie?”

“It’ll be my pleasure, sir,” Conrad responded.

“What else did you have for me?” the Old Man asked, obviously trying to pick up the pace of the meeting.

“Sir, I think we have come across a sport that Farnsworth University can compete in at the Division I level next year,” Conrad announced.

Mr. Farnsworth’s face lit up. “Really? Tell me about it.”

“Well, sir, it’s women’s bowling,” Conrad said.

The Old Man slumped in his seat. “Oh,” he responded.

“I know it’s not a glamour sport,” Conrad said, trying to close the sale, “but it is a legitimate Division I sport. We’re working on the application process right now.”

“I didn’t realize bowling was a varsity sport,” Mr. Farnsworth said with disdain.

“To be honest, I didn’t either. My intern, John Smith, dug it up. The champion last year was Nebraska, so there are some big time schools involved,” Conrad said, neglecting to mention that the Cornhuskers were the ONLY big time school he saw competing in women’s bowling.

The name dropping had the desire effect. “The Big Red, eh?” the Old Man said, obviously warming to the idea. “Okay Conrad, go forward with the process and I’ll sign off on it. Actually, we could have Frederick start to look for players to recruit.”

Conrad considered this for a moment, thinking that this would be a harmless project for Four F to take on, and it would buy him some time to think of a more long-term solution for the Old Man’s idiot grandson.

“That works for me, sir,” Conrad replied.

“Do you have a coach lined up?” Mr. Farnsworth asked.

“I’ve had some bowling experience, so I just thought I would take on the interim title and see how it goes,” Conrad said.

“That’s entirely up to you, Connie,” the Old Man replied. “Just don’t take on too much. You’re already got some key positions to fill as it is.”

Conrad thought to his need for a sports information director, the upcoming change in football coaches, and his desperate need for a real assistant athletic director. “I’ll be careful, sir.”

“Splendid. Don’t lose track of that other task you need to perform,” Mr. Farnsworth said in closing.

Conrad, remembering the directive to neutralize the problem at Edgar Allen Poe University, nodded his head and exited the office.

Shortly after lunchtime, Conrad was minding his own business in his office when he heard Gretchen barking. Knowing this meant trouble, he sat back in his chair and braced himself for the bad news.

Gretchen knocked and entered the office, “Conrad, I just got a call from Mr. Farnsworth’s secretary Kate. She said you need to find someone to cover the “Ferret Forum” radio show while Troy is laid up.”

Conrad stared at Gretchen in disbelief, then slumped in his chair and muttered, “Oh crap.” He was annoyed with himself for not realizing that a fill-in host would be needed, probably for at least a week. He also should have known it would be his responsibility to come up with the replacement. Conrad then decided to do what he normally did in this kind of situation; he nominated himself.

“Call Kate back and tell her I’ve got it covered,” Conrad told Gretchen.

“Are you going to do it yourself?” she asked.

“Unless you’d rather step in,” Conrad replied with a smirk.

“Have a good time,” Gretchen told him as she headed back to her desk.

A few minutes letter, it occurred to Conrad to call the station and see who Troy had booked as today’s guest. He found out that no one had been booked for the entire week. Apparently Troy wasn’t one for much advance planning, usually setting up guests no more than a day ahead of time.

Faced with the prospect of essentially talking to himself for an hour on the radio, he tried to think of who he could grab on such short notice. Instinctively, he picked up his phone and dialed a familiar number.

“Hello, Freddie Ferret here.” Freddie cheerfully answered his cell phone.

“Hey Freddie, this is Conrad. I need you to do me a big favor,” Conrad said.

“Just name it pal. I’m at your service.”

“I’m stuck hosting the Ferret Forum radio show today, and I don’t have a guest lined up. Can you drop in for the hour? The show starts at 5:00.”

The phone line was quite for a moment. “Freddie, are you there?” Conrad asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” Freddie said hesitantly. “I’m sorry, Conrad, I can’t do it.”

“Oh, have you got a late class?” Conrad asked.

“I just can’t do it! I’m sorry! I’ll talk to you later.” Freddie hung up.

“Great,” Conrad thought. “What got under his fur?”

Conrad arrived at the WFUR studio, only a couple of miles away from the campus, at about 4:30 to give himself some time to get acclimated to the studio. He had been a guest during the first week of “Ferret Forum,” only days after the Old Man’s infamous appearance, so he had an inkling of how things would work.

After showing Conrad what buttons to push and, even more importantly, what ones not to push, the show’s producer, Bob Browne, asked Conrad, “So, who’s you’re guest today?”

“I wasn’t able to get one,” Conrad replied.

“Oh man, that’s not good,” Browne said.

“Well, I was hoping I could open up the phone lines and just interact with the fans,” Conrad said.

“Good luck with that,” Browne said. “After the lesbians and sex addicts figured out this was a sports show, we haven’t gotten very many calls.”

“Wonderful,” Conrad said dejectedly. “This could be a long hour.”

Conrad survived the broadcast, although the final two segments of the program were reduced to a recital of each Ferret team’s schedule and results and some of the key statistics. Conrad then paid a brief visit to Troy in the hospital, who was still out of it after his successful surgery. Following his ritualistic stop at Galaxy Burger, he returned to his campus suite still in a foul mood. He felt Freddie had hung him out to dry and was determined to find out why.

When he entered the suite, Conrad found Freddie aimlessly channel surfing on the television, something he seldom did. Freddie greeted him with a sheepish “hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Conrad responded. Deciding to eschew the small talk, he got right into it. “So what was the deal today? Why couldn’t you tell me what was going on? Did you hear any of that miserable show? I was reading freakin’ box scores and press releases! I didn’t think anything could get worse than the football broadcasts, but I proved myself wrong today.”

“Conrad, I’m really sorry,” Freddie said, staring at his paws, feet, whatever they are. “I just couldn’t do it.”

“Why did you pick today to get shy all of a sudden?” Conrad asked, still fuming.

“It wasn’t about being shy,” Freddie insisted defensively. “I just don’t do interviews, okay! I don’t like people asking me questions.”

All of the anger was sucked out of Conrad, who realized what a bad position he had put his friend in.

“You’re afraid that people will ask about your time before you donned the fur, aren’t you?”

