I’d like to apologize to buddy even though I was only three at the time. You see, now that Tiger Woods has made apologizing a social necessity, I felt I should take a leaf from his book and get a few things off my narrow chest.

I was three at the time, when my mother zipped me into my snowsuit and sent me down the street to play with Buddy. He had some neat small metal airplanes and, before I went back home, I stuffed a couple down my pant leg. Something we call stealing.

When my mother took me out of my suit, the planes fell out.

“Where did you get these?” she asked.

“Buddy gave them to me,” I said.

“Sure,” she said. And that was the last I saw of them.

So, if you want them back, Buddy, call my mother. And please accept my apologies.

And I apologize to the auto parts house where I worked years ago. It was my last day on the job and I was sending out two shipments of mufflers, one to Winnipeg and the other to Halifax. I made up stencils for the labels and painted them on, and then helped the driver load the truck.

It was only on my way home that I realized I had mixed up the labels: what should have gone to Winnipeg was on its way to Halifax, and vice versa. It was an honest error and I want to get it off my chest.

Next comes Gerry, a pretty good hockey player who sat behind me in Latin class. I apologize for letting him copy my Latin answers in the final exam. He must have known he was taking a chance, but copying was his idea. I’m apologizing because my final Latin mark was 13 out of 100. Gerry must have been down there with me.

As we say, Gerry, caveat emptor. Or is that carpe canem?

And while I’m on the fringe of sport, let me apologize once again to Don. I always felt that was a clean check I threw in the Aurora arena, and I really don’t know how the butt end of my stick got involved. So, I apologize for those four front teeth you left at centre ice. And your new plate looked quite nice.

To Father Schwimm. Yes, you were right: I am the altar boy who stole the half-bottle of communion wine. And I apologize for the theft and for denying I was guilty. If it is any consolation, the stuff was awful and my friends and I were quite sick. Anyway, I never saw it as a mortal sin.

As for golf, I owe apologies to several golf courses and greenskeepers. Yes, I was the phantom figure who would slip onto the back holes in the early evening and play approach shots with my six iron. I know it was illegal, but at least I replaced the divots.

What might be worse — notably, for Toronto Rosedale — was that as a very young golfer too poor to buy balls, I was another phantom figure lurking off the fairway. And I only pocketed balls that were deep in the rough and ones that had stopped rolling. Mostly stopped rolling. Sorry about that.

And speaking of money, I apologize to my big bosses at the magazine they let me run years ago. Yes, I can tell you now that even then I knew I was wildly optimistic when I forecast that $2.7-million profit. But in my defence, I also knew I was about to quit. Sorry for all that red ink. Luckily, I was gone before the bottom dropped out.

To my friend Harold, down the Eighth Line, I’m sorry about your chainsaw, and thank you for letting me borrow it. The problem, Harold, was that I couldn’t easily make out those little signs that show you where the oil goes and where the gas goes; thus, I mixed them up. That’s why your chainsaw belched black smoke and finally seized up. I tried to clean out those little tanks, and that’s how the bits of rag got into your gas line.

Anyway, I’m sorry. And I’ll never borrow that saw again. But I guess you know that.