One of my favourite human behavioural idiosyncrasies is the level to which we all delude ourselves about our perceived rationality. Rubbish. Our “rationality” is at the same level as that of poultry. We might not bury our heads in the sand physically, but we sure do it inside our brains. One of the manifestations of this phenomenon is the level to which we are blind-sighted from our own delusional superstitions while laughing at other people’s superstitious beliefs.
A few days ago, our child minder casually mentions to my wife that we have a “visitor” in the yard in the form of a cobra. A cobra! Not to worry, she says. It’s a “friendly” cobra that is a reincarnation of a member of the council of my forefathers sent to deliver a message to us. As a matter of fact, should any of us wake up in the middle of the night and feel a cold, scaly object in bed with us, we should pat it on its head, roll over and go back to sleep. We won’t be harmed, she assured us firmly. I wish I was making this up.
After the initial shock, kneeling down to pray for protection from the Almighty and the council of Dead Elders, I regained my composure and started thinking about the whole thing. The natural fallback stance we all take in these cases is to wonder just how possible it is that “some people” could be so irrationally superstitious. I must admit that this was precisely my initial reaction too.
You might be reading this post at the airport, for instance, after flying in an airplane where you were in seat number 14A directly behind a fellow traveller in seat number 12A. And this seemed quite ordinary to you. You, the picture of rationality, might even have been guffawing out loud regaling your travel companions with tales about your child minder and a “friendly” reptile. “The slimy bugger hasn’t actually entered the house, of course — touch wood,” you might have ended your story.
I believe that the human brain is tweaked in such a way that it always takes the path of least resistance; of least pain and discomfort. One of the ways in which it does this is to “self-delude”. And our superstitions are a manifestation of how we “cheat” our brains in order to convince ourselves that we are somehow in control of uncomfortable situations. I bet you psychology geeks will give me a name for this phenomenon. Forgive me for not “researching” this; I’m suffering from Wikipedia exhaustion right at this moment.
When you think about it, this phenomenon belongs in the same basket with other delusions such as hypnosis, brainwashing, prayer, booze, music, narcotics and all manner of psychological interventions. In the end, all these interventions serve the same objective as superstition: to alter one’s state of mind towards a state of comfort.
When I’m in church, the organ-pipes-incense combo stimulates a part of my brain that brings me closer to my Maker and sharpens my appetite for His body and blood. That’s why I call myself an irrational believer. Here comes the good part. Because I consider myself extremely rational, I always delude myself into thinking that because I’m aware of all my superstitious beliefs, that makes me better than all those other sheep that are oblivious to their own superstitions. “Ha ha ha! The idiots!”
This brings me to sports. Superstition rules sports. The former world number one and one of the most gifted players ever to hold a tennis racquet, John McEnroe, never ever stepped between the tramlines in-between points. He had successfully convinced his brain that his seven years at or near the top of the sport had little to do with his viciously angled first serves and deft touch at the net. No. The trick lay in never stepping on the tramlines. Many football players also believe in never stepping on pitch markings. In the NFL, legendary Oakland Raiders coach John Madden insisted on his star running back, Mark van Eeghen, belching for luck before letting the team run on to the field.
Madden: “OK troops, are we ready? Where’s Mark?”
Mark: “Yes, coach.”
Madden: “Have you taken a swig of sparkling water yet?”
Mark: “I’m ahead of you coach. BUUUUUUURRRR!”
I’m much more of a football fan than I am a rugby fan. I’ve only recently started warming up to rugby, the sport in which grown-ass men spend 80 minutes hugging each other in tight shorts. Fair enough; each to his own. In PSL football, for instance, teams never take the field without some ritual from an inyanga — and these guys are actually on the clubs’ payroll. If you’re thinking, “Tee hee hee, those township okes are a funny lot,” you are blind-sighted from your own irrational superstitions.
Sports fans make extremely funny cause-and-effect connections between the retarded rituals they engage in and their teams’ success on the field. And that includes you. Yes, you. I know a Sharks supporter who has “lucky” boxer shorts that he puts on each time the Sharks have to face the Bulls. He’s had this particular pair for about 12 years, he reckons. I cannot imagine what kind of stinky, tattered state the bloody shorts must be in. Let’s all take a moment and be disgusted together. I bet you if his wife were to throw them out, she’d be ex-Mrs Disgusting Shorts within a week.
The Kaizer Chiefs team inyanga might have a monkey’s sacral vertebrae; you have a pair of stinky knickers. The average AC Milan fan might have prayer beads; the average Bulls supporter has a ridiculous hat with horns.
Come Saturday, I will be in front of a big screen, waiting for the game. I know next to nothing about rugby. I do not even know my tightheads from my knuckleheads, but I want the Boks to win very badly. I have borrowed the ritual that I use before the game starts each time Chiefs face those irritating crybabies from Mamelodi — opening a fresh bottle of beer and taking quick sips in succession that are equivalent to the number of goals I want my team to score.
The last time we met those yellow-toothed bastards from that insignificant little island, we had 36 points on the scoreboard. Bummer. I might need to get myself a 750ml quart to get this particular one right. You can all thank me later.
What is your little ritual?
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