Quotes of the Day

When last I visited with you in this electronic space to chat about our Red Sox, they had just dispatched the Cardinals in summary fashion and had claimed the world championship that had eluded them for 86 years. I had just come off a second straight year chasing a hyper-harrowing seven-game ALCS against the Yankees, witnessing the wild shifts of fate from the cheap seats (well, not so cheap). And then, with the World Series win—with blessed deliverance—I was feeling pretty euphoric about all things Bosox. When friends would inevitably ask, "Aren't you going to miss the waiting? The angst? How can you live in a world where the Red Sox aren't snake-bitten also-rans?" I would quickly reply: "Don't be silly. This is the way it should be. This is the new normal."

Little did I realize just how thoroughly life would, in fact, change for us lifelong Red Sox fans. We were newly fashionable, for one thing—people wrote books about us, people made movies about us, people wanted to talk to us. We had lots and lots of brand new friends. I learned, not long after Doug Mientkiewicz caught the toss from Keith Foulke to finish off the Cards—a ball that Doug would spend much of the off-season trying to keep as his own, a ball now in the possession of the Red Sox (and Doug is, via trade, now a Met; make of that what you will)—I learned a new definition of the term "backpacker." It's not in Webster's and I doubt it will be soon, but it's has useful application in the New World Order.

My friend, Jane, explained it to me. We were talking at a special convening—coven?—of the BLOHARDS (Benevolent Loyal Order of Honorable and Ancient Red Sox Diehard Sufferers of New York), which is a 40-year-old behind-enemy-lines fraternity with a suddenly burgeoning membership. The conclave had been organized in a rush by club founder and grand poobah Jim Powers, and publicized on our website by Jim Shea. Powers had been contacted, in the aftermath of the glorious occasion, by the Boston brass to see if the BLOHARDS would like to gaze upon, and pose with, the championship trophy. This dazzling hardware was to begin its triumphal procession in Providence on Thursday, and needed to be back in Foxboro to be trotted out at the Pats game by Curt Schilling and Johnny Damon on Sunday night, but Dr. Charles Steinberg, the Sox' impresario without peer, could escort it to Gotham for a Friday p.m. audience—if so desired. The BLOHARDS, two hundred strong on this November night, so desired. Of course Jane and I were among the faithful.

"Isn't it grand," I said to her as I sipped Jack Daniels.

" 'Tis," she said. She's a WASP from Wellesley, but was into her third red wine, and some deep-in-the-bones Hibernian poetry was surfacing. "I wish Bo could see this."

"How is Bo?" I asked about my godson, who had just begun his freshman year at Wake Forest, where he was hoping against hope for a walk-on nod from the terrific baseball program there. Bo had been at two or three of the recent post-season games, as had his mom, and was a true-blue Red Sox devotee.

"He's great," Jane said. "I drove down to see him over the weekend. We had a great time. He took me out to the quad at one point and it was totally filled with toilet paper. He explained that they 'paper the quad' whenever there's a big win, like against Duke in football. I asked is they had beat Duke and he said, 'Mom, this was for the Red Sox.'

" 'They're backpackers, Mom.' "

A backpacker in this sense is, apparently, a Johnny-come-lately, a front-runner, a fair-weather fan. They live in Swampscott and Matapan and Cheshire, Vermont, and Rumford, Maine, and Fairfield, Connecticut, and even, apparently, in the American South. From what I've seen on the streets of Manhattan in the last four months—unless the bright-red-B cap is some new fashion statement, they are proliferating in New York City, too—seriously beyond the DMZ.

"They're backpackers." Bo sneered the explanation to his mother with a fierce disdain.

I don't mind them near so much as Bo seems to. Chipper as I am about affaires du Sox these days, I welcome all into the fold. But, yes, Bo's certainly right: There are fans now sporting scarlet hose who, only yesterday, were loyalists of the Tribe, or the fish, or even—as I've just speculated—the Yanks. It's good to be king, and it's good to be a winner, and it's good to travel along with the kings and winners.

My off-season progressed from that BLOHARDS session to weeks of monitoring the maneuverings around the Hot Stove. If you to ask me, things didn't go so well for our side. We didn't get Pavano, we didn't get Radke, we didn't get Hudson. We let Derek depart without so much as a fare-thee-well, and lost Martinez to the Mets—which mightn't have been such a bad thing, no matter how he performs in Queens. (The bet here is that he'll be swell for a year or two, especially against those NL lineups, but by year five he'll be cooked to a crisp. And he'll begin to act up in year three, as is his wont.) Gabe Kapler certainly deserved to play every day somewhere, and if that somewhere needed to be Japan, well, then, good for you, Gabe, and thanks for the memories. Orlando Cabrera brought flash to the field and fun to the clubhouse, and we'll learn down the road whether we made the right move at short. All these new pitchers—Clement, Miller, Mantei, our old whipping boy Wells—weren't they all dinged up, only yesterday? Our pitching roster could be the in-patient list at a Newton-Wellesley rehab clinic by July.

