It was just hours before the strangest Dodgers game I'm likely to watch - and a day before as typically impotent an offensive display as that team is likely to put on. It was not even 24 hours before the world celebrated with Spain that I found my final fury with Pau Gasol.

Finally, it was happening: In moments I'd deliver on my promise to ingest an insect.

I fortified myself by saying, "Self, at least you're helping to save the planet." It was that self-satisfied illusion, plus an opportunity to provide my seeds a lesson on the importance of keeping one's word. (The ceremonial bug eating also worked as a lesson in why one shouldn't make rash promises, but let's focus on one thing at a time.)

I'd really had a ladybug in mind, or nothing with separate thorax and head, at least. But while Wyatt and Forest and I foraged through the front yard for an appetizer and my girl grilled the main course on the grill in back, the option for a simple critter went out the window. No ladybugs were found in the grass. And when I found a roly-poly Wyatt objected, going to the brink of tears with his objections. "But they're so cute, Dad! Don't!" So that species was out.

(Wyatt's a great kid, but, c'mon! What's with the immaturity? He should be eating bugs at a third-grade level by now…)

"What about a bee?" asked Forrest, who was standing near a yellow curb-side flower.

And I was like, yeah! 'Cuz I damn sure wasn't gobblin' no fuckin' cricket.

Last week, after a spectacular meal at Gonpachi, I asked Katsuo Nagasawa for advice on eating an insect, just because online I'd seen some images of food with something like larvae atop it. Raw like sushi. So it seemed good to ask. He just sat there mute though. This guy had seemed to me a little like a genius, so if he ain't have no answers? Well, following through just got a notch harder. In need of a motivation, I went with the one that had worked so well in the past: Revenge.

A bee stung me in the foot last month. So I stepped on its cousin, scraped him - gotta be a guy; I'd never kill a girl - off my flip-flop, and carried him to the kitchen.

"Oh my god, this is so exciting! It's better than Disneyland!" squawked Wyatt. Christ. When is this kid gonna grow up, asked the man who was about to eat a bug, for the entertainment of his children.

(Don't you envy the teams that don't even get past the first round of a post-season? Those folks don't expose themselves to the desperation and disappointment that's the natural fallout of failed title contention. Ask the folks in Germany. The difference between a celebratory parade and an unofficial national day of mourning is the difference between lightning and, um, a lightning bug.)

I had been asking myself whether it would be best to wrap my "food" in cheese or douse it with with maple syrup, washing dirt down the drain all of the while, when I noticed a stream of guts streaming out of the bug's butt. OMG, I am just too squeamish. This was not gonna happen.

Oh yes it was. Wyatt had just been led off to the bathroom to wash his filthy hands when surge came over me like, "Aiight, fuck it." And I ripped a strip of American cheese from an individually wrapped slice and rolled it 'round the bee so that it looked like a mini-taquito. Then just chomped down. Forrest jumped up and down, Wyatt moped like Disneyland had burned to the ground, and I simply survived.

I'm here to tell ya: That shit was mad nasty yo. Like American cheese with a big bug in the middle of it, actually. As Wendy Case accurately predicted, the whole transaction was a bit like crunch, crunch, squish. Not the end of the world, but not at all pleasant, either. There it is. I'd like the Lakers to contend for the title next June. But don't look for a promise or anything like one.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

I love baseball like I love George Carlin. But only at the start of the weekend,  when I found myself in Row A, down the Dodger Stadium left-field line, shouting, "Cleveland rocks!" at the top of my lungs did I feel as though I'm sometimes too hard on the game.

Extra innings were over. My beloved Cleveland Indians had beaten my almost as beloved Senior Circuit franchise 6-4. I'd gone crazy with the screamin' and the hollerin' and whatnot, all but physically sparring with my boys - who live and die with Ye Olde Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. And when the Tribe of my youth beat L.A. in its first-ever trip to Chavez Ravine I let out something - but only something - like a war cry. It felt awesome, like clowning Giants' fans did last year when my Dodgers swept them in S.F.

That's why I felt a little sad about what was said early that day. I'd mocked Major League Baseball a bit because of its creeping irrelevance among young Americans. It's sort of offensive to me the sports administrators and marketers are content to narrow its audience and feast off the disposable income of aging boomers. Isn't baseball supposed to be the national pastime?

Here's is where explanation is needed: It's not like I haven't been critical of MLB in the past. I got a lotta beef with Bud Selig and his crew. (Really. You are not even knowing.) But the spirit of my Friday morning public radio comments did not sit well with me on the sojourn out of Dodger Stadium.

Now, I wasn't regretting the floating of a notion about the game developing a 24-second clock; no, that shit was mad funny.

My contextualization just could have been better. No doubt, demographic studies show MLB to be on a steady wane of popularity among kids. And the World Series ratings are low outside of major East Coast cities and participating teams' markets. But MLB actually has a much greater viewership than traditional Neilsen ratings suggest. Its hardcore fan base - mature earners - follows its teams on cable and, increasingly, online. Measuring the game's popularity from Game of the Week ratings went out with Joe Garagiola.

Most importantly, there's the baseball itself. Awesome in its leisurely spectacle. (Dodgers fans, who now leave early, as though Eric Gagne never happened, are surprisingly idiotic.  Remember when they had that cartoonish Padres comeback that ended with Nomar's game-winner? If I wanna be critical of the Dodgers, please let me. I'm a fan, and sometimes what you need to hear isn't what you want to hear.)