Freddie continued to stare at his paws, feet, whatever, then looked directly at Conrad. “I’m terrified of it,” Freddie said very softly. “I’ve left all that behind. I’m Freddie Ferret now, and that’s all that matters. I even legally changed my name, did you know that?”

No, Conrad did not know that. Talk about getting into your work!

Freddie struggled to continue. “I enjoy being around people at functions and parties, that kind of thing. Nobody tries to interrogate me there. I’m just Freddie Ferret, loveable mascot and ferret about town. That’s great.”

Freddie stopped and took a couple of moments to gather himself. “Any good interviewer, and even some crappy ones, make the effort to ‘get beneath the fur,” he said. “I don’t want that, Conrad. I just want to be Freddie Ferret! Is that a freakin’ crime?”

Conrad walked over and put his hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “Absolutely not. That’s your right, and I apologize for not thinking of it.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Conrad. It’s my issue, not yours. I’m the one hiding in a ferret suit, not you.”

Without thinking, Conrad asked, “What are you hiding from?”

Freddie considered that for a moment, then said, “I didn’t like who I was before I came here. No one else really did either. Once I put on this suit, I felt free to find out who I really was. It turns out I’m a hell of a guy. You know, fun at parties, bah mitzvahs, popular with the ladies. I was never any of that before, and I don’t ever want to look back. I just want everyone to know Freddie Ferret, not that other loser.”

“Man, this is deep,” Conrad thought. “Now that I know how strongly you feel about that, I’d better tell you something,” he said.

Freddie, with a look of terror in his eyes, sat silent. “The Star-Bulletin beat reporter, Jimmy Harris, is trying to go Bob Woodward on you,” Conrad said.

Freddie, with the hurt obvious in his voice, asked, “Why would he do that?”

“Simple,” Conrad said, “to make a name for himself, to come up with the story no one else could. I’ve tried to steer him away from it, but he seems hell-bent on ‘outing’ you.”

Freddie held his furry face in his hands and muttered, “great.”

“I don’t think he’s got anything yet, and he promised me he’d give me a heads up before he ran a story. Nonetheless, if you need to contact anyone and warn them, you’d better get to it.”

Freddie gathered himself and said, “Thanks for the warning, Conrad, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Conrad said. “For the record, I don’t give a crap about any of that stuff. I know who you are now, and I’m proud to have you for a friend. The school is lucky to have you as its representative.”

Freddie stood up and gave Conrad a big bear, er, ferret hug.

Part 1, Episode 16: "The Day After"

After Freddie left, Conrad had two more visitors to his hospital room, Gretchen and John Smith. John did most of the talking, since Gretchen was busy whining like a little puppy, obviously distressed at seeing her boss laid up. While they were there, Conrad could have sworn he saw another familiar face outside in the hall that looked a lot like Kate. Gretchen and John had their backs to the door so Conrad was the only one who could have seen her. It appeared to him she was ready to stick her head in, but when she saw that he was not alone, decided to beat a hasty retreat.

Conrad was still not sure how much he should trust his senses after getting knocked out only a few hours before. If he was fantasizing about Kate rather than, say, Catherine Zeta-Jones or Heidi Klum, maybe he was hurt worse than his doctor thought.

Conrad was kept in the hospital overnight for observation and released late Sunday morning. Upon his discharge, he headed toward Troy Flemstone’s room.

When Conrad knocked on Troy’s door, he noticed that Troy was watching Sportscenter. Good man, he thought. “Hey Troy,” Conrad called in, “are you up for some company.

Troy’s face lit up when he turned and saw Conrad. “I’d love thome,” he enthusiastically responded, “it’h been a long lonely night. Pleath, thit down.”

Still a little unsteady on his feet, Conrad was happy to do so. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Pretty rough around the edgeth,” Troy said. Conrad took in the sight of his injured comrade. Flemstone was probably in his late 40’s, Conrad thought, and in pretty good shape. “If it came down to it, a healthy Troy could probably kick my ass,” Conrad thought. His jet black hair, normally combed into a large old-style pompadour and rigidly maintained with industrial strength hair spray, was flat and askew. His eyes were not sharply focused, undoubtedly the result of pain medication, and he looked older than his years.

“They’re going to operate tomorrow,” Troy continued. “It wath a pretty methy theperathion, and they’re going to have to put the collarbone back together thurgically.”

“Wow, that sounds rough, Troy,” Conrad sympathetically replied. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’h not your fault, Conrad,” Troy said reassuringly. “What idiot thought it wath a good idea to load the cannon with live ammunithion? How could that pothibly have ended well?”

“We’re going to look into that starting tomorrow,” Conrad said. “I’m sure there’s going to be legal problems we have to deal with as a result of all this.”

“Do you know how they ended the radio broadcatht? My latht wordth were ‘Look out!” Troy asked.
“Gretchen and John filled me in last night,” Conrad said. “Apparently the engineer running the board at WFUR wasn’t much of a football fan, because he had fallen asleep during the fourth quarter. He didn’t wake up until the phone started ringing at the station with people asking what happened. There was some concern it may have been a terrorist attack.”

“Why would terrorithtth target a Farnthworth football game?” Troy asked incredulously.

“Beats me why someone would think that,” Conrad replied, shaking his head gingerly. “Anyway, the engineer checked and found that the station wasn’t picking up a signal from the field, and then he ran back the last few moments of the broadcast. Well, this blockhead, who is one of our less gifted students, panicked and went on the air live to say that there may have been an attack at Farnsworth Field. He told everyone to seek shelter until they knew more information.”

“Geeth, what a drama queen,” Troy said, now shaking his head.

“The saving grace is that WFUR doesn’t have much of an audience yet,” Conrad continued, “so it’s not like the masses flipped out. By the time word might have spread, a few of the spectators at the game had called in to the station and told them what they had seen. It was strange, but beats the hell out of a terrorist plot.”

“Yeah, inthtead of El Queida we were attacked by Thivil War tholdierth,” Troy said. “Go figure.”

“I’m just thankful that it was southern soldiers that shot the cannon,” Conrad added. “If it had been the northern army, some nuts would have tried to start another Civil War in Midville.”

“Wow, you’re right,” Troy acknowledged. “There’th a lot of NRA memberth up thith way who wouldn’t have hethitated to lock and load and get ready to thoot thomething.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a mess to clean up,” Conrad said wearily, “but it could have been much, much worse.”
Conrad hesitated for a moment, gathered himself, then continued. “I understand it could have been a lot worse for me personally if not for you.”