But, hey, young Theo had brought us a title after 86 years without, and so: Trust in Theo. In Bill We Trust, for Mr. Belichick delivered unto us a third Super Bowl win in four campaigns during the recent Sox' off-season, and so In Bill We Trust—and, now, In Theo We Must.

That sure was exciting: The third Super Bowl win, Brady and Brewski and Two-way Brown in exultation. But as I say, for many of us New England-born-and-bred, it came in what is largely considered the Red Sox' off-season. Our Golden Boy quarterback, who's starring this weekend on Saturday Night Live (we own New York at the moment), complained to his dad that the Pats could be in the middle of a seven-game win streak, and the Globe would lead with a bit about the Sox moving the 40th man on their winter roster.

Johnny Damon got married in the off-season and the AC-DC front man sang at the wedding. It was very glitzy; Johnny has moved over from SI to People magazine and the cover of EW. He said he wants to be an actor one day, and no one doubts he will be. The Sox as World Champions are kind of the anti-Pats—Tom Terrific and a bunch of hardworking lunch-pail teammates. The Sox are cartoon characters and superheroes. Ortiz, Ramirez, Schilling: larger than life in personality and, in Curt's case, with an ego to match. Damon's everyone's darling. Varitek is like a Cooperstown statue of "Catcher" and, now, "Captain" too. Arroyo, who starred as a hard-rock singer at Peter Gammons' annual charity fundraiser in Boston in January—Arroyo and his cornrows, and now he's got a CD of Pearl Jam and Stone Temple Pilots covers coming out in July. Theo himself was on guitar that night: a Yalie GM rock star.

Everyone around this team is somebody. "Do you think," I mused to a friend as the Sox bandwagon kept gaining steam through January and February, the SI Sportsmen of the Year Award in the satchel, Schilling on FOX every night giving opinions on every issue from the Republican Party's the way to go to why the Steelers should cream the Patriots in Pittsburgh. (Curt bugged me more than a time or two during the off-season.) "Do you think that we're turning into one of those national teams? Like the Cowboys or Lakers or Yankees? I wonder how the Sox are playing to the folks in Kansas.

"Or is it still a New England thing?"

There was no clear answer to the question in spring training, though there were further hints. The Queer Eye for the Straight Guy guys visited Fort Myers, and remade Johnny, Bronson and three or four others (show to air in June.) That was the biggest news out of the camp, though a few smaller items were interesting: The Sox were dedicated to remaining forevermore in Fenway (great!) even as future renovations added seats here and there, and ticket prices—already baseball's highest—continued to escalate. Schilling wouldn't be ready for the opener in Yankee Stadium and Wells would start in his place. The rotation would set up so that Tim Wakefield, the 10-year vet—longest tenure on the team—would pitch the home opener at the Fens, on the mid-April day when the Sox would receive their rings. This pleased me no end. I feel proud like a parent (and fearful like a parent) whenever Wakefield toes the rubber and prepares to lob that flutterball of his. He's my favorite on the team, and has been for some time. More on Tim shortly.

In late March, all sorts of sonorous media drumbeating began. Apparently Stephen King had failed to clear the field, and there were a gazillion new Red Sox books coming out. (Mercenary opportunists!) There was a new Sox HBO documentary on reversing the curse, there was a new Sox feature film starring Drew and Jimmy and directed by the Farrellys (true fans, at least, those Providence boys). And there was, principally, the opening day bash at the Stadium approaching: Sunday night, April 3, nationwide, prime time. The players had barely finished their stretches, and it felt like October all over again.

I didn't go to that game. I feel no need to put myself through the Bronx sturm-und-drang again until I inevitably have to do so in the fall. I watched at home with Luci and the kids, bidding goodnight to the twins, who are four and a half now, in the first inning; Caroline, seven, in the second, and Luci, 29 (really!), in the third. Assessment of the drubbing? Well, by my lights, it wasn't much of a game, and I say that even while realizing that by Yankee lights a 9-2 blowout is a terrific way to open a season. But let's face it, the Sox played an April game. Wells looked like a 90-year-old fat guy with no evident desire to be pitching on a cold, raw night. Everyone in the lineup seemed to hit into a double-play or two. There was precious little spark in the World Champs, I felt, on the first day of their defense.

