3 is the key

I take full credit for the Dodgers first win of the season. If it weren't for me, they'd likely finsih the year 0-162. Lucky for them, I figured out the magic quotient to get them over the hump and plan on exposing the Baseball God's weakness - beer.

Opening day saw my fat Dodger-fan ass sitting in my computer chair watching them get beat worse than a Charger fan in the middle of a Raider circle jerk. I had Wife wash my jersey and lucky underwear. I pulled down the blue Dodger cup and cooked up some dogs (the kind from the store, not the ones in the back yard - but who's to say those packaged weiners are the cause for a pooch shortage in the greater Peoria area?). Obvoiusly, that ensemble and my water-filled cup wasn't the trick to the Dodgers' championship season of2007.

Tuesday I went with a different approach. I sat down and worked (code for downloading midget porn for the nights the Dodgers are off), keeping one eye on the game window, one on the writing window and made sure to keep one hand free if the mood struck. Then, I departed for three innings for dinner - charcoalized steak thanks to Chef Michael (Emeril's a hack who couldn't toast bread if you spotted him the toaster) - and lo and behold the Blue Crew were leading 3-2.

Wife warned me that I shouldn't watch. That I should leave well enough alone, look up the results later and come to the living room to watch some "Full House" reruns, but I stayed, and I watched, and the Dodgers caved like a dude convicted of tax-evasion trapped in a room full of rapists.

So, finally, while the third game of the season, and sweathing through a pair of boxers I once thought were about as lucky as a lost Krispy Kreme donut in an Ethiopian family's mud hut. The best way to combat an ass-sweat stripe is to pound beers.

And three beers seemed to do the trick.

Ass-sweat stripe disappeared and the Dodgers held on to win their first game. The rest of 2007 is gravy, that first W is on the board, and as long as I keep hammering back the 40s (King Cobra is good drinking folks) the left-hand column in the standings will rise.

Finding that right equation that kicks off a streak is tough to find. I was nervous a few weeks ago when I watched UNLV beat Georgia Tech at a local sports bar one Friday morning. I knew my chances were slim that I'd get back to the bar, and even slimmer that I'd get the same seat (that's tantamount to taking the title), so I counter-balanced that by wearing the same clothes for the next tournament game. And the Rebs upset Wisconsin.

Like Crash Davis tells Annie Savoy, "a player on a streak has to respect the streak." I ain't a player (my JV coach will agree), but I play one on the Internet, and if I believe drinking three beers and watching a pair of midgets 69 each other on one Web window while the Dodgers play in another spawns a win, well, dammit, that shit must work and I'll do it every game until it proves itself played out.

So, Wife, keep the fridge stocked with Colt 45 40s and if you see Mini-me banging away on a fellow little person, just know I'm doing it for the team.