Lunch With the Red Sox

Opening day is a lot like having lunch with a friend you haven't seen since seventh grade. You get that uncomfortable feeling of having lost touch (who's that rookie in the bullpen?). But you can't wait to hear how your pal is doing (How is Remy's ankle? Rice is sure looking good, isn't he?).

Silently, you look your friend up and down. Has she lost or gained weight? Perhaps a new hairdo? Mentally you note the changes (there's not a single member of the '78 infield starting today).

You forget that once she told the teacher you copied her math, and you exaggerate the fun times (so they choked the end of last season, the pitching is looking pretty good, especially Eckersley. This could be another '67).

Well, this afternoon. I'll be meeting my friends as the Red Sox open at Fenway. It's a ritual I've performed since 1977, when I first moved to the Boston area and the Red Sox replaced my seventh-grade idols, the Oakland A's.

Year after year, I would count down the days until baseball returned. On that fateful day, skipping school, I would stand in line for bleacher tickets. On the trolley, everyone seemed to be wearing a Red Sox cap, carrying a radio and talking baseball.

Before the Red Sox began selling bleacher tickets in advance, standing in line was almost as much an event as the actual game. In '77 my sister and I were nearly trampled to death by an obese Cleveland man and his wife, as we waited for over three hours in a line that extended to Kenmore Square.

As I look back on past opening days, they all seem to blend together into one cold, rainy memory. Every year I trek to Fenway with visions of summer--and each year I leave certain that I've contracted pneumonia.

Not that each of the openers doesn't have its own distinct flavor. In '79, the crowd was talking mostly about the disappointment of the year before, and Rice. Evans and Lynn all homered. Two years ago, the star was Eckersley in a close 3-1 pitchers' duel.

Last year's game was particularly unpleasant one. Most of the talk was about the strike, but worst of all was seeing Carlton Risk, everyone's favorite Red Sox player, in a Chicago uniform hitting a three-run homer in the eighth inning to give the White Sox the game.

This year shouldn't be drastically different from the others. The bleachers will be filled with fans swearing that this year they really won't give a damn, yet knowing all along that they think the Sox have a shot. The talk will be of pitching, rookies and the Yankees. The weather will be chilly and anything will seem possible.

I'll be there wearing my lucky socks, trying to convince myself that it's warm and getting reacquainted with my old pals, the Red Sox.