I amused myself during the debacle by parsing the commentary of Yanks broadcaster Michael Kay. His partner, the former great moundsman Jim Kaat, sees things clearly, but Kay views the world through pinstriped lenses. I particularly liked his take on a Giambi single to left. That's what they've been working on with him this spring, Michael averred: going the other way. And why might that be, Mikey? I asked silently as I waited for amplification. Might it be that Jason, now (by necessity) off the juice, weighs 140 pounds and the Yanks realize they must turn their erstwhile basher into a Punch-and-Judy hitter—or risk getting nothing at all out of him for all their wasted millions? Michael didn't mention the S word and, to my surprise, neither did Kitty.

But I must, since this early-season ramble is about the Red Sox and, therefore, about baseball—and, therefore again, about steroids. Everything about baseball is about steroids right now. My take is: I'm very glad the secret is out, and I hope things change. I can't understand how Mark McGwire was able to look the Maris brothers in the eye back when he was hitting 70, never mind pose with them, smiling. But then, I didn't understand it at the time—knowing what everyone in the sporting press already knew (but couldn't print without proof). I thought the Congressional hearings were just showboating as they loomed, but then found myself riveted by them when they finally happened. All that long, long day. I sat, entranced, as by a 1-1 game. I still can't believe the legislators didn't press Sosa further about that carefully worded opening statement put together by lawyers. He probably spoke truth, that he didn't take things that were banned by baseball, but that's because baseball wasn't banning things back then. What did he take, if anything? The suspicion continues to hang above them all, especially Bonds, and the whole affair is a shame, a shame on the game that Bud Selig allowed to happen by willfully looking away as balls flew and gate receipts soared. Please remember: When McGwire was found to be taking Andro in his big, big year, it wasn't illicit. Then Major League Baseball "studied" Andro in the off-season very quietly, one January or February day, Commissioner Selig announced that the investigation was "inconclusive." I.e.: Andro was okay, and McGwire's record was in no way tainted. Selig thought he could play that game then, and knows he is facing different pitching now. He's the worst kind of hypocrite.

Steroids on the Sox? Maybe. I'm sure there are 'roids, or human growth hormone, or good old-fashioned bennies being taken (the latter two still not tested for, and the next refuge for baseball scoundrels who are today decycling on their steroids programs). I was talking to Bill Leiderman, the owner of Mickey Mantle's on Central Park South, during his midday radio show that's broadcast from the restaurant, and he told me all the guys—the players—who come in for a drink say that pills are still a huge part of the game. "They need their pep."

I take some small solace in the knowledge that our big guys were big when they were small. What I mean is, Manny and David were physical specimens when they were 11 and 12, and so might have come by their enormous strength in a natural way. You don't have those alarming, Charles Atlas then-and-now photos that you have with Bonds, Giambi, McGwire. But do I think that none of our World Champions has taken steroids? No, I emphatically do not.

And that saddens me a bit. But, to me, this club has always been about team and community and home and family and New Englandm more than it's been about the individuals wearing the B-hats. I readily and happily acknowledge Ted and Yaz and Fisk and Luis and their legacies. I applaud the happy, wacky stars who lifted last year's team, and thus lifted us all. And if one of them tests positive I'll call him a crumbum and call for his ouster. But we'll still have our Red Sox.

A rationalization? Sure, but there you have it.

Back to the Stadium: Games Two and Three were pretty good—in fact, really fine for April. And they were the first evidence that the Sox and Yanks were ready to tango again, in most entertaining fashion, in '05. Has baseball ever had consecutive seasons of extended theater as these two have provided since April of 2003? I can't imagine it has. And if we've got six more months of that in prospect, well, God bless us.

Look at those two games this way: The Yanks won one, we won one, both were decided in the ninth, and there were subplots. The question of whether Pavano is better than Clement is yet unanswered and certainly not important at this point. Whether any of these new relievers is the goods is not yet important. Whether Manny is moving his feet too much is unimportant. Manny will be fine. A-Rod's error that was so crucial to the Bosox win? It was sweet, but I can't imagine our bete noire will be booting the ball in September.

Is it important that in a three-game series Giambi and Jeter got hit a collective five times by Sox pitching, and that Jeter visited the hospital (after a clearly unintentional conk on the head by Timlin)? Sure—that's very important. It will echo, down the line. And is it important that Mariano blew two more saves, getting a win and a loss, for four blown in his last four ops and six in his last 11 against the Sox? That's really important.

