I cast spells. Freaky ones.

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Most people -- namely those insidious Cubs or Red Sox fans who bemoan their team's lack of success in the numerous irrelevant years before their own birth -- feel that curses have befallen their teams. But readers of Agatha Moonfry's weekly column in "Spellbinding Spells for the Amateur Witch" know well that the key to any good curse is a buried treasure of sorts.

Take, for example, any good haunting. Almost always related to a series of unmarked graves nearby. Furthermore, every documented satanic possession in American history is conjured in part because someone had the foresight to plant an unseen pentagram in the immediate environment. Objects unseen almost always correlate with the demonic. It's physics.

I've never met this construction worker who secretly planted a Red Sox jersey in the new Yankee Stadium, but I am eagerly pleased to meet him. He's obviously a fan of mine.

Sadly, the Yankees sniffed out his attempt at amateur witchcraft, which speaks to his inability to keep quiet about his flirtations with the dark side. As I mentioned, Red Sox fans like to jabber, and it will ultimately be dear Gino's undoing. But it is a valuable lesson at how seriously the world has begun to take witchcraft. Let's take a brief look at Agatha's history of casting sports curses:

1980: Barely two years old, I discovered an early passion for spell-casting when I took my Russian nesting dolls and buried them near the Olympics hockey arena in Lake Placid, New York. The Russian coach lost his mind, pulled his goaltender, and a "miracle" came thereafter. That was no miracle, Al Michaels. It was the rising star of young sorcery.

1996: After a dynamite Atlantic Ocean sailboat tour with old boyfriend Brad -- featuring several intimate maneuvers deemed illegal on the mainland -- I took it upon myself to capture a small shark nursing in the coastal waters. After killing it, I buried fragments on each of seven holes at nearby Augusta National in Georgia, in an attempt to thwart Greg Norman's six-stroke lead heading into the final day of the Masters. He choked, of course, and fired 78. I had a thing for Nick Faldo at the time.

2003: Even though I spent years of my life and countless black market resources tormenting Brad after he left me for some blond bimbo, I wanted one last sucker punch against his beloved Cubs. I scoured high and low for a primate's ulnar collateral ligament, which I could bury at the Friendly Confines in hopes of damning starting pitchers Kerry Wood and Mark Prior. Unable to find what I wanted, I settled for a Niles Renegades Little League T-Shirt (similar to the one worn by this gentleman), which I buried just outside the outfield wall on Sheffield Avenue. Sadly, my spell had no bearing whatsoever on the outcome.

2007: Experimenting to discover the effects of elevation on the human orgasm, I found myself shackled in the mountains with Dr. Jens Tjaaden, a Dane with remarkable dexterity. He had become a Colorado Rockies fan since his days in Denver, and vowed to continue his research with me as long as the Rockies kept winning -- a circumstance that caused his undying arousal. I scrawled a series of ancient words on a baseball and buried it at the base of the Rocky Mountains, though I decided to let the spell expire after he became "too tired" following the NLCS. Nobody gets too tired for Agatha. Not if they want to keep themselves unharmed. Or ever have children.