Too sick to even entertain visitors, he was looking for his spleen, which had gone missing in this year's NHL playoffs. And there was Owen, untouched but lying dramatically on the pitch with his hands in the air, looking for a free kick. It was a glorious day in London town, if you must know, one of the two or three days a year when the sun shines without hesitation, and FA Cup Saturday to boot. The intoxicating glimmer of summer had inspired a cavalcade of pasty-fleshed Londoners to disrobe and enjoy the great outdoors for at least one afternoon, many of them strolling leisurely up and down Chelsea's Kings Road. At least that was what I thought because, as Owen lay prone in Oscar-winning form, I couldn't help asking myself whether young Michael had ever laced up the blades, tucked in his jockstrap and hopped over the boards where players are carrying sticks and moving at speeds of 30 miles per hour and the molten rubber is being whacked about at around 100 miles per hour.
Nobody arrives in a good mood, it's a constant collision on the frozen pond.
And, yes, although the players may look like Robocop with all their equipment, the NHL playoffs ain't for the meek. It's a six-week war of attrition where grit is at a premium and the drama is unending. That would be for the regular season and Michael Owen. He is a lovely lad with a nice neat haircut that flies in the face of all those ugly buzz jobs soccer players have become renowned for and he cut such a dashing figure lying on the plush pitch of Cardiff's Millennium Stadium. The pub was silent for a moment while everyone wheeled around to look at this Yank who had the temerity to question one of England's finest players.