E-Mail This Article to a Friend Reeking of victory BY MITCH KRPATA

The most shocking moment during Bush’s State of the Union address last week was not the president’s call to renew the Patriot Act, his assertion that "America will never seek a permission slip to defend the security of our country," or his insistence that we must defend the alleged sanctity of marriage by restricting it exclusively to heterosexual couples. No, the nadir of the telecast came during a slow zoom in on the chiseled mug of Patriots quarterback Tom Brady. What I saw stunned me. He’d shaved his playoff beard!

Maybe there’s no room in 21st-century sports for superstition. Maybe Tom Brady decided that, as a personal guest of the First Lady, it was his patriotic duty to appear presentable. All I know is, I thought we were pulling together as a team to bring the Vince Lombardi trophy back to Boston, and Tom Brady let us down.

Not to insult Brady, but I’m doing my part. I haven’t shaved since the Pats opened their post-season with a win over the Tennessee Titans. I feel like bugs are crawling on my upper lip and I look like a hobo, but as long as the Pats keep winning, the beard will keep growing. It’s the least I can do.

I don’t know what convinces sports fans we have control over the outcome of a game. My friend Mike has been wearing his Tedy Bruschi jersey every game day since the 14-game winning streak began. I asked him if he’d washed it during that time. "No, sir," he said. "In fact, I almost did this weekend, but that would have been catastrophic."

I imagine certain readers, most likely women, cringing at that statement. But I imagine even more readers sitting at their computers, wearing a Steve Grogan throwback jersey emitting near-visible BO waves, nodding their heads in agreement.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, says the adage. Indeed, it’s hard to argue with results. After the Red Sox dropped their first two games to Oakland in the ALDS, I went with my parents to game three at Fenway. I wore my Red Sox shirt to support the team, unaware of the mystical powers it possessed. Late in the game, when things were looking grim, my dad said to me, with the kind of gravity I’d expect if he were telling me he was divorcing my mom, "You forgot to activate the lucky shirt." And he solemnly poked the white B on my chest.

What happened next? Trot Nixon launched the game-winning bomb into the center-field seats.

I wore the shirt continuously for the next two weeks. I even slept in it. Naturally, I didn’t wash it. To give my team so much blood, sweat, and tears — especially sweat — only to watch all that positive mojo swirl down the drain would have put me in Bucky Dent territory.

Even when the Sox dropped a few games during the ALCS, I still believed in the shirt. During important at-bats, I jabbed at my chest so hard the silk-screening started to rub off. I nearly impaled myself during game seven. Alas, it seems luck can take a team only so far. There’s no accounting for sheer incompetence.

See, I blame the players when my team loses, and when they win I take the credit. It’s a nice racket we sports fans have worked out. I wonder why this phenomenon doesn’t spread to other aspects of everyday life. I guarantee you John Kerry supporters have changed clothes since the Iowa caucuses. Filmmakers are bound to shave several parts of their bodies between tomorrow’s Oscar-nomination announcements and the awards ceremony on February 29. But nothing inspires fanaticism in this country quite like sports.

Sure, the athletes train year-round, and absorb unbelievable physical punishment every time they take the field. But if the Patriots win the Super Bowl, I hope they’ll know they didn’t do it alone. I grew a beard.

Not to mention, win or lose, after Sunday I’ll finally be able to change my lucky underpants.

"Sporting Eye" runs Mondays and Fridays at BostonPhoenix.com. Mitch Krpata can be reached at mkrpata[a]phx.com