In terms of career impact, outfielder Kevin Rhomberg barely caused a ripple in the majors, during which he appeared in a grand total of 41 games for the Cleveland Indians, circa 1982-84.

Oh, Rhomberg racked up a sweet average of .383 (18 for 47), which will always look fabulous in the Baseball Encyclopedia. At least, for those who bother to stop there, right between Tuffy Rhodes and Hal Rhyne.

But when it comes to the teeming world of baseball superstitions, Rhomberg was Rogers Hornsby, Willie Mays and Babe Ruth rolled into one — the Rajah of Rituals, the Say Hex Kid, the Sultan of Spells.

If the commissioner ever commissions a Mount Rushmore of obsessively superstitious ballplayers, there will have to be a spot on the mountain (complete with lucky T-shirt made out of granite) for Rhomberg, right alongside the idiosyncratic icons, Wade Boggs, Turk Wendell and Larry Walker.

Just ask Dan Rohn, the Mariners' Class AAA manager in Tacoma, about Rhomberg, whose signature superstition (or compulsion, to be technical), foremost among a long and varied list, was the need to touch back someone who had just touched him.

Check that — not need, but requirement. If a person somehow eluded his return touch, Rhomberg would send a letter that said, "This constitutes a touch."

Cleveland teammates, including Mariners manager Mike Hargrove, called him, "Touch Me, Touch Me," and, having ballplayers' playfully sadistic sensibilities, loved nothing more than to touch him and then run off, sending Rhomberg into a near panic.

Rick Sutcliffe once reached under a bathroom stall to touch Rhomberg on the toe. Not knowing whom the culprit was, Rhomberg went around the clubhouse and touched each player. Brook Jacoby once told of tagging Rhomberg with a ball in the minors, then throwing it out of the stadium. Jacoby said that Rhomberg spent two hours looking for the ball before finding it. An umpire once halted play during a game in New York to tell Yankees players to stop touching Rhomberg.

Rohn and Rhomberg were teammates in Venezuela for winter ball, and Rohn touched him one night, then ran off to the clubhouse to hide after his last at-bat.

"He looked for me for two hours," Rohn recalled. "I was hiding under desks, in the shower, the bathroom. He couldn't find me."

Rohn eventually returned to his hotel, thinking he had outfoxed Rhomberg. But at 3 in the morning, there was a knock at his door. A sleepy Rohn stumbled out of bed to open it.

"It was Rhomberg. He touched me and ran away," Rohn said.

Few players carry it to the extreme of Rhomberg, who also, among other quirks, refused to make a right turn, on the premise that runners always turn left while rounding the bases. If circumstances caused him to head right, in life or on the baseball field, he would do so by making a complete circle to the left.

But even removed from Rhomberg's eccentricities, superstitions and rituals are rife in sports in general, and baseball in particular. Always have been, dating back to the 1800s (when St. Louis third baseman Arlie Latham would spit on a horseshoe for good luck), and no doubt always will be.

"In the case of baseball, it's something you acquire when you join the club," said Stuart Vyse, author of "Believing in Magic: The Psychology of Superstition," and professor of psychology at Connecticut College.

"This is the lore you are taught, just as elders teach us the things they teach us. It's hard not to be superstitious in baseball."

It's the lengths to which ballplayers will go in their attempt to manipulate fate that is most impressive, a monument to the ingenuity of the habitually anxious.

"It's an attempt to bring certainty into an uncertain world," said George Gmelch, professor of anthropology at Union College in Schenectady, N.Y., and a former minor-leaguer in the Detroit Tigers' organization. "Soldiers do the same thing — every occupation with a lot of uncertainty."

And we're not just talking about the old standards like not stepping on the foul line, which social scientists say is merely an offshoot of the old childhood superstition, "step on a crack, break your mother's back;" or not talking to a pitcher in the midst of a no-hitter. The latter can be seen as an athletic version of the "evil eye," which postulates that people can execute a curse with a malevolent gaze.

Hall of Famer Sparky Anderson was among legions who never stepped on the foul line. So is Felipe Alou, but he says it's merely out of respect to the grounds crew, bringing up a key element to baseball superstitions: Denial.

