A long while ago we posted about the abilities of certain millinery to affect the Yankee-rooting denizens of Manhattan (be sure to check out those comments – antagonistic were we in our youth and newfound success!). Nowadays, we have been made into an intellectual pile of jello with respect to Sox’ headgear. See, before the season we refreshed our hatdrobe, purchasing a new, spanky lid. Then the Sox busted out of the gate like a horse in need of a buckshot injection. With our hubristic tendencies we blamed the act of the hat purchase, the reverse-jinx of overexcitement leading to the fickle finger of fate wagging at us aggressively for our ill-advised optimism.
So the hat was stowed. It has stayed stowed since the Sox were 2-10. And now, we are faced with a glorious sunny Saturday in New York, a morning soccer game for our son in Prospect Park. And we want to wear the hat. We have, genetics to thank, no hair. So we need to wear the hat. But we are fearful. We are afraid that the hat will send the Sox back into a tailspin, it’s newness and crisp bill a symbol of our visions of success and a tempting of the baseball gods. Science be damned, we have been turned into a mystical peabrain who believes a hat, and the actions surrounding decisions to wear that hat, can turn a season. So the hat, for another day, is staying in the apartment. But if the Sox lose today, all bets are off. The hat may emerge once again.