Nerves of tissue paper

It has been Dodger week out her in Satan's asshole (copyright Lil' Lisa, 2007), which means blog time was cut to nil so I could agravate my ulcer, drink too much beer (is there such a thing?) and poop razor blades because the Dodgers and the local 9 - Arizona Diamondbacks - were squaring off four straight nights in downtown hell with first place on the line.

If you haven't figured it out, it's hot in Phoenix. Hell hot. So hot, I'm leaving sweat stripes from my butt crack on my pants, shorts, boxers, knickers, poodle skirt, you get the idea. I thought a trip to California this past weekend would dry out our arm pits and cure the second-degree burns the Arizona sun had left on our skin. Yeah, no dice. We came back and I swear the dogs' eyes melted shut - and they were inside the majority of the time.

So what do Arizonans' do when the temperature hits century-plus 10 mark? What any red-blooded, apple-pie munching, illegal-immigrant bashing American would do ... go to the ball yard. And while I attended just one of the four (I took my lucky charm - Sports Geek - and the Good Guys won in 10 innings, 6-5), I watched every gut-wrenching, ball-twisting moment.

They cruised Monday night, but the drive home Sunday in a car hot enough inside to cook a Thanksgiving turkey zapped any energy - or mental capacity - to blog. Chasing around a 7-year-old with water balloons and squirt guns also kicks the tar out of you.

Tuesday was night out at the ball park. Weekday treks to the yard works like this. Drive downtown like I'm the Bandit to buy tickets, grab a beer and find the seats before the first pitch. Once the game ends, and I'm done high-fiving gang members wearing Dodger gear because I'll be shivved for the lack of respect if I don't, we trudge the seven-miles in the cool night air - 101 on the digital bank thermometer, get your jacket Nanook it's chilly - back to the Mean Green Machine. Once I figure out the maze back to the Interstate, we're back home in 30 minutes, just when the clock is about to hit 10:30. I point out the latest nacho stain on the white Dodger jersey to Wife, then hit the sack at 11, only to have the alarm kick on and douse my nut sack with cold water at 4:30 ... A.M. for the next day at the prison work camp. Writing wasn't topping the to do list that night either.

So, you'll understand why I wasn't here Wednesday to pound a few words. A string of single-syllable words and sounds ("uh" and "mmm-hmmm") does not make a blog. Plus the Bad Guys won Wednesday, and I was afraid the vitriol that was bubbling up inside would come out as a series of four-letter word curses not suitable for your eyes, my eyes, Wife's eyes, or the stray wanderer's eyes (poor guy was just looking for porn involving lightning, a saguaro cactus and a Northern Arizona University student who needed to earn some extra dough to buy some fine Flagstaff green).

That brings me to tonight's game. I don't think I'm built to withstand watching sports, especially baseball. I blame the Ol' Man for taking me to ball games when I was still hitching up my Pampers. He's the one who piqued my interest with this game and the Dodgers.

And speaking of the Big Blue Wrecking Crew, I'm kicking back in my east-facing southern spot on the couch, enjoying the 6-0 lead they've built - but not too much. In the back of my head a little voice keeps whispering (it sounds like a cross between Tom Niedenfuer and Richard Dawson) "Don't get too comfy, Cochise, six runs means about as much to the Dodgers as a pair track shoes does to a sumo wrestler."

They push the lead to 9-1, and now I'm easing a bit more. My feet are up on the recliner, I'm flipping through the pages of my latest issue of Redbook - hey, it's a great way to spy on the opposite gender. Think about it single guys. - but still, that voice keeps singing the same tune: "They're going to blow it, and you're going to swallow your tongue."

And then it begins to unfold. Starting pitcher Randy Wolf loads the bases in the seventh with no outs, obviously more tired than a bathroom toilet at a bean-tasting convention. So the Dodgers' Harley-driving manager (how cool is that?) Grady Little reels him in and gives us fans the loss-stealing pitcher Brett Tomko. He looks like he should be good. He throws like he should be good. But he's not. He's a heaping pile of donkey dung dressed in gray and blue pants and shirt, topped with a blue LA hat. The hitter swats his first pitch - his FIRST pitch - into center field to score two runs. 9-3. I wonder if the shower rod will hold me.

Miraculously my TV escapes damage, though, as Tomko somehow wiggles out of trouble. Since the Snakes play in the dome (and in a desert that only sees water from the sky if a skydiver whips out his rip cord and floats out a streamer, if you catch my drift) there is no hope for a instant deluge that would cancel the rest of the game and save me from watching Tomko pitch the eighth inning. But, what do you know, he sneaks through that inning unscathed. But my stomach is still rolling like I just ate a jalapeno and liver sandwich topped with a heavy curdled-milk spread. I can't get comfortable knowing that schmuck would be coming back to pitch the ninth. And I only know that because I'm watching the douche swing the bat in the top half of the inning.

"I'm going to hunt down where you park your bike, Little, and piss on your Harley's tires," I yell, and the dogs look at me like I just told them their food is made from slaughtered race horses.

And just like that, Tomko loads the bases with one out and then gives up up a double into the left field corner, scoring two and putting the Snakes into slam range at 9-5. I'm rocking like it's the seventh game of the World Series, with my hands clenched together, sweating (not sure if that's because it's hotter than a '76 Chevy Nova with no air conditioner or I'm worried the Big Blue Wrecking Crew will blow a 9-1 to lead). Finally, Little realizes what every Dodger fan from sea to shining sea knows - Brett Tomko couldn't get my grandma out if she was standing at the plate. He brings in Takashi Saito and all is right with the world once again. He strikes out the first hitter he faces, then gets the next scrub to fly out to right and it's ice cream for everyone in Dodger town (it's tradition that all Dodger employees receive free ice cream on days when the squad moves into first place).

So tonight, while lying under the air conditioner, I'll bask in the Blue Crew taking three of four games from the Snakes. That will end, however, when I wake up in the morning and realize they play host to San Diego this weekend, again with first place on the line.

Ah crap, my ass is already talking. I don't think my nerves can take three more months of this season.