"Most players today would deny being superstitious," Gmelch said. "It's kind of pejorative. But if you ask them what they do to give themselves confidence, they'll tell about their rituals and beliefs, how they like to get to the ballpark at 3:03. All that is superstition. If they realized it really is functional, they wouldn't be so reluctant to admit it."

The functionality of athletic superstition is subject to considerable debate, even among ballplayers. John Wetteland called them "stupidstitions" — but never changed his hat and always initialed the ball he used to warm up in the bullpen.

Another skeptic was the longtime reliever Doug Jones, who once said, "I don't want to have my fate tied to an old, raggedy T-shirt or a pair of underwear."

Jones was referring to the long, proud (and rank) tradition of ballplayers wearing — ad nauseum, emphasis on the nausea — clothes, hats, jewelry or other items they perceive as lucky.

That includes the garter belt that Nuke LaLoosh wore under his uniform in "Bull Durham," but the trend was carried to the ultimate extreme by the Salt Lake Trappers of the independent Pioneer League. Their players didn't change socks during their professional-record 29-game winning streak in 1987, causing league-wide celebration, no doubt, when they finally lost.

Legendary Cincinnati manager Bill McKechnie was said to imbue his ratty old necktie with magical power, to the point of wearing it to bed. Reliever Rob Murphy always wore black silk underwear under his uniform. But maybe the best apparel story involves Tony La Russa, who received a death threat while managing the Chicago White Sox in 1982 that resulted in him wearing a protective vest. La Russa covered the vest with a warmup jacket — and when the Sox rattled off a winning streak, he kept wearing the jacket, even after discarding the vest.

Players often sincerely believe their superstitions and rituals make them bulletproof, no matter how foolish the notion. For instance, noted ball-talker Mark Fidrych wouldn't reuse a ball that had been hit safely "because it had a hit in it," he said in a phone interview. "I didn't want to see that ball again." Fidrych once told an interviewer he wanted it to go back in the ball bag "so it would goof around with the other balls in there. Maybe it will learn some sense and come out as a pop-up next time."

Superstitions invariably start because a player had success one day that he immediately (if not irrationally) attributed to some random occurrence in his life at that moment.

"Most know this is not the case," said Ron Smith, a psychology professor at the University of Washington and sports psychologist who served as the Mariners' team counselor in 1990.

"The problem is, we fear negative consequences a lot more than we value positive ones. What happens to an athlete is that if he wore a particular sock, or pair of shirts, or did some ritual, and had success, he'll continue to do that. That act reduces the anxiety associated with not doing it. It's the exact same mechanism, clinically, we find in obsessive-compulsive people."

Just ask John Smoltz, who once was doing jumping jacks in the clubhouse during an Atlanta Braves rally, and was afraid to stop lest that he be held responsible for the end of the Braves' scoring. He ended up doing jumping jacks for nearly half an hour.

Gmelch wrote the influential article, "Baseball Magic," which uses as its basis the studies of Pacific Island fishermen by anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski. Malinowski found that the fishermen had rituals they performed to provide magic when they went out in dangerous, shark-infested waters, but none when they ventured into safe, calm lagoons.

Gmelch applied this to baseball by postulating that most superstitions involve hitting and pitching, which are the most capricious activities in the game, and few involve fielding, in which players have more control over the outcome.

"The reason the article is reprinted so much, I believe, is that it's a reminder that we're no different," Gmelch said. "Sure, these tribal people have all these beliefs and practices that seem so weird — but look at what we do. It's the same thing. It speaks to human nature."

Just look around the Mariners' clubhouse, where one can randomly choose a cross-section of players, coaches and staff and discover a wide range of rituals, routines and talismans. Voltaire may have believed that superstition set the world in flames and philosophy quenched it, but ballplayers aren't taking any chances.

"Everybody has something," said veteran reliever Jeff Nelson. "If they say, 'No, I just have a routine,' it's the same thing. If you have a routine you do every day, and if you don't do it every day it feels weird, it's a superstition."

That sentiment was expressed to the extreme by pitcher Yorkis Perez, who insisted that his series of mound rituals were not superstitions. But asked what would happen if he didn't do them, Perez replied, "I'll get sick or die."