There are theories on this: That Mo's getting old, that the stats against Boston are somehow misleading. I subscribe to the idea that the Sox, and no one else, have figured him out. By the end of the series in the Stadium, Mariano had faced the Red Sox 29 times since opening day of '03. His ERA against them was 2.89 (1.38 against all other clubs) and his strikeout-to-walk ratio was 2.2 (5.9 against the rest of baseball). The Sox all stand well back in the box against Rivera now, and the lefties are opening up to better catch the cutter. All the hitters are allowing the borderline cutters to dive out of the strike zone if that's what it wants to do; they're the only ones in the league with the confidence to show patience against Rivera. Mariano knows they've got a strategy with him, and he approaches the Red Sox, now, with uncharacteristic hesitation. This story will play out intriguingly this season.

I didn't share all that with Stan on the morning Metro North commute to Manhattan after the first series ended. We're too prickly with one another about Yankees-Sox matters to wonder aloud whether Mo's getting skittish, or Wells is through for good. By and large, we're polite and considerate with one another as we share our baseball notions. In fact, I was surprised Stan went as far as he did. "Well, there you go," he said. "Season's started. All slates are clean."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"No champs anymore. I always felt when the Yanks were winning every year that once the first pitch was thrown, there were no more world champs. Everyone's equal."

"Really?" I asked. I did not pursue this. I did not say, "Bull." I did not suggest that Stan was full of it. I did not define for Stan the meaning of the word "reigning"—as in Reigning World Champions. And I did not say, "Not only are we still baseball's champions, but the Pats are world champs till next winter, too, and they did it by going through Pittsburgh—in Pittsburgh (the Steelers are Stan's football team). I let it lie.

I didn't go there because Stan had been a pretty good sport lately. He had even come to the launch party at Mango Cafe for my book, in which—he was well aware—he's something of a foil. He had sat there smiling as I'd read aloud some of the Stan-versus-me parts. And of course, Stan knew how the book ended, and still he came to the party and back to the house afterwards for a beer. He didn't buy a copy, mind you, but he did congratulate me.

The book's called "Our Red Sox: A Story of Family, Friends, and Fenway," and underlying the narrative are a few themes: generational traditions, fathers and mothers and sons and daughters, and this idea that the Red Sox are not, in essence, a baseball team but are, rather, New England—like beans, cod, the Swan Boats, a martini at the Ritz, finnan haddie at LockeOber's, the sunrise from Cadillac Mountain, the day's last run at Mad River Glen, a jog around Block Island. And now I was wondering, even as the book hit the stores, whether this last premise was being rendered wholly false by the great fame and . . . well, transcendence of the Red Sox as currently constituted. Were we losing "Our Red Sox?"

There was a perfect opportunity to investigate this question just a few days ago—this being, obviously, the home opener in Fenway. The tickets were being scalped for thousands, but I had a way to get into the Fens, and so did Jane. In an instance like this, if you can, you must. We could, so we did.

Monday morning was brilliantly sunny as we pointed the Honda north and put Westchester County in the rearview mirror. Jane and I did some catching up—Luci, Steve, kids, opinions on Pedro, who had pitched a two-hitter the day before, beating Smoltz—and then trained our thoughts on Fenway. It wasn't hard. When we transitioned to the Mass Pike via the toll booths, there was a large metal sign saluting the New England Patriots, World Champions, as we approached, and then the Boston Red Sox, World Champions, as we exited. We made a pit stop near Framingham and everyone—everyone—milling about at the McDonald's and Dunkin' Donuts counters was wearing Sox garb—a hat, a sweatshirt, some with the world champs information and some proudly antique. One guy wore a Pats jersey, but looked like he knew he had made a mistake. We left the rest area and returned to the highway and almost instantly spotted a fire-engine-red Mini-Cooper with white racing stripes. The entwined red sox were emblazoned on the passenger-side door and, as we passed, we noticed the team's insignia dominant on the front hood. The license plate (Connecticut) read BEATNY.

We cruised into town, and marveled again, even in the thickish morning traffic, how much smaller Boston was than New York. Jane and I are agreed that we can't go home again—we've been too long in New York, more than 25 years apiece—but, God, we love it up there. We parked under the Common, and then strolled up the wide median of Comm Ave. The trees and earliest daffodils were abloom, and all was right with the world. We were the reigning world champs.

We circled Fenway, picked up our credentials, and went inside. We visited the press box, but neither of us—too long in the game—enjoy the press box anymore, particularly on days when the game matters. The press box means a line at the buffet, watching the TV, cynicism. We didn't drive up here for that. On days like this, you need to be among the fans.