Friday's game didn't even really start until the 7th inning, when a good third of the stadium was on its way to I-5. I know interleague play leaves Dodgers fans at an information disadvantage, but aren't they aware that any game in which Cleveland closer Joe Borowski is likely to pitch is a game the opponent can win? That's when things got fun, in those putative closing innings. Baseball's amazing in the sense that time can't bail you out. (See, that thing about a 24-second clock really was a joke.) You've got to finish. Finish strong. Just like my beloved Fresno State baseball team.

Just like me. With this blog, I am done.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

On Tuesday, the Lakers put it all on the line. And I am not even specifically addressing the season that ends if Los Angeles loses to Boston at the Garden. No, the stakes I'm talking are even bigger: If L.A. doesn't get the upset win in Game Six, I'll eat a bug.

That Cal Worthington-esque vow came about Sunday in Venice, after watching Turkey's thrilling comeback win over the Czech Republic in Euro football action. The fam was all gathered round, and I just blurted it out. No one, excepting my older son, had been feeling my assurances that the Lakers weren't finished in the wake of Thursday's historic meltdown. And I really needed to be heard.

I will keep my word, but I really don't see myself snacking on an insect tomorrow night. And, oddly enough, none of my confidence has to do with the prospect of game fixing. No. I simply believe the Lakers have outplayed the Celtics throughout the series. My take on L.A., based on watching about three-quarters of the team's games this season, is that they are intellectual and finesse oriented, as opposed to tenacious and tough. The Lakers, the NBA's second-youngest team and most experts' championship favorite for 2009, tend to watch a bit of basketball before dissecting their opponents. And that's what had been happening in this series, before letting up on the gas upended my guys on Thursday night.

In the process, Kobe's teammates have done a lot of growing up. Pau Gasol, a paragon of European wimpiness throughout this series, showed his nuggets late in the second half of Sunday night's win. He began aggressively attacking the basket, punishing a foul-plagued and injury-depleted Boston front line. Up until that point, the much-heralded center had been a blemish on his home country of Spain's name. Chickenshit. Chickenshit. Chickenshit. (To be fair, as a member of the woeful Memphis Grizzlies, Gasol had little idea what a meaningful game looked or felt like.)

As on Thursday, Phil Jackson's charges took a big first-half lead, then lost it. Again much of the responsibility for the evaporation of points fell to Phil himself: He added in the mix infrequent performers Trevor Ariza and Chris Mihm, who fouled and missed shots and generally appeared confused. I think Jackson played these cats as preparation for the upcoming Boston contest(s). (Boston leads 3-2. No team has ever come back from a 3-1 deficit, which L.A. faced going into Sunday's contest.  And no vistor has ever won the last two games of a finals played in the 2-3-2 format.) Kendrick Perkins - who would return to the lineup for Game Seven - has intimidated Gasol and Ronny Turiaf. Mihm is the only player on L.A.'s bench with a skill set approximating the defensive-minded Perkins or even ancient mudder PJ Brown. And Ariza is a stopper of the sort that's in small supply in La-La Land.

So, no, I am not looking up recipes for insects, either chocolate-covered or sautéed. And I'm not trying to find out what bugs go down best. After all, I never said the crawler gets chomped on if the Lakers win the whole thing in Boston, which I feel in my gut they will. I only need Tuesday.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

I may well come off too black, so tell a friend.

But before I risk all that, let me do the white thing and talk baseball: I'm high on Ervin Santana, of the Orange County club. I've always loved his arm and instincts, but the kid seems to be growing up emotionally this year. He was very gritty on the road against the A's. And the Dodgers, while feeling themselves out like colts, are getting the hang of major-league grindin' - season long. Matt Kemp is going to figure it out eventually. And Furcal will be back. And the pitchers will shape up. These teams are taking my attention.

Which is not to say that I'm done with the Lakers. Our team is just feeling things out, in most ways. I'm starting to think Phil should alternate Turiaf and Mbenga at center, shifting Gasol to the four and three slots. And a part of me is thinking Ira Newble, the light-skinned guy in the suit behind L.A.'s bench shouldn't have been shifted off the roster last round for Trevor Ariza. Ariza looked overwhelmed. I think the former UCLA star will catch on, but Ira Newble would have known what to do with Leon Powe. As I told my Turkish father-in-law to-be, Powe's not better than the Lakers - he's just tougher.

And the Lakers are playing like a bunch of European pussies, I said. No offense, I said.

Here's the radical adjustment: I'd play Kobe at the point, just go really big and have Fisher, MBenga - who owns the biggest deltoids in the league; it would be a good time for L.A. to get bigger deltoids - and Radmanovich as your first options of the bench. Lil homey Farmar is gonna have to sit this one out.

Basically, I'm talking Turiaf - reminded that he doesn't have to shoot jumpers - is at the five spot. Gasol at the four. Odom's your three and Sasha's your two. That shit would fuck up the Celtics in a major way.

But the Lakers gotta man up, regardless of personnel. Worst comes to worst, I'd bring in Chris Mihm. The old pro at least knows how to run the triangle. And he could play, back in the day.

(One other Boston thing that's touching my heart. Chris Herren went to my old school, Fresno State, and I always admired his game. Dude was a pure shooter. But dude got up in drugs, and if he's half the junkie this scenario paints him to be, he's in deep, deep doo doo. No one left to lie to, and all that shit. I hope the league does something for this kid.)

Oh, yeah: the Finals Officiating just didn't work for me. I won't say it sucked because it was what it set out to do, keep the Lakers from sweeping. The refs orchestrated the action quite well. Sometimes what comes across to outsiders as failure is actually mission accomplished.

Anyway. Didn't this start off to be about baseball? Yeah, right. I'm working harder at the gym than ever because, as I understand things, Bonds is back.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.