“Oh, thomeone told you about that, huh,” Troy said.

“Yeah. Considering the hit you took, a simple thank you doesn’t seem very meaningful, but it’s all I’ve got right now,” Conrad said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Troy said, trying to downplay his heroism. “I’m exthpendable, but you’re the futhure of the Farnthworth athletic program. You’re the man who can turn thingth around here. I’m jutht filling a thpot until you can get thomeone better.”

“Don’t diminish what you did, Troy,” Conrad said emphatically. “I can count on one hand the people I know who would have responded the way you did in that situation. I can count more people who would have pulled me over so I could have been hurt WORSE.” Conrad fell silent for a moment, then added, “You know, the funny thing is that first group, they’re all people at Farnsworth, people I’ve only known a few weeks.” Stunned at that realization, Conrad looked off into the distance and mumbled, “damn.”

Conrad then turned back toward Troy and asked, “So what’s your deal, anyway? How did you wind up at Farnsworth?”

Troy sighed and then began, “I uthed to be a popular DJ out in wetht Texas. I did morning drive during the week and called high thchool football gameth on the weekendth. It wath a pretty good life,” he said wistfully.

“Sounds good,” Conrad replied. “So what happened?”

Troy took even a deeper sigh and said, “Well, one afternoon I came home and found my wife in bed with my producer, who I thought wath a clothe friend. Ath it turnth out, he wath clother to my wife. I had a bad lithp ath a kid, but after yearth of therapy I reathed the point that I could talk normally. After I found my wife cheating on me, I thtarted lithping worth than ever. Needleth to thay, my career went in the toilet. There’th not much market for a radio announcer with a bad lithp.”

Conrad knew that last fact all too well. “How did you wind up here?” he asked.

“I had met Mr. Farnthworth in Texthath,” Troy replied. “He thponthored a lot of activitieth there and I got to know him fairly well. You know fertilizer is a big deal in that part of the country. I gueth he remembered me but forgot about my problem.”

“Yeah, they do pile it higher and deeper in Texas, no doubt,” Conrad said. “Anyway, I’m willing to bet he did remember your problem,” Conrad said. “I guess he was hoping that giving you some steady work would help you get your game back.” Conrad paused to think, “The Old Man really likes reclamation projects. No wonder he hired me.” After pausing a moment, Conrad asked, “Troy, would you be willing to go into therapy to try and get rid of the lisp?”

“You mean a thpeech therapitht?” he asked.

“No, I mean someone who could work with you psychologically,” Conrad said gently. “From what you told me, it sounds like you slipped back into lisping as a result of the emotional trauma of your wife cheating on you. It seems like if someone can help you work through that, you might get back on track.”

“That thoundth intriguing, Conrad, but I can’t afford that,” Troy said.
“I don’t think cost will be a problem.” Conrad assured him. “Knowing what I do about Old Man Farnsworth, I’m confident he’ll pick up the bill. I’ll be happy to approach him about that if you like.”

“You would thtick your neck out for me?” Troy said. “I didn’t think you even liked me. I don’t want you to think you owe me anything becauth of yethterday.”
“I just needed to make a little effort to get to know you,” Conrad said. “If anything good can come out of yesterday, this is it.”

“Thanth, Conrad,” Troy said. “I gueth you’ll have to get someone elth to call the game next week,” he said nervously.

“Nah, I think we’ll be better served just not broadcasting it,” Conrad replied, obviously pleasing Troy. “After all, you are the voice of the Ferrets. Besides, we’ll probably get killed down at South Lake, anyway. The fewer people that know about it, the better off we’ll be. Let’s see how you’re doing in a week or so and go from there.”

Conrad paused for a moment, then said, “Look, I need to be going. Freddie is probably waiting for me downstairs, and you need to get some rest. Don’t worry about things at school; just take care of yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”

“I can’t thank you enough for coming by, Conrad,” Troy said, tears welling in his eyes.
“Hey, what are friends for,” Conrad replied with a smile.

Troy, unable to extend his right arm because of his broken collarbone, stuck out his hand. Conrad reached across the bed and grasped it firmly, then headed toward the elevator.

Following the short drive from Central Maryland General Hospital to their suite at Farnsworth University, Conrad got comfortable in his recliner and picked up Sunday’s Star-Bulletin. On the front page was a photo of the damaged press box with the caption, “Civil War day Blows Up at Farnworth; Two Injured in Cannon Blast.” “Yeah, this will be one for the old scrapbook,” Conrad said to Freddie, who had settled on the couch, flipping the television remote in an attempt to catch up on the days NFL action.

After settling in to watch the Chiefs-Raiders game, Conrad received a call on his cell phone from football coach Stump Williams.

“Conrad, how are you feeling?” the coach asked.

“I’ve got a nasty headache and I’m sore, but nothing major,” Conrad replied. “What’s going on?”

“I just wanted to give you a heads up,” Williams replied. “This dumb ass Edwards told me last night he’s going to sue the school.”

“What!” Conrad screamed into his phone. “On what grounds?”

“He’s claiming mental duress for being scared by the cannon and slipping in horse poop,” Williams said. “Talk about a pile of crap!”

“Geez, the kid finally figures out how to catch the ball and I guess he thinks he was on his way to stardom,” Conrad said disgustedly. “I’ll tell the Old Man tomorrow. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Hey,” Conrad caught Williams before he hung up, “what was with that off-tackle play on the last possession yesterday. How could you think that was a good call?”

Williams hesitated, then responded in a soft voice, “I thought we had a time out left.”

Conrad was flummoxed, “You lost track of time outs!?”

“Yep,” Williams replied dejectedly, “I’m a transgendering moron.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself yesterday,” Conrad instinctively replied. After a moment, he asked. “Is Edwards going to play next week?”
“I don’t think so,” Williams replied. “Too much mental duress.”

“Oh of course, I forgot,” Conrad said sarcastically. “I guess he now has a fear of cannons and horse poop. Hey, offer him a school-paid trip to a psychologist. If he doesn’t go, he’s probably got no case. If he does go, they should see through his act and figure out he’s just a whining little boy.”

“I wish I’d thought of that,” Williams replied.

