Opening Day Dreamin'

For thirteen years straight, something similar to the following conversation has taken place.

"This is our years," Stevie's voice crackles over the telephone.

"You better believe it," I say. "We're going to win it all this time."

"No doubt in my mind," Stevie says.

"Not a one," I say. "Meet you at the game next week?"

"See you there," Stevie says.

Welcome to the raid Red Sox fan's world. For 12 out of 13 years, I have attended the opening home game of the Boston Red Sox.

In those thirteen years of home runs, line drives and caught stealings the only time I missed the game was when I was a fifth grader on an extended school field trip to Groton, MA for nature exploration. In retrospect, I should have gone to the game.

For me, the game is a rite of spring. The only time "pring has sprung" makes sense to me is after Roger Clemens launches a 100-mile-per-hour fastball. The game consumes me, envelops me, shapes me. I have ditched class, missed tests, and created phony dentist excuse notes because of the game. I would rob a bank if that is what it took to go to the game again next year.

I wait--no, I prepare--for the game all winter. I peruse my book-shelf full of Red Sox books, go over old scorebooks, and crunch stats on my computer. I exmpound on my pet theories about The Course of the Bambino. I do Rotisserie and Fantasy Leagues. I speculate on talk shows. My stove is very hot, indeed.

When the day finally comes, no one is happier than I am. My small group of faithful companions (some of them have been doing this longer than I have) and I pile into a car and park illegally somewhere in downtown Boston. Unable to walk, we sprint from the car to the ballpark. happier than clams, we find our unusually-poor seats and sit down.

Let the game begin! This is our year.

Everyone is an optimist on opening day. There must be a saying that the grass is always greenest on opening day. The 35-year old free agent pick-up will hit 35 homers and really will be worth his three million-dollar price tag. All injuries will mend in three to six weeks. The Red Sox really will steal bases.

All the teams are writing on a completely blank sheet of paper on opening day. The bullpen's ten blown saves last season mean nothing now. Mo Vaughn's 25 home runs mean nothing, too, Eighty-six years of World Championship drought means nothing. Only what happens in the next 162 games matters.

Professional baseball has changed much over the years but opening day never will. As baseball loses more and more of its innocence, the thousands of Fenway faithful and I still flock back to the game. The players make millions, hotdogs cost three dollars, and Fenway has the 600 Club and a color scoreboard, but opening day is still the same.

Two days ago, my life became pure once again. Young, strapping men are back at Fenway chewing tobacco, scratching themselves and attempting to smash little white balls with 35-inch pieces of wood. The circus that has become professional baseball is back in Boston for six months. I was there and I could not have been happier.

Roger Clemens looks unstoppable in the first two innings. Andre Dawson slams a homerun in the bottom of the second. Otis Nixon and John Valentin each steal a base. The Red Sox even fight off some rocky middle innings and come from behind to win 9-8.

Stevie turns to me after the Red Sox score the winning run on a passed ball in the bottom of the eight inning.

"This is our," she says.

No doubt in my mind.