I am a baseball player. I have superstitions.

They make no sense in real life, but on the diamond, life is lived in another dimension. I have known players to be superstitious about many things. One guy wouldn’t let anyone touch his bat. Many pitchers don’t step on the lines as they go off and on the field. Some eat certain meals before a game, while some won’t eat certain foods. There are players who wear the same pair of socks all season until their moms throw them out, or make them leave them on the porch. Players are superstitious about their jersey number. I confess to this one.

My number had to have a three in it. Three was my first choice, but I had my best season wearing 13, so it is my lucky number. I also wore 30 and 33. I don’t know what would have happened if I had worn some other number. I’m sure I would have chocked and died as I put it on.

My deepest superstition dates back to when I was nine years old, my second year in Little League. I was small for my age, so was no power hitter. I dreamed of seeing the ball leave my bat; soar far over the fence until no one could find it. I would have been satisfied with a ball just clearing the wall. I wanted to hit a home run.

I practiced hitting a lot. I got my father, mother, sister, strangers walking on the sidewalk to pitch to me. When there was no one to pitch, I tossed the ball into the air and hit it myself. It paid off, I got one, but I’m not sure if it was the practice or the magic I worked the morning of the game.

I wanted my own superstition. I thought and thought, and got the inspiration I was seeking. It came to me in a flash. I would put my left sock and left shoe on first.

When we got to the ballpark, I was full of confidence and ready to hit. The coach did not start me. He was making a big mistake. My salvation would be the rule that all the team members get to play and have one at bat.

I was in right field, a spot often reserved for the weakest player on the team. I didn’t care. I was looking forward to my at bat. It came in the bottom of the ninth.

We were down three runs and the bases were loaded as I was up. The crowd was going wild with cheering and groaning. I am sure the cheering was coming from the opposing team’s fans and ours were contributing the groans, but I didn’t hear them.

The first pitch came right down the middle and looked the size of a beach ball. I swung at it with all my might, but being a power hitter now due to my sock-and-shoe-voodoo, I had taken a heavy bat to the plate. My swing was late but I made contact and watched as I ran for first, the ball weakly traveling to right field.

The kid playing there got all turned around, fell down, and my weak fly hit the top of the fence and bounced over. We won the game, I had my first homer, and it was a Grand Slam.

To this day, I put my left sock and left shoe on first and will till the day I die. I hope when they lay me out and dress me up that final time they remember the proper sequence. Beyond here, I’m going to need all the help I can get.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at: www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.