Luck, as all sports fans know, comes from what you wear, what you eat and drink, where you sit, who sits near you, and other equally unknowable but potent forces, writes Bill Morris in the New York Times.
As I settled onto my bar stool, the omens looked promising. The beer was cold. The Giants’ starting pitcher was somebody named Madison Bumgarner, which sounds like a despicable WASP character in a Tom Wolfe novel. Meanwhile, the Tigers’ starting pitcher, Doug Fister, absorbed a line drive off the side of his skull and kept pitching. Inning after inning, nobody scored, which meant the Tigers were not losing.
The only thing missing was my good-luck charm, a guy named Chris Mazurek who I’d bumped into on a nearby street the day before. He was wearing a Tigers cap, that inky blue, that gorgeous gothic “D” in front, and I asked if he was from Detroit. “Warren, just outside,” he said, and we talked about the Tigers and exchanged phone numbers and made vague plans to catch a World Series game together in Alphabet City.