“That’s why I get the big bucks,” Conrad said, ending the call. Conrad and Freddie sat back to watch more of the game but after only a few moments Conrad’s phone rang again.

“Connie, how are you feeling?” Mr. Farnsworth said.

“Sore, but nothing major,” Conrad said. “I’m doing a lot better than Troy. Did you know he pushed me out of the way and took the brunt of the debris himself?”

“No,” the Old Man replied, “but that sounds like something he would do. He’s a good man.”

“Yes he is,” Conrad agreed. “I’m glad I found that out. I’m just sorry it took these circumstances for that to happen.”

“Yes, speaking of these circumstances, my boy,” Mr. Farnsworth said, “we need to get together and chat about that tomorrow morning, say 9:00.”

“Of course, sir,” Conrad replied. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. So will my grandson,” the Old Man said, to Conrad’s surprise. “How do you think he handled things yesterday?”

“Mr. Farnsworth,” Conrad said, “I never saw him yesterday.”

“Not at all?” the Old Man asked incredulously.
“No sir,” Conrad replied evenly.

“Hmmm,” Mr. Farnsworth said, “we’ll discuss that tomorrow morning. I’m glad you weren’t hurt too badly, Connie. Rest up tonight.”

“Yes sir, thanks,” Conrad said, and the Old Man hung up.
“Meeting with Mr. Farnsworth tomorrow morning?” Freddie asked.

“Yeah, with Four F in attendance,” Conrad said, the surprise still obvious in his voice.

“Ooooh, someone’s going to get a beating,” Freddie said. “Can I come?”

“No, but I’ll give you a reenactment tomorrow night,” Conrad said.

“Haven’t we had enough reenactments for a while?” Freddie asked, causing Conrad to bust out laughing.

As the Chiefs-Raiders game moved into the third quarter, Conrad felt his mind drifting when he wasn’t totally focused on the television. He noticed Freddie engaged him in conversation a couple of times, trying to keep him alert, something strongly recommended for someone who has recently suffered a concussion. After he locked in on the game again, he received yet another phone call.

“Hey Conrad, anything new?” It was Jimmy Harris, the Star-Bulletin beat writer, being a smart ass.

“Not much,” Conrad played along. “Seen anything blow up today?”

“No,” Jimmy responded, happy to see Conrad’s sense of humor had survived intact, “not today.”

“Bummer,” Conrad said. “Slow news cycle for you. I bet that ratbag of an editor of yours was sorry to see I survived.”

“No comment,” Jimmy replied.

“Hey, I thought that’s my line,” Conrad jabbed back.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Jimmy said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but since you don’t have a sports information director, I had to check with you to see if the school is ready to give out any additional information about yesterday.”

“I don’t have much for you yet, Jimmy,” Conrad said. “I’m meeting with Mr. Farnsworth tomorrow morning, and I’m sure we’ll have a release sometime in the afternoon. I’ll have Gretchen call you as soon as it’s ready.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy replied. “By the way, whose bright idea was that whole Civil War thing?”

“Can’t you guess?” Conrad asked.

“Oh, of course,” Jimmy said knowingly, “it had to be Fred the Fourth.”

“He shoots, he scores!” Conrad said. “I’ll have more for you tomorrow. By the way, good job on the write-up in today’s paper.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy replied. “Get some rest.”

Easier said than done, Conrad thought as he hung up the phone. He couldn’t help but wonder what next week’s disaster would be. Aliens landing on campus and performing anal probes, perhaps? Nah, too conventional, he thought. Whatever happened next, he was sure he wouldn’t see it coming.

Part 1, Episode 15: "Losing the War"

The day was billed as “The War Within the State,” a takeoff on the synonym for the Civil War, “The War Between the States.” This was actually appropriate since the Fighting Ferrets’ opponent on the football field was in-state rival Key College. For a school better known for producing engineers and soccer players, they had a strong football team for Division III this season.

The match-up on the field promised to be as lopsided as the Civil War battle that would be reenacted at halftime, The Battle of the Monacacy. In that battle, the grey-clad northern troops made quick work of the blue-clad southern army on a battlefield that was now, along with many such sites in the Maryland-Virginia-West Virginia region, a tourist site maintained by the National Park Service.

The day’s festivities began with both armies marching through campus and setting up behind the end zones on the football field, ready to engage in battle. Conrad noticed the first minor glitch in the proceedings when the northern troops stationed themselves behind the southern end zone and the southern army staked out the territory behind the northern end zone. He doubted that very many fans would notice this, however, unless they started including compasses with flasks for liquor. Conrad made a note to himself to investigate marketing that unique idea.

By 11:00, two full hours before the kickoff, the area outside Farnsworth Field was bustling with activity. The parking areas closest to the field had been roped off and used to set up a Civil War fair, complete with vendors and historic exhibits. Of course, Freddie was there, working the crowd, hugging small children, and having his picture taken with adoring fans.

Conrad noticed the two best sellers at the vendor booths were anything with a Confederate flag and Freddie Ferret dolls clad in a southern soldiers’ uniform with the school’s distinctive “FF” symbol. Fortunately, the school was using that now instead of the even more distinctive “FU” that formerly adorned Farnsworth souvenirs. That was one mess that Conrad had not been required to clean up himself, although sales had dropped after the switch.

In the moments preceding kickoff, the Farnsworth band played “The Star Spangled Banner,” then followed with a rousing rendition of “Dixie.” Although Midville was located only twenty miles below the Mason-Dixon line, it was solidly a southern sympathetic town. If a casual observer had not noticed the preponderance of Confederate “Stars and Bars” shirts and other apparel, not to mention the countless flags adorning pick-up trucks in the parking lot, they would have been taken aback by just how raucous the crowd became after hearing “Dixie.”

This excitement carried over past the start of the game, and the unusual enthusiasm displayed by the home crowd appeared to pump some life into a Ferret squad devoid of any spark in their last two lopsided defeats. The Key College players found themselves knocked back on their heels, apparently surprised by the energy the Farnsworth team showed in the early going.

Late in the first quarter, the game was still scoreless and the Ferrets faced a third down and fifteen-yards-to-go situation on their own 26-yard line. At this point an amazing thing happened—they scored a touchdown. This might not seem like a big deal, but after going three-plus games without crossing the goal line, it was a monumental achievement. Any question of that would be removed by the play-by-play call from Troy Flemstone.

