Last week, I came to an unexpected realization: I am a superstitious tool. I've always dismissed superstition as worthless and irrelevant, and now I'm as guilty as morons who still have rabbits' feet dangling from their key chains.
I spent the end of last week just outside of Philadelphia (ugh…) for our club roller hockey team's national tournament (No, we don't play in parking lots). While packing for the extended weekend, I unwittingly gathered a specific set of socks and boxers. Two days later, while suiting up for our first game against the University of Rhode Island, I realized the extent of my superstitious loser-ness.
The same Bart Simpson boxers I had worn in every big game the past three seasons. The same two pairs of crusty socks, yellowed by the ungodly funk living in my skates. I even put my equipment on in specific order: left skate, right skate, tie the right, tie the left, left shin guard, right shin guard, right elbow pad, left elbow pad. To coin a favorite phrase of one of my roommates, "Embarrassing."
To make matters worse, I began thinking about previous superstitious atrocities I have committed - and there were a lot of them. In the summer of 2004, I was playing a tournament in Atlanta, Ga., and I only listened to two songs the whole weekend: "Grand Illusion" by Styx and "I Can Tell" by the 504 Boyz. I was named tournament MVP, and rather than crediting myself or my teammates for hard work, I gave the glory to my bizarre musical tastes.
In one of my current classes, I have taken every test sitting from the same seat. After acing the first exam, I convinced myself the seat had good mojo, so I refuse to sit anywhere else.
How did I let this happen? At what point did I disregard all logic in favor of putting faith in special underwear? What self-respecting adult, young or old, believes in playlists and inanimate objects rather than the Bible, science or his own efforts?
I'll tell you because I'm not going down on this ship by myself.
First, the whole city of Detroit are a bunch of superstitious turds. Red Wings fans throw octopi onto the ice during playoff games because, back in the 1950s, the Wings only needed to win eight games to hoist the Stanley Cup. Eight games, eight tentacles. Sure, back then that made a little sense, but now a team has to win 16 games to be top dog. They still throw their slimy sea creatures, though.
In basketball, dozens of players have perfected their pre-foul-shot rituals, most notably Rip Hamilton. Even the darling of international politics, President Barack Obama, acts on superstition. During his campaign, Obama toted around a lucky poker chip, an American eagle pin and a small statue of the Monkey King. He also noticed that he faired better in primaries and caucuses on days he played basketball. Naturally, Obama balled on Nov. 4.
I'm a little ashamed of my nerdy habits, but most of us probably have a few. Whether my superstitions actually affect anything, I don't really know. What I do know is that, come job-hunting time, I definitely will be wearing my Bart Simpson boxers.
Adam Wynn is a journalism senior. His column appears on Fridays.
