By Ben Smith:
If you grew up like I did around all kinds of sports, you’re probably pretty familiar with some funky superstitions. I’m not sure how I slipped by without believing in most superstitions, but I never really got into it. I never cared much about not stepping on the foul line on the way on and off of the field or wearing the same clothing during a winning streak. It always seemed silly, and not to mention, pretty disgusting to wear the same underwear without washing it. The only thing I can remember not doing was shaving the morning of a game day. I guess you could say I wasn’t very superstitious, but maybe a little-stitous. However, the one thing I did, and still do, believe in was curses.
Being a baseball guy, curses were just part of the game. I grew up a big Boston Red Sox fan and suffered with the “Curse of the Bambino” until the Sox broke the curse in 2004 winning the World Series for the first time since 1918. If you’re unfamiliar with that one, let me lay it out for you. In December of 1919, the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees. And I mean, why not? He’d just helped Boston win three World Series championships in a five-year span, so it made sense to sell your best player. The lowly Yankees had never even been to a World Series at that time. Most of you know the rest of the story. The Yankees went on to have some of the greatest teams of all time and Boston didn’t even reach the playoffs again until 1946. I’ll admit that I shed a tear in 2004 watching them dogpile. And coming back from a three-game deficit to New York in the ALCS made it even sweeter.
Another baseball curse worth mentioning is the “Curse of the Billy Goat”. In 1945, during game four of the World Series, local tavern owner William Sianis brought his goat with him to the game in hopes of giving the Chicago Cubs a little luck. Problem was, they wouldn’t let the goat into the ballpark, even after Sianis asked the owner, P.K. Wrigley. Sianis got mad and famously said, “The Cubs ain’t gonna win no more. The Cubs will never win a World Series so long as the goat is not allowed in Wrigley Field.” Chicago went on to lose that series and didn’t win another World Series until 2016. As a side note, I’ve actually been to “Billy Goat Tavern” in Chicago and it’s one of the coolest places I’ve ever been.
Now that you get the point, let’s get to another curse still taking place today. About fifteen years ago I went turkey hunting with my uncle and my cousin. I’d never killed a turkey before, and this was just about supposed to be a sure thing for me. The first morning of the hunt we had a bird coming in on a string right to us. I don’t remember how, but I got stuck looking in the wrong direction when the bird approached us. I couldn’t move for fear of him seeing us, so my cousin ended up shooting the bird instead. No big deal. Being the good little cousin that he is, I think he felt bad for me so later on we went out hunting again. This time I was the only one with a shotgun.
We set up on the top of a hill along a powerline on their property, a well-known strutting zone for birds over the last few days. There was a light rain beginning to fall, but not enough to keep two young guys from hunting. We started calling and it wasn’t long before a gobbler was headed up the hill in our direction. I guess I was a little over-hyped and shot before the bird cleared a large bush in front of us. He pulled a quick 180 and headed toward the woods like he was shot out of a canon. I distinctly remember my cousin chuckling and saying, “Man, you ain’t ever gonna kill a turkey.”
Fast forward fifteen years later and here we are. I recently went turkey hunting with a friend that sees, and kills, birds just about every single time he goes into the woods. So, he invited me to come up and go with him, almost guaranteeing that we’d see birds. On the morning of the hunt, we started at opposite sides of the property to listen for gobbling activity. All I heard was a crow and an egret. All he heard was a logging crew cutting timber. No big deal according to him. After all, the last two birds that he’d killed never gobbled at all.
I’d bet we walked eight miles all over that property by the end of the morning. He was working hard to put me on a bird, and I could tell he was frustrated that nothing was going as planned. We’d walk a while, set up and call, move to another location, then repeat the process all morning with no luck. Finally, he decided that we should drive over to the section that I’d been listening at earlier that morning just to see if there were any signs of birds. We turned a corner at the edge of a pine thicket into an opening and whaddya know. There were three gobblers scratching around not fifty yards from where I’d started the morning listening.
We sat there in the truck in disbelief. Well, he did. I just sat there shaking my head. “Maybe you really are cursed,” he said. On the way home, I thought about all of the times where I’ve been so close to breaking this apparent curse. And there’s been a bunch. I opened this column by saying that I wasn’t very superstitious as a player and coach, but if the time ever comes when this curse is broken, I may wear the same underwear for a month.
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