By: Kent Anderson


I was watching the Dodgers play the Giants at Pac Bell Park, or Cingular Stadium or AT&T Arena or whatever the stadium that replaced the "Stick" is now called, and was transported back to my college days. It was a Saturday afternoon. The Giants and Dodgers were tied after nine innings and my mates and I had spent those same nine innings tying one on. The 'eureka' moment came when my buddy proposed a wager.


"$200 and all you can drink tonight, Anderson."


My task? I simply needed to run on the field and do my best Pete Rose slide into second base. Following a second of deep contemplation I agreed and was off – well, kind of.


I heard something akin to the "Mission Impossible" theme in my head, my adrenaline began to pump and I was looking for the perfect moment. (This moment does not exist.)


I finally thought, 'to hell with it' and proceeded to thread my body by Budweiser through the railing. My girth and pathetic flexibility stalled my departure momentarily, until gravity vomited me onto the field. Sweating already, I picked myself up and ran like hell. Five strides from first base I'm winded and expecting a Ray Lewis broadside from San Francisco's finest. Nothing. So I carry on towards second. As I leave my feet I'm already a triage candidate for a saline IV. Time is frozen…a moment…then reality. I hit the dirt, thud and slide two or three feet coming to an unceremonious halt a Mix Poker Chipsgood six feet from the bag. Pain shoots through my liquor-soaked tissues, and still – no security. Instead the roar of the crowd swells. More adrenaline pumps as I digest my fifteen seconds of amateur rock star status. Feeling renewed I arise and lumber straight for left field where a waiting Eric Davis returns my labored high five. Instantaneously the cheers of the crowd turned into a torrent of boos. I've committed a cardinal sin in the eyes of the Giants' faithful. My momentary euphoria is replaced by confusion, exhaustion, inebriation and pain and still, no law enforcement in sight. So I trot along the outfield perimeter back to where my initial breach occurred. The stadium fuzz was waiting. Cuffed, and then stuffed into the Candlestick brig.


The point of this tale, beyond self-aggrandizement? It's a perfect illustration of my Party Guy hypothesis. Most people spend their weeks laboring at their jobs, stifling many of their wants and desires in order to get by. At the end of the week there is a lot of steam waiting to be blown off.


A lot of folks party it up en route to relieving the pressure. This may pose problems in some places but at the poker table it can provide like a fatted calf.


You should keep one thing in mind when scrapping with Party Guy. Consequences? What are those? Exactly. This guy may be up for significant risks and numb to the consequences. That's usually great but there's nothing worse than watching the entire table take him down only to see his luck change when your checks are in. It boils down to patience and not getting sucked into his risk vortex. Specifically, don't let haphazard play take you out of your game. If you do, the next thing you know you'll be bleeding checks like party guy. Minus the party. Until next time...

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