We made our way out to right field, and up to the section they've erected out there atop the grandstand roof. There are tables, standing room, a big bar, a food court with everything from really good sausage sandwiches to really wonderful New England clam chowder. It's a small, elbow-to-elbow party out there, and on a cool day when the sun would bear down on right-center the whole game, it was the perfect place to be.

Even as we took our stances in standing room, the ceremony began. There was to be a solid hour of pomp and circumstance before the first pitch, the twin centerpieces being the awarding of World Series rings and the hoisting of the World Champs banner. In short centerfield several musicians from the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Boston Pops were arrayed, and to kick things off they played some Fens faves like "Sweet Caroline." Then the rings were bore in from left field by wounded members of the military—real heroes, not the baseball kind. Later, after receiving his ring, Trot Nixon would make sure to go down the line in right and shake the hand of each of these men and women—one of the many small grace notes you could pick up on this day.

The Yankees, class act that they have always been under Joe Torre, watched all of this from the dugout, and not one of them budged when the Sox started walking the red carpet to get their gold. The manager had told no one they had to watch, but the Yanks paid the Sox due respect. Yes, sure, there was an aspect of they-have-what-we-want-and-so-let's watch-to-whet-our appetite to it, but by and large it was a noble gesture. The Sox, in another nice twist, were introduced in the order in which they longest-ago signed with the team, and so the retired Ellis Burks, a rookie with the team 18 seasons ago and an aging vet who rejoined the club in '04, went first, followed by Wakefield, whose tenure stands at ten years. Wakefield kills the Yankees but is a man of sterling character. Every single Yankee applauded him. I was happy to see the assistant massage therapist and assistant visiting clubhouse manager (maybe the toughest job at Fenway?) get their rings.

"You know what's great about today," I said to Jane, "Everyone here's a Sox fan. The playoffs, regular-season games, all these Yankee fans come. There are fights, there's tension. But there's no way a Yankee fan would want to watch this. Everyone in the park is a Sox fan." I mused to that, no matter how big this Red Sox thing got, the team still did belong to us—the folks here in Fenway and our grandmothers watching on NESN in Bootbay Harbor, Keene, Cheshire, Storrs, Woonsocket, Chelmsford and everywhere else.

Another reflection: The calendar said April 11, 2005 but the day, as it unfolded in Fenway, belonged as firmly to 2004 as Ronald Reagan's funeral, Shrek2, the Presidential election and the moment that Dave Roberts stole second base in the ninth inning of Game Four. Roberts said as much, afterwards, in explaining his presence on Monday: "This is the last hurrah for all of us. This is something I don't want to forget." Roberts, a half-season Sox, plays for San Diego now, but had elected to be in Beantown rather than in Chicago on Monday, helping the Padres in their 1-0 win. And it was interesting: On this peculiar April 1lth, Roberts—and Curtis Leskanic and Derek Lowe and other bygone friends who wore Sox jerseys and blue jeans during the ceremony, were much more a part of the team than, say, John Halama or David Wells, dressed head to toe like ballplayers. Roberts, ever smiling—just like last fall—received a huge, sustained ovation for that one stolen base.

Wells, when he was introduced later as part of this year's iteration, was greeted genially by some in the stands, and ignored by others. As I saw Wells tip his hat to Mr. Torre from the field, it reinforced the notion that we're not sure just yet how we feel about Wells. Wells, Halama, Mantei, Clement: let's see how they do. Roberts we love and always will (and the betting here is, he'll be back one day). We love (No-Need-to-Panic, We've Got) Leskanic, unlikely winner of that pivotal Game Four. He's out of baseball now, but he's a Red Sox forever. So is Cabrera, who on April 11th did not fly to Boston but knocked in the winning run for his new club, the California (I reject that ridiculous new name) Angels, in the 10th inning of a game in Texas. I'm sure Cabrera is upset that Theo chose to sign the other Columbian all-star shortstop, Renteria, to the long-term deal, rather than himself. If it's any solace, Orlando: We're not sure yet how we feel about Renteria. We know how we feel about you.

In the crowd, particularly on jerseys worn by young kids, there was still the name of another shortstop who played for the Sox in '04: Garciaparra. He was the face of this team for so long, then grew so despondent when shown no love in the off-season between 2003 and 2004, as Theo pursued Alex Rodriguez. Nomar earned a ring last year, but he stayed in Chicago to play in the game that Roberts skipped, notching a single in three at bats in the loss, raising his average to .161 (four hits, all one-baggers). I wish Nomar had come. He still has friends here. Pokey Reese does too, but he wasn't present, either. Kapler, as I said, gets a pass; he's playing in Japan. Pedro?

