Maybe it's that old lucky hat. Maybe it's doing a certain number of wraps on a clinch knot. Maybe it's throwing out your decoys in a certain order. Maybe it's counting each guide on you fly rod as you pass your doubled up fly line through. Maybe it's, as a buddy of mine fervently argues, refusing to use the word "perfect" to describe the weather conditions, or anything for that matter.
For me it starts in the truck. What's on my dash is a rabbit's foot, from a Tyrrell County cottontail.
But for whatever the reason, as impractical, as possibly meaningless as some of these superstitious rituals are, you still do them.