This is it. In a little over three hours, Gil Meche will throw the first pitch of the first game of the Red Sox 2007 season and we'll be off to the races, trotting along with the unbridled enthusiasm that April brings: spring is here,the earth begins the cycle of life anew and baseball is back again. Who cares what the statisticians say; anyone can be a winner in these beautiful early days where cold still tinges the air and hope still tinges the hearts of every fan, no matter what their team's payroll.
I spent yesterday afternoon at perhaps the best place in the world to distract the mind from the wait for real baseball: the ancient confines of Fenway Park, touring the ballpark. Because Fenway is such an old venue, a place where, in keeping with its location in a historically-minded city, the keepers of the place do as much as possible to blend old and new in way both functional and preservatory, the ballpark tour is as much about the 95 year story of Fenway as it is sitting in the kickass EMC deck seats in what used to be the .406 club.
Being a historically-minded person myself, I got a bit lost in the tradition seeping out of the walls and running down the concrete causeways, mixing with the water used by the grounds crew to clean off the seats. Big puddles of tradition, spreading across the floors where soon thousands of fans will tramp once again to the slow progression of spring to summer to fall, to the sounds and smells of baseball, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I walked outside of the park, back into the cool Boston air on Yawkey Way, looked at the old brick walls and the stone Fenway moniker and knew: we're ready. Let the games begin.
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