Well, that was one of the questions of the day? Had Pedro really told the Sox they could keep their stinking ring? C'mon Pedro. They tried for you, they tried to keep you. Many of us think they tried too hard. Theo barely picked up the phone for Derek, but took a busman's holiday to the Dominican to sweeten the pot for the great Pedro.

LaGuardia's right by Shea, Pedro: just hop on the Shuttle.

But no, Pedro was glaringly absent on the glittering day. When reliever Anastacio Martinez, a quarter-year Red Sox, was announced to receive his ring, everyone cheered, and the guy next to me said to his friends, "Well, there's one Martinez who appreciates what's going on here."

Pedro would have enjoyed himself, with his great mates Ortiz and Ramirez. All this hugging and high-fiving and elbow bumping: There's no one better at this stuff than those three, as the dugout shots all last season proved.

Pedro, you're as quirky as they come, and I think if you had come back to the Sox your sense of privilege would have raged ever further out of control—but, please know, we missed you on Monday.

And then that thought passed, for nothing could dampen this day, this glorious day. Everything about the ceremony was pitch-perfect. James Taylor's did as nice a job with "America the Beautiful" as anyone could possibly do, now that Ray Charles has passed. With the first few bars of the Terry Cashman ditty commissioned for the occasions—the one with all of the bygone Sox' names, I thought, uh-oh, here comes the cheese. But then I nioticed how much the teenage girl next to me was enjoying it, and I went with the flow. When these oldsters themselves—Doerr, Pesky, Dom Dimag, Yaz, Lynn, Rice, Oil Can Boyd, Dewey Evans . . . when they all converged in centerfield as Cashman sang their praises, well, I thought the whole thing was brilliant. Pesky and Yaz pulled the rope to raise the banner, and that, too, was just. "Yaz has put on a few pounds," I said to Jane. "All that's missing is Ted."

The old players made their way to the infield and greeted the new. The band played on. The Yankees stayed and watched, courteous guests. On the message board the Sox asked everyone to bid farewell to the Pope and . . . to Dick Radatz, "the Monster," our great closer from the '60s who had recently died after a fall at his home in Easton, Mass. Then Joe Castiglione, one of our broadcasters, said it was time to turn the page, and the ceremony suddenly was about opening day, not last October. The introduction of the Yankees had that one hysterical, rather sophisticated bit of sarcasm when, after Randy Johnson was announced to a show of boos, Mariano was introduced and the crowd cheered and cheered. Mo got the gag and laughed heartily. Who will be smiling in the autumn?

After all the introductions, Jane and I decided to move a little further out to right field. Just before we did a rock star-type showed up with something of an entourage, and the party was shown to its seats in the top row. "Who is it?" people whispered. And finally came the answer" "It's Leskanic!" Fans started posing with him and taking snapshot of his humongous ring, which he had only moments ago been awarded on the field. Jane said to me, "Give him a book." Sure, I thought, that would be a nice gesture. I pulled from my bag a copy of "Our Red Sox," personalized it with my red-ink pen, and handed it to Leskanic, saying, "Hey, thanks for last year." He was enthusiastic in accepting the small gift. Only as I was walking away did I remember that the only mention of Leskanic in the book comes when I'm walking away from Fenway after Game Four and I remark to my friend Jake, "If you tell me Leskanic comes in tonight and wins, I say to you, 'Well, then, it went twelve—and we'd already burned everyone else.' "

Oops.

The breeze was blowing in; not an auspicious sign for a knuckleballer, who likes the wind to push back at his ball, energizing its dance. But nothing could go wrong today. Wakefeild was sensational—the Yankees' one run was unearned—while the ever-whining Mussina ("I had Bellhorn struck out! Everyone knew it!") was way off his feed. A-Rod contributed a useful error, leading to three of the Bosox' eight, and was later mocked for making an easy play on a pop-up. He said after the game that he's becoming something of a "cult hero" in Boston, and that he doesn't want to be one. Well, he shouldn't have said that aloud—and by the way, tough. Alex would go 2 for 15 in this series, and his history in the Sox-Yanks drama is now an eight-month horrorshow.

