Sox Offenders

Certain things I've come to accept in this life. I’ll never get a real tan. Jennifer Garner won't be returning my calls. And, as has been the case every year since my birth, I won't be making it down to Fort Myers to check out the Red Sox in Spring Training.

But as much as I’d love to escape my iced-over driveway and pain-in-the-ass boss for a week of warm sun, cold beer, chicks in bathing suits and Kevin Youkilis running sprints, I could honestly care less about Grapefruit League play.

Yes, it’s nice to finally see the guys back in their T-shirts and unis, playing grab-ass and talking up fans. And I thank the lord for the hourly updates on NESN that tell me where Matsuzaka’s going for lunch and how Joel Pineiro spends rainy afternoons in Florida. All excellent, excellent stuff.

But, seriously. It’s all just a tease. Until that first pitch of Opening Day. Or, more specifically, until that first glimpse of players on the Fenway infield.

Because in my mind, the season doesn’t officially start until Manny’s wandering under the Green Monster, Papi’s pointing to the fans in the first base boxes, and a pack of drunk BC chicks starts up a rousing seventh-inning chorus of “Sweet Caroline.”

In other words, it ain’t official until the boys have touched down on the Fenway green. Then we can call it a season. Then we can get down to business.

My Dad took me to my first ballgame at Fenway when I was ten years old. And I've still got two things from that day.

One is the well-worn, dog-eared program he bought me, which still has his pencil-marked scorecard tucked neatly inside. The other is the indelible memory of walking up that ramp and seeing for the very first time that sweetgodandsonnyjesus explosion of deep blue sky and dark green grass that slaps little shavers [and shavettes] upside the head and says, "Forget everything you've learned to this moment. Life for you begins... now."

Since that day, I've made the trek up that concrete ramp at least a hundred times, and every time, I'm that bucktoothed ten year old kid again. It never. gets. old.

Things change. Friends grow up and move away. Robots take your job. But Fenway's always there for you. That green wall. That red seat. The li’l dudes in the usher suits who take you to your seat and wipe the friggin’ peanut shells off it for you. Pesky's Pole. These are good things.

Last summer, I had the privilege of playing on the field at Fenway during a charity event. [Actually, it was more like running blindly after fly balls in a fit of apoplexy, but you get the point.] Throughout the entire afternoon, I just stood there, jaw agape, staring blankly into the stands, feeling it all come back to me.

Over there was where Dad and I sat during that very first game. And there's where me and the guys had a few too many and started the "strike" chant toward the close of the abbreviated 1994 season. And there's where I sat during that infamous date with Karrie Wexler, "The Hingham Vacuum" [good times, those]. And there are the bleacher seats Dad & I sat in for Game 3 of the 2003 ALDS, when Trot's game-winning home run landed just a few feet away from us and in one cataclysmic moment nothing was impossible.

Simply put, I realized just how much emotional investment I had in this ballpark.

Of course, it's not always sunshine and popsicles and free handjobs [a brief albeit popular attraction during the Butch Huskey era]. For one thing, the seats at Fenway have got to be among the world's most "ass unfriendly," which isn't surprising when you consider that they were constructed in an era in which men wore powdered wigs and "invasion by martians" topped the list of government concerns. At six foot two and two hundred and thirty pounds, I often feel like I'm lowering myself into some sort of medieval torture device every time I sit down, and the pain can sometimes grow unbearable. I'm not looking for a Lay-Z-Boy recliner, but something that doesn't make my knees bleed would, for me, add just another wonderful dimension to "the Fenway experience."

Also, the restrooms -- at least the men's restrooms -- conjure images of the cage that Chuck Heston spent the better part of Planet of the Apes in. They're also where every smell that wafts through the ballpark on any given night goes to die. And I won't even get into the time the old man standing at the urinal next to me inexplicably dropped trou.

Yes, modern amenities that reflect post-Grover Cleveland America would be nice. But not if it means building something on the waterfront or -- gasp -- out on the 128 belt. Hell, I’m even willing to endure ownership’s ongoing crusade to wedge more paying customers into the current footprint. Seriously, how far away are seats on the dugout, a “trapeze loge” and ultra-special luxury boxes spot-welded into the left-field wall? Probably not that far at all.

But still, each year, we show up. Because we have to. Because, like Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, we’re being called by something higher. Fenway is hallowed ground, and every bit a part of our hearts as the players who dash madly across her grass each season. Seriously, dude, I love this park like George loves Weezie.

And that's a big, big love.

Follow the 2007 season with Red & Denton at www.survivinggrady.com.