NO SHORTAGE OF EMBARRASSING MOMENTS IN LIFE
Life has several embarrassing moments — such as this column, for example. Here, without further preamble, are some examples of red-faced disgrace that I have miraculously survived over 54 years ... Iron man: To save time, I once ironed a shirt while I was wearing it. Ow. Fly-by-night: Leading up to the 1990 world junior hockey championship, I met the Russian team’s flight when it landed in Regina one chilly evening. It felt a little cooler than it should have, because my fly was open. Language barrier: In Grade 8 French class, the teacher was so impressed that she referred to me as “stupide.” Imagine how humbling it was when I looked up that word in a translation book. Nice to meat you: In 1993, my annual date fell apart after we went for Japanese food. Unbeknownst to me, a chunk of beef teriyaki was stuck to my face, just above my mouth on the right side, for more than an hour after dinner. (What she was thinking: “It’s not me, it’s YOU!”) Queen City ex: In 1995, my annual date was not an affair to remember. We went to Buffalo Days (now the Queen City Ex), where I happened to run into two dear friends — Aubrey and Judy Burlock. I introduced them to my date ... and got her name wrong. To make matters worse, I spent the rest of the date talking about my dog. Shot rocks: I covered a curling bonspiel during my internship at the Lloydminster Meridian Booster and somehow failed to notice that a truck had backed into the Communiplex, spilling debris all over a sheet of ice. My boss was displeased. Thirty-two years have elapsed, but I suspect that he is still displeased. Go ahead. Fire me! More curling horror: Again in Lloydminster, I approached a skip and asked for his thoughts on a victory. “I lost,” he said, cold as ice. Oh. Hat trick: While in journalism school at the University of Regina, I interviewed an aldermanic candidate during broadcasting class and, ever so smoothly, asked: “Why did you decide to throw your ring in the hat? ... uh ... I mean ... (gulp) ... (perspire) ... uh ... your hat in the ring ?” CUT! Airhead: While choosing classes at the U of R, I was informed that I needed to take a natural science. One of the options presented to me was astronomy. “The only thing,” I was advised, “is that, of course, the classes are at night.” To which I gormlessly responded: “Don’t you have any during the day?” (I ended up taking geology. My brain, I concluded, was a form of geology.) Great Scott: In 1999, I wrote a column on future CFL offensive lineman Scott Flory. Alas, I referred to him as Chris Flory. Scott (nailed it!) was great about it, but I felt awful about it. I still feel awful about it. What a bummer: Once upon a time, while throwing a football behind my back, I suffered a sprained right thumb. On the follow-through, I had jammed my right thumb into my left buttock. Ow (repeat). Do not try this yourself. Blood sport: Without realizing it, I had cut myself shaving before heading to a Saskatchewan Roughriders practice. Other members of the media screamed when I arrived, just before it was time to interview the players. Ever the professional, I interviewed Darian Durant with blood splattered all over my face. Bruise makes news: In 1990, I attempted to report that Regina Pats star forward Troy Mick had a bruised left thigh. Unfortunately, I wrote “bruised left thing.” Fake news. Worst impressions: Back in the days when my tonsils flared up, I could do an uncanny impression of my boss/mentor/idol, Bob Hughes. It was so good, in fact, that co-workers used to request it. I impersonated an old radio commentary that Bob used to do, his signature ending being, “THIS is Bob Hughes.” So, one evening, I did the impression and felt proud of myself until Al Driver pointed to a familiar face and said, “No, Rob, THIS is Bob Hughes!” He had heard every word. I wheeled my chair into the Leader-post library and mourned what was then a fledgling career. Class act: In Grade 9, I spent a week in the 9A industrial arts class at Campbell Collegiate before noticing that I was among a different group of students for the rest of the day. My homeroom was 9B. Why did it take me an entire week to notice this? Good thing nobody was listening: In journalism school, we did a daily noon-hour newscast on the university radio station. This future Edward R. Murrow meant to report that an ailing politician was resting in hospital. However, I managed to turn that into “wrestling in hospital.” Try the camel clutch! For Pete’s sake: I was once introduced to a fellow named Pete. As we shook hands, I said, “Hi Rob. I’m Pete.” Don’t ask me why! Please keep all of the above between you and me. I’d hate for this to ever get out.