Oh, I had the guts all right. Big guts. Big honkin steel-plated guts. Phoning Bert Olmstead in Calgary again was going to be a cinch. “Hello Mr. Olmstead,” I was going to say. “Can we talk hockey?” And if he grumbled and hung up on me again, it wasn’t going to bother me.
So I got out the phone book, just like I’d done before, and I found a Kevin Olmstead, and a Pat, and a Marie, and several others. But no Bert. He was there before. But not now.
I know what happened. He probably got an unlisted number after I bothered him the last time. It’s my fault. I single-handidly made him paranoid of strangers calling.
Sorry Bert. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanted to talk hockey.
IN OTHER NEWS:
Patrick Roy’s son Jonathan has pleaded not guilty of assault stemming from him skating the length of the ice to pummel the other goalie during a Quebec junior game.
I’m not sure how this might be not guilty, but anyhow, if found guilty, the young fellow could face up to six months in jail. Which means that when his father’s sweater is hung from the rafters at the Bell Centre. Jonathan could be watching it in the prison viewing room along with a couple of dozen of his newest and closest friends.
He could even kill two birds with one stone by watching his dad at centre ice while getting a nice homemade tattoo at the same time.