Jane and I had a couple of beers and a bunch of peanuts and we couldn't have been happier. In the seventh inning two fans who'd been sitting at one of the tables left early (can't fathom that), and we took their places. These were great, great seats—well they should be at $110 a pop—with a regal view of the entire field. Across the table from us were a cute young girl with braces on her teeth and a pink Bosox cap covering her strawberry blonde hair, and her uncle. These were Rachel and Derek from Lancaster, Mass., and this was a special day for them: It was Rachel's 12th birthday and so she had received license to skip school and accompany Uncle Derek to Fenway where, beginning much earlier in the day, they had stood in a line that stretched from Gate C to Gate E—the throng of hopefuls trying for date-of-sale standing-room tickets. Rachel and Derek won the lottery, then won again when the folks at the table headed out to beat the traffic.

"Are you lifelong Sox fans?"

"Of course," said Derek. Rachel smiled and nodded; lifelong for her didn't imply all of the years of angst and woe suffered by us other three.

"Have you seen 'Fever Pitch' yet?"

"No," said Rachel, "but I want to."

"Who's your favorite on the team?"

"Manny," she said sweetly.

"Are you going to miss Pedro?"

"Ummmm," she considered. "Not really. He was good, but I think he sometimes had a bad attitude."

He certainly did, my dear.

I was content that the Red Sox legacy was being handed down to a bright young generation of fans, fans who would carry the (now, championship) banner forward. I was pleased and proud to inscribe a copy of "Our Red Sox" to Rachel on her birthday, and honored when her response was, "Wow."

The ballgame was soon done—our opening day rout to match theirs—but our day was not. Jane and I made our way down the stands and out onto the field, where we chatted briefly with Gammons, a friend we hadn't seen in years. I thanked him for the foreword to the book, and we chatted about the Bosox for a bit. I asked whether Derek Lowe had come out from the coast just for this.

"Yeah," said Peter, "A red-eye. Of course, Derek never gets to bed before seven anyway. But he was a big part of all this. I don't think anyone enjoyed themselves more today than D-Lowe, Roberts and Leskanic—and they're not with the team anymore." I cringed slightly, wondering if Leskanic had reached page 156.

"See you, Peter."

Heading, finally for the exit, we noticed a guy signing an autograph beneath the stands. It was Dennis "Oil Can" Boyd, of all people, one of the team's all-time great flakes. He couldn't have been nicer, signed some stuff for our kids, and I gave him a book. Before I did I thought hard, and recalled that the only mention of Oil Can was a positive one about how my dad always enjoyed the team's "characters"—Spaceman, the Can, Hawk Harrelson.

We bought some souvenirs at the Twins' store, then headed for the Common Garage and back out to Wellesley, where Mr. Bachman had whiskey sours waiting. Next morning we headed back to New York at the first glimmer, listening to Callahan and Dennis parse the marvelous doings at Fenway on their morning show on 'EEI—till they faded out near Hartford, letting us know we were back in the Evil Empire's sphere of influence.

I watched the Wednesday and Thursday games from home. I've no idea why Schilling returned for the 6th in an April game. What was Francona thinking? The big guy was done. And, then, Thursday night: bombs off Johnson, the blown lead, the bad umping, Varitek's triple, the fan and Sheffield, 53 pitches by Foulke, bases jammed in the ninth, 'Tek's great catch to end it. Is this April?

These teams are just unbelievable: six games together, 3-3, three of the games thrillers and two of them crowd-satisfying wins in the home opener. Now, since '03's beginning, they've hooked up 58 times, each game a playoff-intensity fray, and the Sox lead 30-28. Each team has a seven-game ALCS title to its credit. And, oh yes, I almost forgot: We have a World Championship.

They don't meet again till Memorial Day weekend, and the players are happy about that. "I'm tried of us beating up each other," an exhausted Embree said last night. "It's time to play the rest of the season."

Right you are, Alan, and off we go.

Or, rather, here they come—our favorite punching bags, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, with the old genius Lou Pinella grousing about how we have good hitters because we pay them, and t'ain't fair!. Hard cheese, Lou. You have my deepest and sincerest sympathies. Now if your bargain-basement club will just oblige by laying down on Friday (which they did), do so again on Saturday (ditto) and then succumb to the mastery of Mr. Wakefield on Sunday (he was nothing short of magnificent from frames three through six in Sunday's 3-1 win)—that'll do just fine and we can call this thing a proper streak. Which it was and which we did.