“The Ferreth have the ball third and fifteen at their own twenty-thix yard line. Thingletary dropth back to throw. He feelth prethure from the left. He rollth to the right. He stopth and throwth downfield. Edwarth is open at midfield. He makth the catch! Heth got one man to beat at the thirty-five. Heth pulling away. Heth going to thcore! Heth going to thcore! Thon of a bitch, heth going to thcore! Touchdown, Fighting Ferreth!”

Translated, Farnsworth quarterback Seymour Singletary had found wide receiver Paul Edwards wide open near the 50-yard line, and he streaked in for a 74-yard touchdown, the Ferrets’ biggest play of the season. The fact that Edwards was wide open was hardly a surprise. He was a 6’3” 195 pound sophomore with great speed and good moves. Edwards had been clocked as fast as a 4.35 in the 40-yard dash. Unfortunately, he usually could not catch the ball. His attempts to do so often looked like someone trying to pick coins up off the floor while wearing mittens. Have you ever tried that? Not very pretty, is it? Therefore, teams that had scouted Farnsworth seldom bothered to give Edwards more than token coverage in their defensive schemes. For reasons unknown to anyone, he managed to hold on to this pass, and once he did, no one in a Key uniform was going to catch him.

The Ferrets’ offensive outburst proved to be a fluke. The Chains of Key College decided they should cover Edwards a little closer and, not used to any kind of defensive attention, Edwards was not heard from again in the first half. Farnsworth turned the ball over twice in its own territory in the second quarter, but the defense rose to the challenge. Still fired up from the shock of Edwards’ score, they stuffed Key and held them to field goals following both turnovers. This enabled the Ferrets to leave the field at halftime to a chorus of cheers and holding a 7-6 lead.

Both teams moved off the field very quickly, since the Civil War reenactment participants had been edging closer and closer to the field during the last five minutes of the half. In fact, on Hopkins’ second field goal, the ball sailed through the upright and knocked the rifle out of a surprised northern soldier’s hands, drawing a loud roar from the crowd.

Despite their home-field advantage, the south went down to defeat in this Readers’ Digest version of the Battle of Monacacy. The reenactment had not been condensed quite enough, however, because the teams returned to the sidelines while the battle still raged. A warm-up kick by the Johns Hopkins punter went astray and landed in the middle of a charging group of northern soldiers. With the north momentarily in disarray, the southern army, egged on by the crowd, pressed the advantage and quickly gained the upper hand. The north regrouped, however, and the participants returned to the script.

When the southern general ordered his forces to retreat, the crowd rained boos down upon the field. Conrad swore he saw some money changing hands, meaning some spectators had bet on the south. He hoped they were not history majors at Farnsworth.

The start of the second half was delayed even further when, after the players reclaimed the field, they discovered something left behind by the combatants. More precisely, the horses they used had left calling cards on the field. Unable to find Four F, Conrad, via walkie-talkie, organized members of the Farnsworth maintenance crew to get out BIG shovels and clean up the field.

By the time the field was cleared, most of the energy had left the stadium, and so had nearly half of the 9,000 fans, the biggest Farnsworth crowd in four years. Apparently as many people had shown up to see the reenactment as had to watch the football game. Well, Conrad thought, at least they saw a decent half of football. He hoped they would kick themselves for missing the first Ferret victory of the season, but his team would probably have to find a way to score at least a few more points to make that happen.

The delay and malaise in the stands affected both teams, and the quality of play dropped off sharply in the second half. The game became a battle of turnovers and field position, and unfortunately for the Ferrets no team turned the ball over as often as they did. Twice more in the second half, Farnsworth miscues set Key up in scoring position, only to see the Ferret defense hold the Chains to field goals. As the clock wound down late in the fourth quarter, Key clung to a 12-7 lead.

The Ferrets had one last chance, returning a Chains’ punt to their own 24-yard line with 55 seconds remaining in the game. Having used up all of their timeouts on defense trying to get the ball back, Farnsworth would have to go to the air to try and pull this game out. Everyone in the stadium thought that except Ferrets’ coach Stump Williams. Farnsworth’s first play from scrimmage was an off tackle play that burned up 23 precious seconds. Conrad had to walk away from the broadcast microphone to avoid calling Williams a “cross-dressing moron” on the air. “Everyone else probably already knows that,” Conrad ruefully thought.

The Ferret’s next play was a pass that gained only two yards. The receiver stayed in bounds, forcing quarterback Singletary to take the next snap and throw the ball to the ground and stop the clock. There were only five seconds left on the clock. Conrad thought that a second miracle play today was extremely unlikely, so he prepared himself to see Farnsworth’s record fall to 0-6. He was not all that disappointed, however, because the squad had showed some spark and stayed with a team that he thought would beat the Ferrets by three touchdowns.

Singletary dropped back into the shotgun formation to take the last snap of the game. He had three wide receivers on the left side and Paul Edwards split out to the right. Singletary took the long snap, put the ball in his left hand, looked left, pumped left, then suddenly spun around, switched the ball to his right hand, and
flung it downfield.

Once again, Paul Edwards was open. He had drawn coverage on this play, but broke free with a nifty cut to the sideline on his pass route. Singletary had been hit late in his delivery, causing the ball to hang in the air and wobble on its way toward Edwards. He came back about five yards for it and made a fingertip catch at the Key 45-yard line. A Chains defender had caught up to Edwards when he had to backtrack, but Edwards still had a step on him. Edwards, having done a Jerry Rice impression with his catch, proceeded to run like Bob Hayes and quickly put distance between himself and the defensive back. By the time he crossed the 20-yard line, he was a least four yards ahead of the pursuit. As he crossed the 10-yard line, Edwards began to hold his arms up in the air.

Conrad, watching from his perch next to Troy Flemstone in the press box, was pumping his fist, enjoying what would be the highlight of the season. Then, he heard what sounded like an explosion.

Then everything went dark.


Conrad felt himself coming around, not immediately sure what had happened or where he was. After a few moments, he was finally able to focus his vision well enough to determine he was in a hospital. Turning slightly to his left, he spotted a nurse checking readings on a machine, probably a blood pressure indicator.
“What happened?” he asked the nurse.

