The Kid's Alright This 15 year-old Sox fan is on his way...

Opening Day Again

Not a lot is going through your mind at 7 o'clock in the morning. There is
even less up there if you managed, by chance, to sleep too late to have time
for a wake-up shower. I knew enough to know it was Opening Day, for a Red
Sox fan arguably the most anticipated day of the year. It was also a Monday,
hands down the harshest day of the week. Quite an upsetting dilemma that
there was no way I could see the game. Going in person was out of the
question. It would involve cutting class, getting a ride to Boston, finding
tickets, and trying to explain to my parents. Clearly, that was not an
option.

Realizing that my class schedule would not allow me to sneak away and find a
TV. I had remembered to pack a portable radio, a little trinket my father
got free from some give-away. But this radio, I could put it to good use. I
plugged in my headphones, tuned into WEEI and tested the reception.
(Radio Crackling) So. what. have you heard about this story. Oh yeah that
guy who. (More Radio Crackling) Well, so, it wasn't very good. It was sure
better than nothing. I saw my father on my way out the door, and he made a
slight reference to the game that was on both our minds. But my dad is the
quintessential Red Sox pessimist. And he had to mumble a warning not to
expect them to win. Not out of some fatherly instinct of protecting his son
from disappointment but his own verbal defense mechanism of relaxed
expectation. And that kind of bad karma was just what team turmoil needed.
But I had to go and I didn't have the time to change his mind. I am not so
old that the constant losing has beaten me down, and I lack just enough
common sense to hope for the best with my Red Sox. Today, the best would be
a win that would set the tone for the season. It is odd that one game can
mean so much. It's not like it was a game against the Yankees either. These
were the Toronto Blue Jays. Who plays baseball in Canada? The Sox needed to
beat them, to get the confidence that, yeah, this could be the year. All I
wanted was for that to happen, oh, and to be able to see it.

The minutes ticked away in English, Chemistry, Spanish and through Lunch. I
made the trek to Religion/Philosophy. I remarked to a friend on the way,
clad in his authentic Manny game jersey, that I was considering cutting
class to watch the game. He gave me the sad courtesy laugh I was looking
for, but not much else, as he was in the same predicament. All I wanted was
a TV and the game. It was only a game. One in a season full of them. 162
games of equal  meaning. But today, this game commanded my unwavering focus.

As the Rel/Phil teacher and class were discussing freedom of choice I
imagined the smell of food, barking vendors and the pre-game announcements.
The fans went nuts as the starting line-ups were read over the PA. Nomar got
the loudest roar from the crowd, and he tipped his hat to the spectators.
Pedro stood stoically, maybe a tear in the corner of his eye, glad to be
back. He was all business focused already on what pitch he would lead with
to Shannon Stewart to start the game. Johnny Damon, Tony Clark, all the new
guys in awe of the Fenway reception, like no other in baseball. There must
have been a magic feeling in the air. The hot dogs, fresh cut grass and the
sacks of peanuts, God how I wanted to be there.

1:15. I checked my watch. Only two things could be happening. Either Pedro
was getting rocked or he made short work of the pretenders from North of the
border. Striking out the side, I imagined he walked off the mound with
little expression.

My thoughts took me through most of the period, and not once was I called
upon. Either my professor never noticed, or I'd be getting grilled during
tomorrow's class. However, that was okay. Tomorrow, the Sox are off.

At about 2:00, I remarked to whoever cared to listen, that by now maybe
they'd put a few runs on the board. A disbeliever, of the worst kind, a
local who took it upon himself to root for the Yankees, intercepted my
comment and spit back "Or maybe the Blue Jays are pounding Pedro." I ignored
him. Even if he was right he could not talk, he had abandoned his team.
There are strict rules, and I know he was aware of them when he broke them.
You cannot root for a team that is not your hometown team, unless you have a
special connection with them. Other than the Yankees won, and he liked
rubbing said winning in people's faces, there was no connection. And so, he
was as insignificant as a woodpecker, and just as annoying.

Walking to Math I went into my own little dream world. I was sitting in my
father's seats, where he was right now, off the third base line. Section 25,
Row 10, Seat 10: I was there, enjoying the game, a coke in one hand, a
ketchupped Fenway Frank in the other. I don't squiggle the ketchup, I just
pour it right on. I love seeing it squirt out of the little tiny packets,
red as the B the brand new hats the players wore. Although by now, Trot had
probably slid two or three times, and the fresh dust had caked around the
edges and dampened the beaming color. But that did not matter. One look at
his hat and you knew he had played the hardest game of his life, and he'd be
set to do it again.

Today, on opening day, even the fans of Boston, the most knowledgeable in
sports, would erupt at every meaningless event on the field, from a routine
put out, to Pedro's warm up pitches, to the 7th inning stretch when the
grounds crew came out to sweep the diamond. This was their opening day too.

Math ended, and I had to hurry to get to track practice. I thought I
overheard someone say that Pedro got roughed up early. I knew in his last
start he had loaded the bases but then struck out the side. We need a
healthy Pedro Martinez to be the greatest pitcher most of these batters
would ever face. He had to be healthy and dominating.

I remembered my radio but it didn't much matter. The radio didn't work and I
tossed it in my locker when I got to the gym. I had a few minutes to change,
and wandered around the corridors of grey tin lockers, looking for someone
who knew anything. "Have you heard the score?" "Hey man, what's up in the
Sox game?" "Are the Sox all right? What's the score?" "How are the Sox doing?" I
meandered around for a while, until finally I found what I was looking for,
sort of. Someone knew that Pedro got hit for a few runs in the top of the
first. Oh God, I thought, and I knew my father would be the first to yell
"He's finished!" Worst of all, his voice could reach the field, and I knew
he had no hesitations about heckling players. Yankee games are great fun
because of his ferocity.

Then I got the worst news. The score was a lot to a little, and the Red Sox
were on the short end. I ran the workout at Track practice like my heels
would catch fire if I did not get up enough velocity. I just wanted to be
out of practice and know for sure what the score was, know exactly what had
happened to my guys, to my team. So much promise, all the changes, all the
hopes, where had it all gone? They were a better team than Toronto, even the
neigh sayers at SI and ESPN had to admit to that. Yet, they were getting
shellacked. It was not fair. I needed to know the details. Was Pedro hurt or
just having a rough outing? Then it occurred to me. Maybe they were winning!
Maybe, everyone so far had been wrong. Maybe the Red Sox could turn it
around! As the afternoon wore on I ran through every possible scenario. The
Sox were trailing. They could come back. With that lineup anything was
possible. I showered and changed and headed for the TV in the student
center.

I got there in time to see one pitch. Escobar delivered to Hillenbrand, and
before I realized what was happening, he lined it at Felipe Lopez. But Lopez
dropped the ball, and my heart rose, as if Rickey could slide in before_
nope. Lopez recovered and tossed it over the second and the game was over.
They lost on opening day. I got my wish, managed to see the game, albeit for
only a second, and they lost. Maybe I will get more cynical and pessimistic
after this, maybe not. The rest of the season promises to be a rollercoaster
of emotion, but next year, next year there is another opening day. Another
fresh start, another new beginning and another chance.

J.J. Feigenbaum  15