At least I can get my hair cut now

All it took was one post on a Dodger message board.

"Do you have a superstition for a game?" Is what the post asked.

One commentor said he always wears a certain shirt. I said to myself, what the hell, I need a lucky shirt, maybe that will change the Dodgers' luck when I watch them.

That year, In-Laws bought me tickets to the Dodgers-Diamondbacks game out here. At that time, being fairly new to the Valley, I was certain DBack fans would hold me down and shove barbecued iquanas or kettle korn up my poop shoot for wearing Dodger gear inside their adverdium (seriously DBack brass, tone down the amount of advertisements at the BOB, my eyes don't like playing "where'sthe game"), so to save both the skin of my ass and Wife's I wore a non-descript blue shirt and my 8-ball boxers (under black shorts, of course, because I'm not a total nut job).

Result: Dodgers 19, Diamondbacks 1. And the first superstition was born.

The combination - lucky blue shirt/8-ball underwear - weren't perfect, but they were formidable opponents to whatever team the Chargers and Dodgers faced. It got to the point that other teams were listing it in their game day media reports: "MELISSA TO WEAR BLUE SHIRT/BOXERS COMBO: 'We'll have to bring our A game to beat that Melissa guy and his outfit,' said Coach Buttmuncher. 'That ensemble he wears is lethal. I don't think he washes it. So the luck just stays hangs like dog's fart in a car.'"

That's where I had them fooled. Wife wouldn't let me walk around the house, let alone Bank One Ballpark, with dirty skivvies and a reaking t-shirt. She doesn't understand the power in such lucky items - they are really once in a lifetime finds- so she washed them. Lo and behold, the luck stayed with the ensemble and the wins kept piling up.

Then came the discussion.

"Dear, look at these boxers," Wife said. She wore bio-hazzard gloves and held tongs that clutched my 8-ball undies. Her arms were so far outstretched I thought she was an X-Men.

"Thanks," I said, "I was looking for those. Are they washed? Oh, it don't matter the game is about to start anyway. They don't smell too bad."

"No, I'm sorry, these must be retired. There's a hole in the ass," she points it out with a laser pointer, "I just about see through them and the elastic is showing through these rips." She puts down the laster pointer, picks up a pencil and lifts the tears in the waist band to highlight her point.

Let me explain something, retired is just a nice way to say "we're chucking this ratty, butt-singed excuse for underwear into a volcano because, for the landfill's sake, they're not safe."

So, with this news, I go through the steps of grief while trying to save my lucky boxers. I deny what she's doing, curse her very being to the Underwear Gods for even suggesting the thought of exiling the lucky shorts, bargain for a stay of execution (I'll only wear them on game day!), plead for another chance and finally accept the underwear's fate.

While not quite as good, I did find another pair to take 8-ball's place. Welcome to the fold, golf-course undies. They have served me well. They were undefeated when worn during the 2006-07 football season, and perfect when taken to the Chase Field for the Dodgers/Diamondbacks. They even brought the playoffs to the Dodgers in the form of a Wild Card berth. So, there is hope for these boxers.

I just wish my superstitions ended with the clothing, but it doesn't.

The south facing couch in the our family room, or as I like to call it my front row seating, is completely unlucky. I'm afraid to sit on it now, believing the next time I do the recliners will unfold by themselves and take hold of my legs like giant insect mandibles and make a wish with my puny body. So I've learned Dodger games must be viewed on the north end of the east-facing couch, and Charger games on the south-end. If I'm watching the Chargers, each good-guy touchdown (and touchdown's only) must be followed with the playing of the San Diego Super Charger song. If I'm drinking beer, it's got to be an even number. If I have four in the parking lot during the tailgate, I'm buying two more inside. That's a win-win, I suppose. "I'm sorry dear, I've only had five beers. I need one more to even it out. That's just the breaks kid. Now pop this bottle cap for me." And for Charger games, it always must be Newcastle Brown Ale.

Want to dive deeper into the sea of Michael?

• I watched the Charger/Bronco game this year in the dark because they were playing well with the lights off and I was afraid turning them on would upset the mojo.
• I watched the Dodger/Mets playoff game on our little TV in the kitchen because that's were I started the game. When the Dodgers fell behind I turned the volume to No. 32 (Hall of Famer Sandy Koufax's numer). When that didn't work I moved to the TV in the family room, taking care to sit in the north-end east-facing chair, and turned the volume up with 32 clicks. They still lost, but made it close. Obviously, I started my ritual too late, and I take full blame for the loss.
• The past two Dodger season openers I've sat in the south-facing west-end seat of the couch and the Dodgers have lost both games. This year, I know where to sit.
• During one Dodger game this year, I didn't move from my seat for three hours afraid that I would jinx the game and blow the win for the Blue Crew. No bathroom breaks. No drinks. No food. I toughed it out and the Dodgers earned the W.

That brings me to this weekend. I bought tickets to the Charger playoff game (Offensive Coordinator Cam Cameron, Free Safety Marlon McRee and Wide Receiver Eric Parker are currently dead to me; Head Coach Marty Schottenheimer is on life support, I'm not sure if I'll pull the plug ... That's all I'll say about the game itself) for myself and some Charger friends. My first mistake that led to the heart-wrenching, butt-reaming, nut-sack pulling loss was that I flew out there rather than drove. In cases like this game, with the Super Bowl hanging in the balance (the Bolts would have beat Indy), you don't stray from the pattern. You run the direct route and catch the ball. I tried to make it right by purchasing a sixer of Newcastle at the corner store near Lisa and Jon's home, but even that was wrong because I always buy 12-packs. You can't change the game plan just because you're in the playoffs. I should know better.

We reach the stadium and learn the parking lot is full. We needed a plan B. Apparently that meant parking at the mall and tailgating in front of Macy's doors. Nothing like gulping down Newcastles and shoveling pasta salad before power shopping for over-priced khakis and blouses. We reach the stadium by trolley and I'm just hoping the football Gods didn't see us upsetting the natural order of things. And with everything so discombobulated I ended up drinking a total of seven beers before the game ended. Last time I checked, and mind you I'm about as good with numbers as a dog is with toiler paper, that was an odd number.

No wonder the Chargers lost despite dominating the 3-time SuperBowl champs.

But at least I can get my hair cut now (which I vowed not to do until the Bolts were bounced or won it all), change the wallpaper on my computers and sit on the other couch to watch TV.

Now, if I could just stop obsessing over not stepping on cracks while walking I'd be mentally sound again, or at least halfway to sanity.