When you grow up playing sports, as I did, superstition has a tendency of playing a significant role in your life.

Sometimes it stops at maintaining that one uniform number throughout your playing days; if the fates, masked as the seniority of teammates, work against you, finding a reason for some new number to be significant in your life (otherwise known as why 28 came to factor largely in my softball days). It might continue to the specific routine you undertake whenever your prepare for a penalty kick, a free throw attempt, or a turn in the batter’s box.

For others, it continues into the way you step onto the playing field, the way you fix your hair, the food you eat before the game, or the schedule you maintain.

I was one for the numbers, the jewelry worn on the day of the game, and the culinary choices (the last perhaps a reflection on the fact that a pre-Yankees Wade Boggs was one of my favorite professional athletes for a time).

The superstitious tendencies carried over into regular life in simple ways. I’ve never been one for switching up my necklaces, for instance – when a pendant connects with me, it became a part of who I was for long spans of time. I had my favorite numbers, a particular outfit to wear for initial job interviews, and a half-earnest belief that I’d be luckier in an important situation if I entered a location at a certain time. None of it made or broke my life, but all of it made me feel stronger, braver, more ready to take on whatever came my way.

In recent weeks, however, I’ve switched things up, at least by a bit. Rather than focusing on those little superstitions, I’ve become consciously aware of where I stand on the karmic scale. And I find, whether due to fate, fluke, or whatnot, that karma and I are smiling at one another, as it were.

Perhaps it’s simply my desire to feel as if I have some form of logic and control over the way events unfold, but I’m going to keep leaving those pennies in the cups, with the hopes that I continue to find them coming back to me on the sidewalks.

With heads up, of course.

In other news, I was among the small audience at the Lizard Lounge last night, where Mike Doughty played nearly 30 songs on Cambridge’s stop on the Question Jar Tour. I wrote about the show – and what happens when you tell an artist that you scalped the bejeezus out of two tickets to their performance – for Bostonist. Click here and read for yourself.