“You suffered a concussion, Mr. Kondradowicz,” the nurse replied.

The throbbing headache Conrad was experiencing had led him to already conclude that. “Anything else wrong with me?” he asked.

“A few bumps and bruises, but nothing serious,” she said.

“Wow, I had the weirdest dream while I was out. I had been fired from my job and wound up at a school out in the sticks where the mascot was a freakin’ ferret. And the guy wore a ferret suit all the time!” The room fell silent, and Conrad slowly turned his head in the other direction. There, he spotted the freakin’ ferret.
“How long was I out?” he asked the nurse.

“About two hours, it looks like,” she answered.

Conrad slumped further into the hospital bed. After a moment, he turned toward Freddie and said, “Hey man, I’m sorry for that remark. You deserve better than that.”

“No prob, Conrad,” Freddie answered. “You’ve had a tougher day than I have.”

The nurse completed her work and left Conrad and Freddie alone. “So tell me, what the hell happened?” Conrad asked.

“Are you SURE you want to know?” Freddie asked hesitantly.

“Since you put it that way, probably not, but I guess I have to. What happened?”

“Right before the ceiling fell in, do you remember hearing a loud boom?”
“Yeah, what was that?”

“The group that did the Civil War reenactment thought it would be cool to bring a cannon along and shoot it off if by some chance we scored a touchdown.”

“But they didn’t when we scored in the first quarter. I would have heard that over the crowd.”

“That’s right. They had whatever they use to fire off a cannon like a blank in a pistol. It didn’t work, so I guess one of these geniuses thought they should try live ammunition if we scored again.”

“You mean the press box was fired on by a cannon?

“Yep. I guess it just happened to be pointed at the press box when they fired it, and the shot clipped the top corner right above you.”

“God almighty. Did anyone else get hurt?”

“Well, Troy suffered a broken collarbone and got banged up pretty bad, but no one else was injured.”

“That’s too bad about Troy, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, we may have taken casualties but at least we won the game.”

“Yeah, about that. We lost.”

“What are you talking about? Edwards had the ball around the five-yard line the last I remember and no one was around him.”

“That’s right. Unfortunately, they shot the cannon off before he had actually crossed the goal line. Well, the explosion scared him and he dropped the ball. When he tried to dive for it, he stepped in a pile of horse poop the ground crew missed when they cleaned up after halftime. Key recovered the fumble, and that was that.”

Conrad stared at his furry friend for a moment. Finally, he shook his head slowly and said, “Un-Freakin’ believable. That’s bizarre, even for Farnsworth.”

“It could have been worse,” Freddie said.

“How?” said Conrad, incredulous at the notion.

“You could be the one with the broken collarbone,” Freddie replied. “Apparently Troy saw the ceiling falling in and pushed you out of the way. The bulk of the debris fell on him.”

“Yeah, I remember falling down right before the lights went out. That was him pushing me, wasn't it.” Conrad said.

“Yep,” Freddie confirmed.

“Thufferin thucotath,” Conrad said as he prepared to beg the nurse for morphine.

Part 1, Episode 14: Questions and (some) Answers

Now totally flummoxed, Conrad tried to think of something intelligent to say but could only utter, “Huh?”

“I AM a woman, Conrad,” Frank insisted. “I’ve walked around in the body of a man all my life, but over the years I have come to the realization that inside I am truly a woman.”

Conrad looked at Frank for a moment then managed to spit out, “What do you mean?”

Frank, becoming frustrated with Conrad’s lack of understanding, said, “I’m in the process of going through a sex change. That’s why I’m going to turn in my resignation after the season. I don’t think the school, or the world for that matter, is ready for a male football coach to turn into a female and keep coaching.”

That was the first thing Frank had said that made sense to Conrad, but he was still unable to wrap his arms around this whole situation. “But you’re a football coach, Frank,” he said. “Granted, not a very successful one, but geez, it’s not like you’re a florist or a hairdresser. That wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Besides, how do you know you’re not just gay?”

“I wondered that for a long time myself, Conrad,” Frank replied. “It’s taken many years and a lot of counseling to understand who I truly am. Anymore, I feel like I’m living in someone else’s skin, wearing someone else’s clothes. You see Frank every day, but in my heart, my soul, I’m Frankie and I desperately want everyone to see me that way.”

Conrad wisely thought this would be a bad time to point out just how unattractive he thought Frankie was, but then again maybe the whole sex change process would help that. He really didn’t want to know, already having learned more than he cared to. Being a naturally curious person, though, he just couldn’t help himself.

“So,” he hemmed and hawed, “just how far along are you in the process?”

“I still have my penis if that’s what you mean,” Frank replied. “I’m taking hormone therapy now. It is, as you could imagine, a very complicated and lengthy process.”

That would explain those strangely soft hands, Conrad realized. “Here’s one thing I don’t get, Frank,” Conrad, pressing on, wondered. “I’m not a deeply religious man myself, but by doing this, aren’t you saying that, in effect, God made a mistake by giving you a male body?”

“Not really,” Frank patiently replied. “Think of it as more like a birth defect. Babies are born all the time missing vital body parts or congenital conditions like a hole in their heart. My defect, to simplify it, was too much testosterone and not enough estrogen. Oh yeah, and the penis.”

Conrad pondered that for a few moments, then said, “Wow. This whole process has to be really tough, isn’t it?”

Frank smiled and, nodding his head, replied, “You betcha. It’s better than the alternative, though.”

“What’s that?” Conrad asked.

“Looking in the mirror every morning and loathing the reflection I see,” Frank said as he stared at the floor.

“Come on, Conrad. Take a good look around,” the bartender said.

After finding his clothes and leaving Frank’s house, Conrad had returned that night to “Chaps and Spurs,” or, as he now thought of it, the scene of the crime. He was glad to see the same person behind the bar that was there last night, and was determined to find out why no one had bothered to tell him that he was hanging out with the cross-dressing, or pre-woman, or woman-under-construction, or whatever he/she was, Farnsworth football coach.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Conrad asked.

“Just look around this place,” the bartender insisted.

“Okay, I see the posters and memorabilia on the walls. There’s Ferrets’ stuff, Redskins, Orioles…” Conrad said.

“No, take a REAL GOOD look around,” the bartender insisted. “Look at the people.”

