You're going to hear a lot of talk in these last days of the baseball season -- a lot of so-called playoff-chase "analysis," a bunch of "breakdowns," predictions, and explanations.

Forget it. Put it out of your mind.

Ignore the numbers. Screw strategy. Pay no attention to clutch performers, key match-ups, or injury reports.

That stuff's all well and good in June, but this is crunch time; and in crunch time, hard data is soft. It's the soft stuff -- ethereal vibrations, deep echoes of history, wisps of karma, over-the-hump bursts of mojo and close-but-no-cigar shots of whammy -- that counts most.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: You want an edge handicapping the playoff race? Look to the intangibles, look to how well each team in the scramble tunes into its spirit channel and hones its hidden edges.

	John Olerud always wears his helmet, at the plate and in the field.

Will the M's, for example, tap into the magic of ...

That old inverted-trident logo. Sure, it brings back memories of polyester and Kingdome Astroturf, but it's a Poseidon thing, too. And you know what they called Poseidon back in the day? "The Earth Shaker." Plus, the guy rode a sea-going chariot drawn by dolphins. You can't put a price tag on cool like that. You can only hope to invoke it by paying tribute on your caps. Bring 'em back, I say.

Alvin Davis's eyes. The way I hear it, he didn't just see the spin on the ball coming out of the pitcher's hand. He saw the story of the ball, saw the sweaty, studied face of the guy sewing up its stitches, saw the cow that once owned its leather; and on clear, sunny days, word is, he saw Mokayans hurling its ancestor around an ancient field.

And John Olerud's helmet. The one he wears to play the field. The one that says I ain't afraid to be different. The one that says I am my own man. The one that says ground balls go here to die and this is where throws across the infield come home to papa. The helmet is proud, the helmet is steady, the helmet is pennant-ready.

And can they steer clear of the fallout from the way they hopped on Gaylord Perry's 300-win glory train once upon a time? For years, the Mariners would point to Gaylord's big win as an organizational highlight (when it was really just an historical accident that they were involved at all) -- the baseball gods hate that kind of piggy-backing.

Or will it be the Red Sox who take the AL Wild Card, because they're in touch with ...

Pudge's handwaving. Don't tell me he didn't move that ball. You know better.

Luis's wind-up. One half of the equation was the batter, who lived in fear that the throw might be off-line and peg him in the ear. The other half of the equation was Seņor Tiant, who threw with abandon and lived by faith.

Nomar's fidgets. Watch the other guys in the box these last few weeks, see if they don't throw in an extra toe tap or glove pull now and again. Like Crash asking Jose to rub the beads on his bat, they respect the juice wherever it flows.

And sure, they have to put on their bad-voodoo hazmat gear when the John Henry cloud is in the air, and they probably want to avoid any and all mention of the portly one who shall remain nameless. But if they can, say, find it in their hearts to vote Bill Buckner an honorary captain for the stretch run -- bitter fan sentiments be damned -- that might just set off some powerful kind of reverse-kaibash energy and push them right on into a trophy meeting with the commish.

	Wonder if Dontrelle has taken to the teal yet?

In the National League Wild Card race, the fight to marshal the secret forces of good against the coming of the night is three teams deep.

For Florida, it's a question of feeling all that rugged Hemingway, Islands in the Stream, big-sea-fishing heroism and artistry in your chest. Well, that and somehow forgetting that you play in teal jerseys, and that teal is maybe the greatest color crime ever perpetrated on a man with a bat, a glove, and a dream of winning the Series.

In Philly, guys need to imagine that they're playing each home game on grass; and if that doesn't work, they should practice that Tug McGraw mound leap from 1980. They should do it in their bedrooms every night, in front of a full-length mirror. (Make sure to get your legs up under your butt, fellas.)

And for the Dodgers, the difference between storming into the playoffs with wicked arms and anemic bats, and falling out of the playoffs with wicked arms and anemic bats, may come down to channeling the funky physics of Koufax and the hobbled physics of Gibson; and, of course, to tuning out the fact that they're still owned by the same network that's made Bill O'Reilly a big freakin' TV star.

Meanwhile, the division race in the American League Central is tight as a tic, and the difference may lie in Minnesota's capacity for ...

Being Tony Oliva. Way down deep into his hit-machine head -- you know, the way Cusack was Malkovich.

Being the baggie. It's ugly, true. But if you stare into it long and hard enough, there is a kind of swaying beauty about it, too. It's a mystery, a far-off land, one of the world's uncharted places, a place where the rivers run gold, the air is sweet, and game-winning hits hang in bunches on the trees.

Being all waggle-wristed cool, quiet, and deadly like Carew.

