Keep them doggies movin'...

To gamble is to lead a self-examined life, which is good, the philosophers say. Jesus himself tells us "And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?"

The beam in my case was taking underdog Baltimore and six points against Pittsburgh yesterday. The first two games in the regular season gave me confidence the Ravens could cover, and I was looking pretty smart well into the fourth quarter with Baltimore trailing by two and driving. I was also counting on Troy Polamalo at less than top speed. This 'possum, though, sprang like a gazelle to snare Joe Flacco's pass and zig-zag to the endzone, putting old Kev nine points down.

Still one more chance until Ryan Clark clocked Willie McGahee over the middle. Helmet met helmet and McGahee was out, the ball fumbled to the Steelers. Whether it was a good football play or not, I've come to the conclusion that referees choose to ignore the rules all the time. Spearing is prohibited. The rules don't account for looking into men's souls to determine intent. Oh well, as we all know, holding occurs on virtually every play, too. No use complaining. Good vittles, love and kissin' are waitin' at the end of my ride.

The first dog barked much better for me. Arizona, continued its Cinderella run and won outright on the shoulders of Kurt Warner and the uber-receiver Larry Fitzgerald (his father was a sportswriter, I understand. We scribes must have athletic genes after all).

So, I chased my tail, ending up in the same spot, which is reward enough for making a sporting event interesting if you don't have a rooting interest as a fan. I refuse to wager on OU games. My passion is more than stoked without begging for an extra touchdown or two to cover.

The early Super Bowl line makes Pittsburgh a 7-point favorite. In the two weeks to come, I will strive to ignore the mote in my brother's eye and remove the beam in my own, as I will in my golf game this year. I think it's my putter stuck solidly in the window to my soul.

The Hound Hotel

Well, so much for taking the home dogs today. Both home teams won yesterday, and one of them, San Diego, was a dog, even though Peyton Manning didn't get a chance to touch the ball in overtime because of the NFL's ludicrous sudden death rule.

So I figured why not take the home teams on Sunday. As the PhDs on Wall Street say, don't fight the tape. Who would have thought Chad Pennington, on a team that had only 13 turnovers all season, would throw four interceptions. The Dolphins would have been better off going to the wildcat on every play. As for Minnesota, not giving Adrian Peterson the ball at least 40 times a game is the heighth of stupidity.

Obviously, I'm smarter than any NFL coach. If Woody Johnson or some other owner would pay just a hundredth of what will be dished out to the next head man, I could guarantee a Super Bowl. In my first speech to the squad I would demand a daily regimen of steroid smoothies and holding on every snap. Any lineman caught on tape not holding would be traded to a rugby team.

Next weekend, I'm still in the doghouse. The Eagles (+4.5 right now) will cover against the home Giants (Westbrook will find many ways to score), as will the Chargers (+6) against the home Steelers (Sproles and the punter will be co-MVPs), the Ravens (+3) against the home Titans (Flacco is too cool for school) and the Cardinals (+10) against the home Panthers (I can't help it, I love Kurt Warner). OK, it's drawing to a straight flush, but that beats four aces.

I've got to get three out of four to make a profit. The visitors won Sunday didn't they? Don't fight the tape.