A quick note, before summing up, about Wakefield: I read, on the morning after he beat the Yanks in the opener, a fascinating piece in the Times about how, last October, Mr. Torre, after dropping Game Seven, did not call his wife or Steinbrenner or anyone else but, glum as could be, punched the four digits for the Visiting Clubhouse at Yankee Stadium and asked to speak to Wake. "I'm not happy," he told him, "but I'm happy for you." Some might simply take this as sympathy for the guy who had given up the climactic 2003 homer to Aaron Boone after, as Torre admitted, doing nothing but beating the Yanks throughout the entire series. But there's even more to it than that. I remembered filing away, mentally, an earlier anecdote from the '03 set-to. Pedro had shoved Zimmer to the ground during the famous melee in Fenway and, later that evening, Zim had been released from the hospital and was dining at a nice Boston restaurant with his wife and the Torres. Suddenly, a bottle of wine appeared, sent over from Table X. There sat Wakefield, who gave a small hi-sign as if to say, "Sorry—from the Sox." A class-act, an old-schooler, a charitable guy, and now with three solid outings in the new campaign and more career strikeouts for the Red Sox, after Sunday's game, than even Cy Young (only Clemens and Pedro are ahead of him on the all-time team list). Tim, 38 now, said he was honored to have been with the club long enough to achieve such a milestone.

Wake: This fan hopes Theo re-ups you, and you're with us much longer.

While the Sox were starting to soar, New York was getting bounced around Baltimore like Yanks in Bucs' clothing. I think George started working on his now-famous five-sentence email about how deeply disappointed he was in his hyper-well-paid underachievers, oh, maybe around the third inning—when the exorbitant Kevin Brown, he who lost Game Seven to the Sox in the Stadium by giving up many early runs, had done it again and trailed the birds, already, 6-0. The Boss' explosion was expected and expectedly ripe; he really can get his point across, when he has six innings to craft a press release for quick release by mouthpiece Rubenstein. If you were a Bosox fan, few things could be as satisfying as Sunday night's SportsCenter.

Unless it was Monday.

Patriots Day is New England's greatest day, year-in and year-out. The region must share Christmas and Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July with all sorts of other Americans, but it absolutely owns Patriots Day: The battles in Lexington and Concord (it was on April 19, 1775, that the shot heard 'round the world signaled gametime for the Minutemen), the Boston Marathon, the whole mishigas. Now, then: There are many ways to "do" Patriots Day in Massachusetts. You can do the battle reenactments or the parade. You can really do the marathon or simply watch the marathon. You can do 18 holes or you can just do a cookout, Samuel Adams the requisite ale.

You can, of course, do the Bosox game—special starting time of 11:05 a.m. so the fans can subsequently pour out into Kenmore Square and cheer on the runners, who started at noon and are then just a mile from the finish line.

I, who grew up a mere musket shot from Concord and a short march from Lexington, have done the day in all of these ways, even unto running from Hopkinton-to-the-Pru one year as a bandit. I must've seen ten Pats-day Sox games from the bleachers in the 1970s and '80d; it seemed our wacky Bill Lee was always losing on Patriots Day, and repairing to the Eliot Lounge way in advance of cocktail hour.

My point is: Never did I feel more a New Englander than I did on Patriots Day, outside in the sunshine, each and every year. And so there it was Monday: guns cracklin' in the eerie pink dawn in Lexington, Curt Schilling finishing his pancakes and driving into town from Medfield in the SUV, even as his wife, Shonda, headed up to Hopkinton to run the race and raise $50,000 for their charity; fans heading every which way—Concord, the sidewalk on Heartbreak Hill, the Fens; the game getting under way; Manny hitting another monster homer (third in three games) to stake Curt to a 5-0 lead; Francona leaving the big guy in for 117 pitches (it's April, Terry!); Manny dropping two in the outfield then flashing that big smile when the crowd mocked him a la A-Rod (he's out new Bill Lee); Manny adding a disputed homer (a classically wacky Pats' Day game, for sure); Catherina Ndereba cruising to her fourth marathon win, first-ever female to do that in Boston, and Hailu Negussie winning the 109th men's race; tributes all over the place to local legend Johnny Kelley, who died last October at age 97, who won Boston twice, was second seven times and, more important still, ran this darned thing 61 times. (I ran alongside him for a mile, back when.)

When the smoke had cleared, the Bosox had won 12-7, the laurel wreaths were in place on the champion runners' crowns, the musketeers were hard by the bar at the Colonial Inn in Concord, and I had had a crucial question answered for me. The Sox are still New England's Team. Even if others choose to adopt them, they cannot appropriate them. They are so much a part of the intricate weave of New England that to separate them would be to destroy them, and a part of the region's fabric, too. They cannot grow "bigger" than the foot race or April 19 or the Swan Boats or the tides that wash against the Great Beach on the Cape's seaside shore. If they ever did, they wouldn't be what they are. They wouldn't be Our Red Sox.

• Robert Sullivan
• The author of a new book on his beloved team wonders whether, as reigning world champs, they remain New England's team