And being willing to add a consonant or two to every player's name on the off chance that it confuses the opposition. Mientkiewicz and Pierzynski are covered. Rivas, Koskie, Gomez -- these guys have to step it up.

Or things could hinge instead on the White Sox turning to ...

The sheer force of Hawk Harrelson's will to win. For you southsiders, I'll just say this: Hawk's my "Pick to Click" this week.

	Magglio Ordonez still doesn't get the attention he deserves.

The ghost of Bill Veeck. He brings buckets full of wacky and a keen eye for business, but what you want more than anything out of old Bill is that great big fireball of stick-it-to-the-establishment that burns in his belly to this day. He's the patron saint of "nobody believed in us, nobody thought we would be here." He's the chip on every Sox shoulder.

The secret knowledge of how good Magglio Ordoņez is. Shhhhhhh.

The Eddie Collins factor. We don't talk enough about Eddie Collins these days. It's all Rogers Hornsby this and Joe Morgan that. We should talk about Eddie more often. Better yet, the current Sox players should talk about him. They should do it like in "Dead Poets Society" -- secret meetings in the middle of the night, reading aloud from the Historical Baseball Abstract, getting riled up for brilliance long gone but somehow still with us, the whole package.

And the contempt for all things Cubbies that flows through Sox fans' blood like a clotting agent, like it's all that holds them together. If the Cubs are making a run, by god, the Sox are looking to hunt 'em down, flay 'em, roast 'em, eat 'em up, and belch on their damned yuppy souls.

All of this will be rendered useless, of course, if even one thought of Greg Luzinski in shorts and lapels, or a single Lamar-Hoyt-as-Falstaff image, pops into any player's, coach's, or fan's head at any moment in the next two weeks.

You want me to say something about the Royals now. I understand, I want me to say something about the Royals, too. I want to talk about the Saberhagen odd-year factor, about Frank White's grace around the bag, Freddy Patek's tears, and George Brett's slice-of-pie follow-through. But the thing is, they're three-and-a-half back this morning, and I hate to say it but that kind of deficit just may be more than the intangibles can handle.

And what of the NL Central, you say? What are the elements in the Houston-Chicago mojo matrix?

Well, I see Houston needing to ...

Put together a Jimmy "The Toy Cannon" Wynn bobblehead night ASAP. This is basic stuff: Respect your elders, plant the tribute seed, reap the reverential harvest.

	Pehaps the Astros should spread around some of Biggio's helmet muck?

Spread some of that Biggio helmet muck around. Put it on other guys' helmets, bats, and tar rags. Put it in random infield spots, so a few more balls might skip through for hits and a few more opposing fielders might fall on their butts. No, forget that, do this instead: Pass it around in the crowd at Minute Maid, from player to coach to fan to hot dog vendor. Let them all touch it, smell it, be in it. Let its proud, stanky energy seep into every hopeful nook and cranny of the organization.

Make appointments with Jose Cruz's hairdresser for all the players. Tell her you want the circa-'76 cuts.

Suit up Nolan. Just to freak the other guys out a little.

And finally, and most importantly, feel their big, bad Astro-ness. A girl I know in D.C. named Divine (a sweet girl, but with a real set of stones on her) has a theory: When it comes to predicting outcomes, keep it simple. Imagine the mascots of the two teams going head-to-head in the wild. The way Divine sees it, this Houston vs. Chicago thing won't be close. What's a little baby bear cub gonna do against a celestial body? The astro's going to bring all that heat and light; all that force equals mass times acceleration. It's going to be nasty. There won't be anything but a dark, smoldering hole in the earth where the bear once stood.

But Cubs fans need not despair. Their guys are still in it and they can pull it off. If they do, it might be because ...

They take the field one day this week with ivy wreaths instead of ballcaps on their heads -- a little bit of homage to the wall, a little bit of tribute to Belushi, and a lot of good feeling.

They get local boys Wilco to do a White-Stripes-on-Conan kind of week at Wrigley, doing different renditions of the Star Spangled Banner, experimenting with "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and so on.

Fergie Jenkins is everyone's first thought in the morning, Ron Santo is on each mind at noon, Ernie Banks is the topic of dinner conversation, Ryne is what every player sips to wind down before bed, and Mordecai is the prayer he whispers as his head hits the pillow.

His teammates start attending Mark Prior's daily way-of-the-calm-cool-imperturbable-dragon meditation sessions in big numbers.

Guys start mispronouncing each other's names on purpose ... for Harry.

The Bruce Sutter beard-growing contest heats up in the bullpen.

Sammy really didn't know.

And Dusty continues not to care what folks think about how he manages, what he says, and whether the wristbands are necessary.

Eric Neel is a regular columnist for Page 2.