Superstition, or When the Sane Go Crazy
6 1/2 years ago when Hubby only owned the 'boyfriend' label, the Boston Red Sox were having a very promising year. They made it to the post-season and, as always, the whole of Red Sox Nation said "World Series Baybee!!"
Since now-Hubby is a die-hard Red Sox fan, he wasn't the exception. Each game night of the ALDS, he would order toasted ravioli while wearing a cheaply made white shirt from Hampton Beach with black lettering that read "Pysch Ward In Patient" and light tan shorts with black checks. The raviolis were always ordered from the same pizza joint halfway between his apartment and work. They were delivered before the game, but not eaten until. He would sit in front of the television and watch the game fold out with a nervous excitement. Once his meal was finished, he would pace between the kitchen and his bedroom. He refused to wash his "lucky outfit."
Then the Sox made it to the ALCS.
Rinse. Repeat.
I asked him about all this during Game 2 against the Yankees after he balked at my suggestion to watch the game at my apartment. The logic goes as follows:
Or something equally out there.
I know that this logic is the sports fanatic version of knocking on wood. A similar version of the Red Sox 2003 post-season happens during football season where I can't watch any crucial game. Whether it's to hinder or aid, superstition makes us feel better.
What kind of superstitions to you give in to?
Since now-Hubby is a die-hard Red Sox fan, he wasn't the exception. Each game night of the ALDS, he would order toasted ravioli while wearing a cheaply made white shirt from Hampton Beach with black lettering that read "Pysch Ward In Patient" and light tan shorts with black checks. The raviolis were always ordered from the same pizza joint halfway between his apartment and work. They were delivered before the game, but not eaten until. He would sit in front of the television and watch the game fold out with a nervous excitement. Once his meal was finished, he would pace between the kitchen and his bedroom. He refused to wash his "lucky outfit."
Then the Sox made it to the ALCS.
Rinse. Repeat.
I asked him about all this during Game 2 against the Yankees after he balked at my suggestion to watch the game at my apartment. The logic goes as follows:
"It worked the first time, so I tried the second time. When they still won, I knew I was making a difference."
Or something equally out there.
I know that this logic is the sports fanatic version of knocking on wood. A similar version of the Red Sox 2003 post-season happens during football season where I can't watch any crucial game. Whether it's to hinder or aid, superstition makes us feel better.
What kind of superstitions to you give in to?