For two consecutive days, all I wanted to do was scratch my crotch. The itch, brought on because I ventured too far into the poison-oak-infested bushes to take a piss off Highway 299 between Eureka and Redding - no, really, that's how I got it - was unbearable to the point of overwhelming my entire sense of existence. All I could think of was, itch. Breath. Itch. Itch. Breath. Get drunk. Itch. Get drunker. Try to sleep. Wake up. Scratch my crotch. Scratch it some more. For 48 hours, it was my entire life. Until game day. Until I had my first beer that fine Arcata morning. But, most importantly, until I put on the orange pants. The ride from my apartment in Arcata to sandy softball fields of Samoa was among the longest of many long, painful early-morning journeys I made during my second stint in that lovely, drunk-infested Humboldt County community. Between balancing the wheel in one hand, a beer in the other and grabbing my crotch whenever the opportunity presented itself, death indeed began to seem like a very tempting alternative. That is, until I slipped on the orange pants. We're talking 1989 now, already a good six years after the orange pants made their unforgettable debut as part of the all-orange Corning Daily Observer men's slowpitch softball team. Already, for reasons we'll examine further, the pants were definitely one of a kind - again, for reasons we'll examine further. But it's as good an example of any as to the unparalleled, undisputable, unexplainable magic that resides in the fabric of the orange pants that have helped to gird my groins for the better part of two decades. All I remember is, somewhere around my third beer that morning, the itch started going away. Something about the orange pants just seemed to . . . sooth me. The crotch was a nice, tight fit that seemed to blend nicely with the texture of my shorts and, especially, what still resides inside the orange pants. Simply put, the form-fitting magic of the orange pants just always seems to cleanse whatever evil resides around it, next to it and, especially, inside of it. By the end of the game, I had two base hits and my team had lost because Darren Ghisetti dropped a fly ball but, most importantly, the itch was gone. Just like that. As if by magic. The same way countless hitting slumps have ended because players have touched the pants. The same way countless personal lifestyle slumps have ended because I was heady enough to rub the pants' crotch. But, most impressively, just as hundreds of teammates over a 16-year span, when faced with certain defeat, have found that special little something by gazing toward our dugout and spotting those same orange pants hanging, proudly, almost defiantly, in the winning team's dugout. Who can explain the power? I can only begin to guess. We can all only begin to guess. All we can do is look back at the facts and try to understand. The pants began as part of the proud Daily Observer team uniform that debuted in 1983 and went out of existence a few short months later. Orange pants, orange shirts, orange socks optional. "Orange" was the official color of the newspaper -- which, naturally, was printed entirely in black and white -- and we wanted to reflect the proud "Observer Orange" tradition. Our first game, left fielder Chris Goniea was heard to mumble "We look like a bunch of fucking pumpkins!" while vainly attempting to track down a fly ball. That first game in the orange pants, I went 5-for-6 with two doubles, one of which nearly hit the right-centerfield fence on the fly -- probably my longest game-fly-ball ever -- and six RBIs as we routed local radio station KPAY. I put a small tear in one knee of the orange pants while sliding home, still the only mark on the cherished cloth. Within a couple years, most of the jerseys had vanished and pretty much anyone involved with the team who actually purchased orange pants (reports indicate there were as many as eight) had long since abandoned them. That is, except for me. By the late 1980s, it was widely known and accepted that I owned the last piece of orange material from this legendary franchise. And from that moment onward, guarding the orange pants became not unlike guarding the Shroud of Turin. They were stolen by jealous teammates -- more than once. They were buried alive one time. They were once doused with gasoline and nearly set afire. By 1989, it became known they were indestructible. That's when I stopped wearing them most games, and brazenly started tying them to the dugout fence. If public opinion -- or the need for a miraculous comeback rally -- absolutely demanded, I'd maybe put them on for no more than one inning a game. OK, that's bullshit. I stopped wearing them because as my beer gut got bigger, the various bulges inside the orange pants became more and more noticeable with each passing season. By the time I joined the Bears, the pants had become a North Coast and Sacramento Valley legend that, somehow, had not quite spread to the Bay Area. Obviously, that has changed. These days, not a single bad moment in a Bears game can pass without Jake Jacoby, Tina Hannah or some other fan yelling "Mike, better put on the orange pants!" The orange pants were put to the limit in 1997 and, as always, they delivered. In one amazing six-game stretch, the Bears were behind each time I donned the orange pants. By the time I had taken them off one inning later, the Bears were ahead. For good. Six straight games. You could look it up. I was wearing the orange pants when I struck the famous two-run bloop single that lifted our record to 2-3 and started the championship run. At least, I think I was. Actually I could have been wearing the pinstripes. But fuck the facts. I can't really remember. What matters is, from that game, through the magical night that was our championship celebration at Schelley's, the orange pants enjoyed the stretch drive of a lifetime -- a stretch that helped extend the magic inside the orange pants well into that special evening's final, unforgettable hours. A repeat last year seemed out of the question. How much magic can there be in one pair of pants? We're about to find out. Lace 'em up. Bring on all comers. Here's to one more year in the sun -- inside the orange pants. You might say I've still got the itch.