Becoming more frustrated by the moment, Conrad huffed and agreed. “Let’s see, there’s two guys sitting at the far end of the bar, two girls shooting pool, another couple of girls shooting pool, two guys holding hands in the corner,” Conrad abruptly stopped. “Two guys holding hands in the corner! Everybody’s paired up boy-boy, girl-girl, and the girls look like they could easily kick the boys’ asses! Oh my God, this is a gay bar!” Conrad shrieked.

“Duh!” the bartender condescendingly replied. “That’s why nobody said anything to you. We figured if you were hanging out here you must be gay.”

“Oh, heavens no!” Conrad replied, annoyed at how gay that probably sounded. “I’m not gay. I’m the exact opposite of gay. I’m totally un-gay. I don’t even like to use Ben Gay.” Realizing he was now sounding like a homophobe, he quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you.”

Conrad took a deep breath, then asked, “So just how many cross-dressers do you get in here, anyway?”

“Well, I’m not exactly sure. We don’t exactly check under everyone’s hood when they walk in, if you know what I mean” the bartender sarcastically replied.

“I wish I had,” Conrad said wistfully. “I guess you wouldn’t be interested in doing that yourself anyway.”

“I’m as hetro as you are, pal. They hire straight bartenders here. Management figures that way they don’t have to worry about the help hitting on the customers,” the bartender told Conrad.

“That’s the first thing I’ve heard that makes sense,” Conrad pointed out.

“Anyway,” the bartender continued, “coach Williams has been coming in here for a long time. He figured he could blend in and people wouldn’t bother him. Everyone knew who he was and why he hung out here, so there was no problem.”

“Not everyone knew, my friend,” Conrad replied testily.

“What do you want us to do, put up a chart with pictures and names of known cross-dressers?” the bartender replied. “Give me a freakin’ break.”

“You could at least put up a sign saying ‘Welcome to Chaps and Spurs, proudly serving gays and cross-dressers in the Midville area,” Conrad suggested.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” the bartender sneered. “Look, I’m not sure what your problem is, but it takes most people about 10 seconds or less to figure out what type of clientele we serve. Without a sign,” the bartender insisted.

After pausing a moment, the bartender said “Hey look, Conrad. I’m sorry you had a rough time. Let me buy you a beer and make it up to you.”

Conrad began waving his hands. “Noooo thank you. I had quite enough last night. I will take a diet cola, though, if you’re buying.”

“My pleasure,” the bartender replied. “You’ve been a good customer. Just because you’re not gay doesn’t mean you’re not welcome here. Come in anytime. Just be careful who you leave with, okay?”

Conrad smiled for the first time the entire day. “Sound advice. Yeah, this IS a nice place. You just might see me back here, after all. Now where’s that diet cola?”

Conrad stayed at “Chaps and Spurs” long enough to finish watching the late NFL games, then headed back to the suite he shared with Freddie. Upon entering, Freddie greeted him with, “Hey, did you make a road trip last night?” Then, after thinking for a moment, he asked, “Wait a minute, aren’t you still married?”

Conrad plopped down in the recliner he had claimed as his territory in their living area and replied, “No, there was no road trip and yes, I am still technically married.”

Freddie pressed on, “Sooooo?”

“So what?”

“So where were you last night? I know you never made it back here.”

“Aw, it’s nice to know you cared.”

“Yes, I care. Now give, what happened last night?”

“I almost feel like I need to go to confession for this.”

“Oooo, it must be juicy. Tell, tell.”

‘Well, you know this lady friend I told you I’d been hanging out with the last couple of Saturday nights.”

“Yeah. Frankie, isn’t it?’

“Yes and no. It turns out Frankie was actually Frank.”

Freddie began laughing so hard he fell off his perch on the couch.

“I’m glad YOU think it was funny. Even worse, Frank turned out to be “Stump” Williams, the football coach,” Conrad continued.

“What, you didn’t know he was rehearsing for his sex change?” Freddie asked incredulously.

“Nooo, I didn’t,” Conrad replied with a tone of great indignation. “Am I the only one on campus that DIDN’T know that?”

“Maybe,” Freddie responded. “How did he ‘reveal’ himself to you?” Freddie asked, beginning another laughing fit.

Conrad hesitated and began intensely studying his shoes. “I wound up in bed with him last night,” he finally spit out.

Freddie’s laughing fit escalated to the point where Conrad was concerned he would go into convulsions.

Finally, Freddie pulled himself together enough to ask “don’t tell me, you met him at ‘Chaps and Spurs’, our local gay sports bar?”

“I guess I didn’t get that memo either,” Conrad said with disgust.

Freddie resumed rolling around on the floor in convulsive laughter while Conrad looked for something to hose him down with.


Later that week, Conrad was at Farnsworth Field watching the men’s soccer team take on Backstreet College, one of the challengers for the league title. It was late in the first half of a tense 0-0 match when Conrad saw his protégé John Smith running toward the stands. John jumped the bleachers two rows at a time, obviously excited about something. My God, Conrad wondered, could this be good news. “Would the earth open up and swallow me whole if that happened? Well, at least I’d go out on a good note,” he thought.

John, proving he was not a candidate for the track team, was almost completely out of breath by the time he reached Conrad on the top row of the bleachers. Conrad wished he had a paper bag to give John, convinced he would soon be hyperventilating. “Whatever’s on your mind, I hope it was worth all this,” Conrad told his young associate.

“I, gasp, think, gasp, it, gasp, is,” John haltingly replied.

“Come on, take a minute to catch your breath John,” Conrad advised. After waiting for John’s breathing to approach normalcy, Conrad asked, “Now, what’s all this about?”

“Bowling,” John replied, still struggling for breath.

“At least I won’t have to worry about the earth opening up to swallow me now,” Conrad thought. “What, did you win free passes to go bowling? Okay, I’ll block out an evening when we can go, it should be fun.”

‘No sir, it’s not about us bowling. It’s about the school bowling,” John said.

“What, you want to have a school bowling tournament?” Conrad asked. “I guess we could, but it doesn’t seem worth getting all that worked up over.”

“No, no. The school could compete in bowling,” John said, still gulping for air.

“Oh, you mean sponsor a team in a local league? I don’t know, I’m not sure how that would look,
Farnsworth University taking on Al’s Auto Parts,” Conrad replied.

