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.