Superstitions have forever been at the epicenter of baseball.
They have ranged from Wade Boggs’ matchless poultry obsession to Roger Clemens’ need to marinate Babe Ruth’s statue in his forehead sweat.
The minutest of details suddenly become the driving mental catalyst for success in professional sports.
Players genuinely believe something as simple as changing socks will cause a landslide with the power to destroy an entire season.
The Yankees worsening catastrophe has made this fan brainstorm how to prevent 13-149 from becoming a legitimate possibility.
The present losing streak has reached five, and the light at the end of the tunnel appears to be dimming as opposed to brightening.
Having tried virtually every superstition I’ve accumulated over twenty years of athletic participation, I resorted to the simplest form of irrationality. The superstition of choice would instead be not being superstitious.
Here is the background story behind my decision:
Following waking up on Saturday morning, I quickly realized that it was time for a non-violent protest against being proactive. In my first exploit to promote laziness, I decided that shaving was not in the day’s agenda.
After all, the Yankees were about the play an afternoon game against the Angels while riding the coattails of a four-game winning streak. An 8-4 drubbing ensured a disappointing weekend, as rain postponed any chance at Sunday’s redemption.
The Red Sox were next, and I was consistently reminded of the changes MLB has undergone since our 2004 collapse.
Two more dreadful losses stretched the incompetence streak to three, and despair had left my face looking less and less groomed.
I was beginning to resemble a man going through a painful relationship crisis. My appearance had become more disheveled each day I ignored the large bottle of Gillette shaving cream in the medicine cabinet.
An agonizing Wednesday loss at the hands of the Rays—in which I was forced to witness first hand—only made matters worse.
Mariano Rivera then contracted the debilitating “Herediatrosis,” named after former bullpen nightmare Felix Heredia. Back-to-back Rays blasts broke a ninth inning tie, and dropped New York to 13-15 on the season.
As I sit here on May 8, it has been exactly one week since a blade has touched my face. Exactly the same timeframe has passed since New York’s last victory, and I have decided to go anti-superstition.
Two decades of playing America’s Pastime would tell me that shaving could allow the Yankees fortunes to make a full 180-degree turn. However, a week of failed tricks and techniques has forced me to commit to the contrary.
I will not pick up a razor blade until the Yankees win a game.
I already look like an unkempt version of Indians’ starter Jake Westbrook, and it is imperative that something happens within the next two days.
Mother’s Day arrives on Sunday, and I cannot afford to disgrace my entire family.
This is essentially my final plea to the Yankees to somehow place a tourniquet on their gaping wounds. Something needs to stop the bleeding.
The respect of my family depends on these next two games in Baltimore. Please don’t let me down like you have day after day over the last week.