In Boston, morning baseball is every bit as April as daffodils and income taxes.
Each year, on the third Monday of April, residents in these parts declare a Federal holiday called Patriots Day. And on the morning of that third Monday of April, while the real world is hard at work, a baseball game is played in a faraway magic kingdom known as Fenway Park. For the remainder of the long season ahead, it will be the only morning start on the schedule.
The tradition is as old as time itself, assuming you chronicle time's evolution from the perspective of a Red Sox fan who pegs the Big Bang to 1903 when the World Series was created. Which, indeed, did come first: the battles of Lexington and Concord that began the American Revolution, or the first morning game played on the 19th of April in the storybook season of 1903 when the Red Sox — then known as the Americans — went on to win the first World Series and so begin the custom reveled to this day?
To a Bostonian, the question is moot. After all, what good is freedom if you cannot enjoy it?
Of course, no one is exactly hurting for freedom up here. During this stretch of year in which the typical American worker must span New Year's to Memorial Day without a break, Bostonians get a few pit-stops along the way. With every able-bodied man and woman working on, overseeing, or suing the $15 billion Big Dig project, prescribing to the governmental holiday schedule is a spoil of war.
There's Martin Luther King Day and Presidents Day, but there's also Bunker Day, which pays homage to St. Patrick under secular cover. In this heavily Catholic region, Good Friday is a union must. Patriots Monday makes the perfect complement to a four-day weekend, and what better way to spend it than by playing baseball?
And play baseball they do — 111 times in the 104 Patriots Days since 1903, including 26 doubleheaders. Last Monday's win pushed those crimson-trimmed stars of spring to 63-48 all-time, 57-39 at home. Only twice since 1967 have the Red Sox not hosted a morning Patriots Day game — in 1995 during the carryover strike and in 1987 when the MLBPA succeeded in pushing the start to noon.
No matter how ingrained it is to the culture of this region, baseball at 11:05 in the morning will always be disagreeable to me, especially on a Monday morning. In fact, baseball at any time in April is disagreeable.
Nonetheless, I'm in the minority on this one. I've had jobs that required my attendance on the holiday. I'm in one now. You cannot get anything done. Everyone has the radio on or spends the day clicking the refresh button on ESPN.com. It is hard enough for a guy holding out on baseball in Red Sox Nation without it being dragged into my mornings, too.
Some time before three o'clock on this Monday afternoon, a loud roar rose from the floor. Second baseman Mark Loretta had just won the game with a walk-off two-run homer. One of my bosses called me into his office to give me his tickets for the next night's game. Realizing that offers rejected in April become offers non-tendered in September, I took the tickets.
At 7:05 on a Tuesday evening in mid-April, I stepped into September.
Fenway Park was abuzz with autumn energy. Ushers chased my son away from his autograph pursuits along both first- and third-base fences. By the time we took our seats, all others were full. A sell-out crowd had gathered for this early season contest against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.
Nervous energy buzzed throughout the grandstands almost immediately. The manual scoreboard at the base of the Green Monster reported a four-run Yankees first in Toronto. After that initial shock, a collective elation built as the Blue Jays' score was repeatedly taken down and replaced with an ever-higher tally.
The game at hand was, however, still cause for consternation. During the first six innings, junk-balling Casey Fossum held Boston hitters to one run with his 50-mph ephus pitch. One didn't even register on the radar gun. The operator may have wanted to spare Casey the embarrassment of the reading.
Hits and runs did finally come and the home team took the lead. Everyone was on their feet screaming for all 34 pitches in the top of the ninth. When center fielder Adam Stern sealed victory with a sliding catch and the manual scoreboard showed Toronto holding a five-run lead in the eighth, the crowds departed happily for the exits to tip a few cars.
My son and I followed the street running behind the right field bleachers leading to our parking lot, but temporary rails that held a three-deep crowd at bay obstructed our path. We had come upon the players' exit. As my car sat in the very rear of the lot, we decided to watch for a bit.
One by one, valets delivered new Explorers, Navigators, and Hummers to the curb. Their celebrity drivers in turn made brief but requisite public appearance before slipping behind tinted windows as the crowd bellowed out their names: 'Willie Mo' ... 'Keith' ... 'Papi'. Even though several cars were still awaiting their drivers, security removed the rails and the throngs dispersed.
By this time, our lot was nearly empty. We hit the road for home. I tuned into the local sports talk show where the hosts were entertaining potential pitching rotations for the playoffs.
I rolled down the window and took in downtown Boston. The April air felt refreshing.
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