Indeed, the man in charge of the Mariners, Hargrove, had such an intricate batting ritual that he was known as "The Human Rain Delay."

Hargrove calls himself "a hitter before my time," pointing out that sports psychologists now recommend routines that lead to relaxation and enhanced performance.

(We're not sure what the clinical diagnosis would be of pitcher Greg Swindell, who used to bite the tip off one of his fingernails before each start and hold it in his mouth for good luck the entire game. Or Dave Concepcion, who once tried to cleanse a slump by taking a couple of spins in a large commercial dryer. Or Joe Niekro, who lined up nine cigarettes in the dugout and smoked one after every inning.)

On the Mariners, there's Bobby Madritsch, who makes it a point to rub out every footprint made by the opposing pitcher on the mound. And he won't make the first pitch of an inning until he has pointed to the center fielder and received a point back in acknowledgement (a quirk he shares with recently retired reliever Wendell, whose list of rituals was mind-numbing).

If the center fielder is distracted and doesn't point back, well, Madritsch will just wait him out.

"Eventually, he'll look in. He'll wonder why the game isn't starting," Madritsch said.

There's Mariners reliever Eddie Guardado, whose intricate daily routine starts before he even gets to the ballpark. Guardado must stop each day at the same gas station, at the same time, to buy an energy drink.

When it was jokingly pointed out to him that he must not really think that his performance would suffer if he didn't get the drink, or do any of his other machinations — which include a precise routine to get ready for each appearance, and a distinctive mound-stomping entrance reminiscent of Al Hrabosky — he remained serious.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I do. Definitely. That's me. If something gets mixed up, you feel out of whack."

Nelson, who remembers how the Mariners felt compelled to have pizza from the same restaurant for lunch throughout their September charge in 1995, calls all these superstitions "mind games ... when you retire, you're glad to get rid of that, I'm sure. It can weigh on you."

That goes particularly for the all-time superstition mavens like recent Hall of Famer Boggs, whose day was virtually one nonstop ritual. A 1986 Sports Illustrated article detailed the extent of his routines, which were choreographed practically to the minute. Boggs always ended his pregame infield practice by stepping, in order, on the third-, second- and first-base bags, stepping on the baseline (but over it when the game began), taking two steps in the coach's box and trotting to the dugout in exactly four steps, then going back out to run wind sprints at precisely 7:17, and drawing the Hebrew letter "Chai" in the batter's box. And don't even mention the chicken.

"I don't like surprises," he said.

St. Louis Cardinals outfielder Larry Walker is singularly — or tertiarily — obsessed with the number "3" to the extent that he always sets his alarm for 33 minutes past the hour, sets the microwave for 33 minutes and 33 seconds, takes practice swings in multiples of three, wears No. 33, was married on Nov. 3 at 3:33 p.m., and bought tickets for 33 disadvantaged kids when he played in Montreal, to be seated in Section 333 at Olympic Stadium.

"For some people, it might be a superstition," he told the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel in 1997. "For me, it's an obsession."

For sheer superstition panache, however, Walker doesn't approach Wendell, whose oddities were legendary, particularly early in his career. To name a few: He chewed four pieces of black licorice when he pitched, spit them out after each inning and brushed his teeth in the dugout, and leaped (not stepped) over the baseline (described once as a three-foot "kangaroo hop"). When he was on the mound, Wendell stood if the catcher was squatting, and squatted if the catcher was standing.

"He was absolutely not crazy," said Dan Gooley, Wendell's coach at Quinnipiac College in Hamden, Conn. "He just had quirks. Those quirks were fun. He's just a fun-loving kid who's very sincere, very heartwarming."

And so, in his own unique way, was Rhomberg. Unless, of course, he was frantically trying to make the last touch. Pitcher Bert Blyleven once touched Rhomberg while they were together in a car, then got out and ran off. According to The Associated Press, Rhomberg's wife, Denise, pleaded with Blyleven.

"Let him touch you or he won't sleep all night."

Just ask Dan Rohn.

Larry Stone: 206-464-3146 or lstone@seattletimes.com