Baseball players are superstitious. I don't know this from hanging out with many - in fact I haven't hung out with any.
Nomar swings his bat five times, tighten his gloves and taps his shoes. Papi spits in his hands (although whether this is superstition or poor hygiene is still up in the air.) Trot never washes his helmet so that, by September, the iconic "B" (sadly a drab "C" now) is hidden behing 300 at bats worth of tar, grease, spit and leather.
It's the rare achievements, though, that come with the most superstitions and paranoia. In baseball it's the perfect game. When there's a sense in the yard that magic is happening no one, not even the fans, utters the words perfect game. It's a jinx, a hex...hell you can say fuck, shit, bitch and asshole to the four year old sitting next to you if you want. Just don't say perfect game.
So if you see me on the street don't congratulate me. I haven't done anything I wasn't supposed to be doing all along. Don't wish me luck. Luck has nothing to do with this. And for God's sake, no matter what you do, don't say perfect game.
Instead say fuck, shit, bitch and asshole. I've become accustomed to hearing those words directed at me. But whisper, please, if you could. It's the Top of the 12th and I'm coming out to the mound.
