The psychology of a streak

ELItorial
   By Laurie Randell

If professional sports had a witch doctor, his name would be Turk Wendell. No one else—at least not in baseball—is known almost as much for his superstitions and strange habits as for his athletic skills.

COURTESY NEW YORK METS New York Mets pitcher Turk Wendell's superstitions entertain and mystify fans.

Wendell may not be the only superstitious baseball player, but he certainly is one of the strangest. He jumps over the third- and first-base lines every time he enters or exits the field. He brushes his teeth between every inning he pitches. He cannot simply drop the rosin bag after using it—he has to hurl it into the ground with the same force he uses for his fastball. Superstitions like Wendell's abound in athletics, and as long as there are streaks, slumps, and playoffs, these rituals will remain firmly entrenched in sports culture.

The Sports Illustrated curse is one of the most well-known sports superstitions. Supposedly, any player who graces the cover of SI will find himself or herself thrust into a slump. No one knows the origin of this "curse." I personally think it's the result of jealous, less acknowledged players who look at the lucky cover athlete and wish him or her ill for stealing the spotlight. Nonetheless, while I am in doubt as to the curse's origins, I have no misconceptions about its truth. I remember a time during last year's pennant race when my mother said to me, "Derek Jeter's on the cover of Sports Illustrated this week."

"Oh no," I replied. "He can't afford to suck now." Jeter then embarked on his longest hitting slump of the year.

It's not clear why sports superstitions persist from generation to generation and afflict everyone from famous athletes to unknown rookies. Does the Curse of the Bambino account for the fact that the Red Sox haven't won a World Series since 1918? Did someone in Fenway sell his soul to the devil (à la Damn Yankees) in exchange for Pedro Martinez and a certain shortstop named Nomar Garciaparra? Is Joe Schmo in Class AA Shreveport really launching bomb after bomb over the outfield fence because he eats a hot dog with extra mustard before every game? Most likely, normally sane, intelligent people are being caught up in the power of superstition, a centuries-old force known more for causing witches to be burned at the stake than for initiating clubhouse rituals.

Every athlete seems to be at least a little superstitious. From 1997-99, the Denver Broncos went 21-0 while wearing their newly redesigned home jerseys. John Elway claimed that he didn't feel at all superstitious about the jerseys, that it was all a big coincidence. He then clammed up and refused to talk about the fact that they would be playing their next game in white road jerseys. He said he didn't want to jinx anyone.

I can't claim to be immune from sports superstitions, either. Back when I played softball, I thought that if the bats were crossed then someone's head would roll, because everyone knew that you don't tempt fate like that. I had to end pitching practice with a strike; I would stay for as long as it took to coax a final one over the plate. There were girls on my team who wouldn't wash their pants if they were on a hot streak, and even though this became a problem if they happened to slide in every game, the rest of us would rather deal with the smell than break up the streak. Ditto for second basemen who were extremely ticked off if the catcher yelled anything different than "balls in, coming down." It was just easier to give in and believe in the power of the ritual than to fight.

Fans are notorious for creating their own superstitious explanations for why their favorite players are succeeding or struggling. Even if there is no logical reason for why or how something would affect an athlete's play, fans will still believe in the ephemeral connection their minds have created. Back in the mid-'90s, Mark Wohlers was the Braves' premier closer, with hair flowing out the back of his cap and a formidable 100 mile-per-hour fastball that froze opposing hitters in their shoes. Then he cut his hair. No one knows where Wohlers is now; he abruptly descended into pitching obscurity. Logically, the length of his hair can't have contributed to his downward spiral. Yet I still believe in the connection.

Image superstitions aren't limited to hair. Is it a coincidence that Greg Maddux returned from the offseason with something resembling muscle tone and proceeded to have a horrible spring? I think not. The moral of this story? People are pathetic enough to come up with any reason to explain sudden changes in performance. Wendell cut his hair earlier this year, and he slumped for a few games. Maybe the absence of his hair threw off his motion, causing him, to the delight of hitters everywhere, to lay big fat fastballs over the heart of the plate. Then again, maybe he forgot to brush his teeth.

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