by John Keenan
Don’t Jinx It!
A Little Leaguer’s Superstitions
By John Kelly Keenan
Copyright © 2011 by John Kelly Keenan
A pack of Ding Dongs, twelve red gummy fish, and a can of Mountain Dew – that’s what I ate before I got four hits on opening day of Little League in 1981.
Like most superstitious kids, whenever I did something a certain way and did well, I just kept doing it that way until it didn’t work anymore. So, before the next game I did everything thing exactly the same and I got three more hits.
That’s how the superstition of the 1981 was born.
I hit like crazy that year and spent the whole season terrified that any deviation, however slight, would sabotage my success. So, I lived and played by one simple mantra, don’t jinx it!
That meant: I had to ride my bike to every game, stop at Pat’s neighborhood deli for the same sugary treats, use my Steve Garvey model wood bat (an anomaly well into the metal age), and a host of other quirky in-game rituals.
Soon, word spread about my pregame meal and it piqued the curiosity of my teammates. One by one they interrogated me to learn my recipe for success.
“Why Ding Dongs? Why Mountain Dew? Why not Coke?”
“Why twelve fish?” Big Ed, our catcher and my best friend on the team, asked me. “Are you superstitious about the number thirteen too?”
“Yeah, but that’s not why.” I told him. “I got twelve fish because… after getting the Ding Dongs and the Mountain Dew… I only had twelve cents left.”
Soon Ding Dongs and fish became a common sight in the dugout before games. Baseball players at all levels learn that hitting and winning is contagious – but truth be told, so are superstitions!
I have always believed in jinxes – someone or something that brings bad luck. My over-active imagination took it much further. In my mind, ‘The Jinx’ was a goblin-like creature that put the hoodoo on anyone who ignored the rules of luck. The Jinx wanted you to fail and it would send obstacles your way to test your commitment – and baseball was the Jinx’s favorite sport.
The first near-jinx moment happened in the eighth game of the season. We had yet to lose; I had just scored a run and was returning to my seat on the end of the bench – the spot where I always sat during every game so far. But now, Todd Vandercroft was sitting there. I stood over him and looked down in disbelief.
“What?” Todd said.
“You’re in my seat.” I said.
“So?”
“What do ya mean, so?” I tried to put it back on him. “Are you trying to jinx us?”
That caught our catcher’s attention. Big Ed came over. His own success had made him a believer. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” Todd said. “What’s with you two?”
“You know!” Big Ed said. “This is Johnny’s seat.”
“I don’t see his name on it.”
“Do you want us to lose?” Big Ed asked.
“No!”
“Then get up!” Big Ed ordered. He was the biggest kid on the team and he didn’t much like Vandercroft anyway.
“This is stupid!” Todd said, but he got up and moved to the other end of the bench. I sat down.
“And don’t ever sit there again.” Ed sat down next to me and started putting on his catcher’s shin guards – that was one of his superstitions, unless he was batting or in the on-deck circle, he had to have them on.
“That goes for everyone.” He said louder. “I don’t want anyone putting the hex on our undefeated season. Anyone have a problem with that?”
Nobody did, because whatever Big Ed said was law.
Jinx averted!
It was a wonderful season; we were still undefeated and I had at least one hit in all twelve games going into a Monday night game near the end of the season – then the Jinx unleashed his army of demons.
Uniform on, my gear in my bag, and snack money in my back pocket, I was all set to leave the house, BUT I COULDN’T FIND MY BAT. I had looked everywhere, but my gut kept bringing me back to the closet of random things near the back door. Thinking it might just be lost inside the forest of junk, maybe buried in a nook or cranny, I decided to turn that closet inside out!
Just like the legendary John Henry driving steel, I worked my way through that closet at super-human speed. On my hands and knees I became a grabbing and tossing machine, inching deeper into the darkness, hoping each clutch would be the one when I’d finally feel the thin smooth wood handle or the fat, pockmarked barrel – scarred by success.
After a few minutes, the closet was empty and the hallway was full. Old shoes, soccer balls, tennis rackets, raincoats, and various other things, were piled high in a giant mound on the floor, but no bat. Worried and frustrated, I did what any scared little boy would do.
“MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!” I cried out for my mommy!
I must have put the right amount of ‘peril’ in my shriek, because my mother came running with the urgency of a mama bear responding to the cry of her cub. The thump-thump-thump on the basement stairs grew louder with every step. “I’m caaaah-minnnnnng!” She yelled with drawn out syllables.
She burst into the kitchen with her head on a swivel and the look of terror on her face. She scanned my body for missing limbs, gushing wounds, or some other dark fear that only a parent would know.
“What is it?” She barked, panicked and out of breath.
“I can’t find my bat!” I said.
“What?” She deflated; the air rushed out of her like a punctured balloon. “Oh for heaven’s sake!” Her expression instantly switched from worried to aggravated; her eyes narrowed and anger crept into her voice. “Don’t you ever do that again! You scared me half to death. I thought it was an emergency!”
“It is an emergency!” I hopped up and down to prove the situation was in fact dire. “The game’s in forty-five minutes and I need my Steve Garvey bat or my hitting streak is toast.”
“You and your superstitions!” She said exasperated. I could tell that she just wanted to order me to cleanup the mess and walk away, but she looked into my worried little face and suddenly her mood changed again. “All right, all right, calm down.” Her mommy detective hat was now on. “Where did you have it last?”
“Da!” I snapped back. “If I knew that?” I smacked my head with my palms – too incredulous to finish my thought.
“Don’t be fresh with me young man!” Mom wagged her finger at me. “Or that hitting streak will be stopped right here, right now, by me!”
Whether it was the panic in my face, a little boy’s puppy dog eyes, or maybe just that her only son so desperately needed his mommy’s help – a need that arose less and less these days, she let the insolence pass and once again tried to help.
“Ok, ok! When was the last time you remember having it?” She emphasized ‘remember’, perhaps in an attempt to preempt any more ‘freshness’ as she so often called it.
I thought for a second. “I know I had it at the game on Saturday.” I said confidently.
“Ok, that’s good. Did you leave it at the field?”
“No! That’s the first thing I do when the game ends. I definitely had it when I…”
A light bulb went on in my head.
I bolted toward the door. “I know where it is!” I shouted, grabbing my bag of gear on the way out.
“You’re welcome!” Mom yelled as the screen door slammed behind me. “You’re cleaning this mess up when you get home!”
