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Excuse My Salt

I was born and raised a Red Sox fan, so superstition is part of my DNA. Don't blink during an important at-bat, knock three times on the table before the seventh inning, don't think of Bill Buckner at all, wear lucky underpants (yuck). As far as I can tell, there was no measurable difference in the success of this magical thinking between then and now — except the underpants are smaller — but nevertheless, we did not win a championship in 1986, and we did in 2004. Of course, maybe that has to do with that other potent magic, the Curse of the Bambino. Whatever it is, I'm as susceptible as the next secular person — including John McCain, who has a combination of feather, compass, and lucky shoes to help him along, or Barack Obama, who's gotta play basketball on Election Day. Even the most skeptical among us don't want to mess with those prickly little fairies of chance, and will toss salt over our shoulders no matter whose eyes it burns. What do you do? Why?

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