Anyone who has spent time in a newsroom will tell you that answering a random telephone call can be like playing a milder version of Russian roulette.

We just never know what the next call will bring. The possibilities are endless. It could be:

• A news tip. (This is ideal.)

• A complaint about a story we published. (Even when we think it’s an innocuous story, someone won’t like it.)

• A complaint about a story we didn’t publish. (People often say we’re “not covering” something because we’re “in cahoots” with some business people or politicians. The reality is that news organizations can’t simply “do a story” because you think your neighbor is an alien from the planet Zerkon or you’re convinced some official is a crook.)

• The font size in a sports roundup was too small to read. (The older I get, the more I sympathize with readers on this one. One day, during lunch with my daughter, she noticed my phone when I received a message. “Geez, Dad, why is the text size on your screen so HUGE?” I told her she’d figure it out for herself one day.)

• “Don’t you have any proofreaders?” (Always a classic. They’re called copy editors and to some extent, everyone in the newsroom is a copy editor sooner or later. But as human beings, we’re not perfect and sometimes things slip through. It’s regrettable, but someone very wise once said, “The next perfect paper will be the first one.” That is true of every newspaper that has ever gone to print.)

• A complaint that we’re too liberal. (Take a number.)

• A complaint that we’re too conservative. (See above.)

• “You only cover us when we lose!” (Another sports department classic. As sports editor, I once told a caller, “Fair enough. Tell you what — next time your team is going to win, give us a call a couple days in advance and we’ll be sure to be there.”)

• People asking that we remove their name from a police blotter item, a court story, a real-estate transfer or a list of marriage licenses. (The answer is almost always a hard “no.” These are public records.)

There are countless other topics lurking behind every phone call. As I mentioned, news tips are often the best of them. But occasionally, the caller is a little light on details. A gentleman once called the sports department and wanted us to publish a notice about a softball tournament.

Reporter: ” When is it?”

Caller: “I’m not at liberty to say.”

Reporter: “Where is it going to be played?”

Caller: “I’m not at liberty to say. When will this be in the paper?”

Reporter: “I’m not at liberty to say.”

(Click.)

I received just such a call this week from a guy who said he had an important story about a hate crime committed against him in Cambria County, Pa., which — according to my calculations — is about 140 miles from here.

But when I asked him to give me some details or email some documentation, he said, “You’re not going to see that today. … At some point, you’re just going to have to take a leap of faith.”

He repeated that last sentence more than a preacher would in a month of Sundays.

This went on for about 20 minutes. I’d ask for something concrete, and he’d pivot to the “leap of faith” mantra. At one point, he said, “I’m very trustworthy.”

Then he got to the part about a judge and a district attorney visiting him in prison several years ago. They allegedly visited him to deliver “the worst news anyone could ever get,” which he then said he spent four years thinking about.

So what was the news? I have no idea, because he wouldn’t tell me.

Take a leap of faith, right?

I made one last try, figuring if I could get his name, I might be able to fill in some of the glaring blanks in the story — whatever it was.

“What did you say your name was again?” I asked.

“I never gave you my name and that was on purpose,” he said.

My patience gauge finally hit “empty.”

“You’re asking for quite an investment from us, but you don’t want to share any details or facts.” I said. “We can’t write a story based on hearsay and innuendo.”

That’s when he went off.

“I don’t need you,” he said. “You need me!”

When I told him the conversation was over, he clicked off without another word.

To me, a ringing phone in the newsroom is like a crying baby. I can’t ignore it. But that was one call I wish I hadn’t grabbed.

So I guess we may never know what his story was and how it might affect “everyone who is an American citizen.”

I’d love to share more stories about calls to the newsroom that became the stuff of legend, but I’m about out of space and time.

And, to be honest, I’m not at liberty to say any more. You’ll just have to take a leap of faith.

Ed Puskas is editor of The Vindicator and the Tribune Chronicle.

Reach him at 330-841-1786 or epuskas@tribtoday.com.