Soaking Up Some Timeless Fen-Rays

Appearances can be deceiving.

I stretched my legs over recently emptied seats, eased my body backwards, tossed my face in the fresh sunshine, closed my eyes.

Just lay there, in the thinning jamboree.

Crushed?

Through half-shut lids I watched concerned friends, milling crowds, and kind of laughed to see them eyeing me. Through wide-open ears I heard the half-hearted "Sox stink" jokes, barriers against the pain of opening day losses.

A couple of "cheer ups" floated my way, masking carefully-disguised exhortations to hurry up, to get up, to catch the T.

Disconsolate?

I chuckled inwardly.

Or maybe just smiled, but the kind of smile with no social consequence. The kind that doesn't care if anyone sees the imaginary upturned lips--that exists as an inward show of pure happiness.

The scoreboard in center melted away.

No more K.C. 011 000 060.

No more BOSTON 100 010 000.

Everyone kept clucking. An eternity of Red Sox failure. Generations cursed. Cluck, cluck.

And all the while, I was floating in a baseball-induced, spring-scented heaven.

Opening day became weeks, months, years. My mind flitted through time, measured by seasons, defined by baseball cards and doubleheaders and static-filled radio broadcasts on WTIC-Hartford.

The '75 Series was the biggest effort, trying so hard to keep myself awake during the sixth game. Trying to hide the blurted, sleepy giggles that would alert my parents to the presence of an over-tired nine-year-old.

Fisk's homer was the closest I ever came, I guess, to the experience of actually winning, winning it all, but I continue to find exhilaration in endless possiblility.

Realization is frightening.

What would become of an entire geo-philosophical region, a lifestyle founded on eternal quest, if the Red Sox were ever to win for real?

Inconceivable bliss, but finite bliss. Linked to a specific season, tied to specific heroes.

Far better, at least for now, simply to lie in Fenway and let the infinite hopes and memories of endless summer days wash over me.

"Don't be sad," my friends say, so I stand up and put on the outward smile again, as if I had finally stoically accepted the 8-2 opening day loss that deep inside seems so insignificant in the proverbial grand scheme of things.

There's something that opening-day losses can't take away, that comes the first time you can lie back in the sun and feel as timeless as the sport itself.