“Sir, you don’t understand,” John said, becoming frustrated with Conrad’s lack of comprehension. “The NCAA sanctions women’s bowling as an intercollegiate sport.”

“I didn’t know that,” Conrad replied. “Well, since we have lanes at the student union, I guess we could field a team.”

‘Here’s the best part, sir” John said, the excitement building in his voice. “They don’t have it broken up in three divisions. There’s only one women’s bowling division. Therefore…”

“Therefore, we could compete in Division I!” Conrad said, the light bulb switching on.

“That’s right, sir” John concurred, pumping a fist while he did so. “That would enable you to meet the stipulation in your contract.”

“Darned if it wouldn’t,” Conrad replied, recalling the clause that Mr. Farnsworth had inserted requiring him to establish a Ferret team in Division I within six months. “Do any big schools compete in this?” he asked John.

“Nebraska’s the only big-time school so far, and they’re the defending national champion. Right now, it’s a mix of smaller D1 schools, some in D2 and a couple in D3. We’d be at the low end of the totem pole, but at least we’d be on it.”

“True enough. Do they just have women’s bowling?” Conrad asked.

“Yeah, for some reason that’s all,” John replied. “Maybe they’re afraid men’s bowling would just turn into a kegger.”

They both chuckled at that thought, although Conrad added, “I don’t know, with some of the women’s leagues I’ve seen I think that’s still a risk.”

After another chuckle, Conrad shifted into business mode and began to give John directions. “I think water polo was the last sport Farnsworth added. I need you to go through the files and find the paperwork that had to be filled out and use that as a guide to get the ball rolling on this, so to speak.”

“Will do sir,” John said as he snapped to attention, also shifting into business mode. “I’ll try and roll it right in the pocket for you.”

“Nice bowling lingo there, John,” Conrad replied. “Just keep it between us, though. Play it very straight on the paperwork. And for crying out loud don’t let Four F get wind of this. He’s liable to stick his nose into it and make it nearly impossible to pull this off.”

“Should we talk in bowling codes, sir?” John asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Conrad asked. “Why don’t you sit down and watch the rest of the game.”

“No thanks, sir. I want to get a jump on this,” John replied in that Boy Scout manner of his.

“Okay, go for it. Nice work finding about the bowling, John,” Conrad called after his dutiful assistant.

“Thank you sir,” he replied. “I’ll make you proud.”

“That boy’s got to get a life,” Conrad thought, “but not too soon. Maybe that can wait until after I get a contract extension from Old Man Farnsworth.”

The Ferrets wound up losing to the boys from Backstreet 1-0 when their shot at the tying goal caromed off the goal post with less than two minutes remaining in the game. Conrad was of course disappointed with the loss but very pleased with the level of play. At least there was one team I don’t have to worry about right now, he thought as he walked toward the parking lot.

On his way, he saw Jimmy Harris, the beat reporter from the Star-Bulletin. When they made eye contact, Conrad gave him a friendly wave and Jimmy hustled over to meet him. “Tough loss, huh Conrad?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, it would have been nice to get the tie here, but we played really well,” Conrad replied. “Ferret soccer is definitely heading in the right direction.” His sincerity behind that statement was bolstered when he saw a couple of young boys, probably fourth or fifth graders, run by wearing t-shirts with a cartoon image of Freddie Ferret bouncing a soccer ball off his head.

Soccer could become a fairly big deal at Farnsworth, Conrad thought. For a place he had always thought of as a hick town, he had been surprised by the size of the international population in Midville, particularly the Latino community. After drifting off for a moment, Conrad then refocused his attention on Jimmy.

“So what kind of review will we get in your fine publication?” Conrad asked with a smile.

“Pretty much what you just said, except longer,” Jimmy responded, his smile matching Conrad’s. “You guys are really competitive at this level. I wonder, though, what your buddy Troy Flemstone would do with these names,” he added.

Conrad burst out laughing at the thought of announcer Troy Flemstone trying to pronounce names like Chavez, Guevara, or Guerrero. Even the thought of him getting his tongue tied on Garcia or Gonzalez was amusing. “Let’s hope it never comes to that,” Conrad said.

After a brief pause, Conrad turned to directly face Jimmy and asked, “Have you thought about what we discussed last week?”

“You mean the whole sportswriting vs. news reporting thing?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, that,” Conrad said, already disappointed with Jimmy’s flip summary of what he had hoped was a heart-to-heart talk.

“Yes, I have,” Jimmy firmly responded. “You made some real good points about getting stuck covering the city morgue and stuff like that. But I also don’t want to spend the rest of my life at Division III field hockey and soccer games, either. I need to break news if I’m going to earn respect in this industry, and that needs to be my main focus.”

“I suppose that means you’re going to go ahead with digging into Freddie’s background,” Conrad said with a tone of resignation.

“I don’t know of any other story around here worth investing any effort in,” Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t have anything against the ferret, but you have to admit that there’s got to be a story to tell about why a guy decides to wear a ferret suit 24/7. Was he abused as a child? Is he hiding some deformity? Is he a wanted felon? Whatever it is, it’s likely to be newsworthy.”

Conrad knew Jimmy was right but still tried to re-direct him. “Even if there is a very good reason why he wants or needs the story to stay untold?” he asked Jimmy.

“If it’s true and I can prove it, it’s news,” Jimmy replied with a tone of finality.

Conrad picked up on the tone of Jimmy’s response and realized he had a new problem to deal with. Sure, he was curious about Freddie’s background, probably more so than Jimmy, but he also respected his privacy. Looking at the bigger picture, an expose of Freddie probably wouldn’t help him or the school. In fact, depending on what the story was, it could be a severely damaging public relations blow to the university. Rightly or wrongly, Freddie was the public face of Farnsworth University. Any attention given to the person inside the suit could diminish Freddie’s stature and, indirectly, the school’s presence in the community.

“Will you at least give me a heads up before anything goes into print and give me a chance to deal with it?” Conrad finally asked.

“Sure. For what it’s worth, I really hope it’s a good story,” Jimmy responded in a more conciliatory manner.

“Me too,” Conrad sighed.

Good Week to Catch Up

Conrad and the folks are taking a break this week, so it's a good chance to catch up on any episodes you've missed. We'll be back next Tuesday with Episode 14.