Atomic bombs, carcinogenic threats, the futility of state, mechanical efficiency--the entire decadence of human life in 20th century America--whittles reality into an apocalypse; and America needs and loves her tragic heroes more than ever.

Ever since small-town American families abandoned their farms so they could become appendages to machines in the city--experiencing at the same time the isolation and overshadowing loneliness of the city--this country has found her heroes in professional sports. Where participation in daily physical activity once precluded mere observations, most Americans today experience the joy of movement through the vicarious thrill. Many become heroes only in their hopes and dreams.

Forget about your troubles and your cares. Go watch a ball game. And somehow, baseball is the easiest sport--excuse me, pastime--in which to lose yourself. It is not the national sport, as any good baseball man will tell you, it's the national pastime.

"Baseball's more grass, passivity...time," number 37 of the Boston Red Sox says. It can go on forever. No clocks. Forget about the time, and watch a ball game.

And every spring all the fans in Boston stand in lines that stretch sometimes for blocks. They needle through thickening mobs of vendors, salesmen, religious prophets, politicians and pushers which gather around Fenway Park like bees to a hive.

The team is their double-identity. It is the only event in town which can take them out of time, back to the hot, dusty days spent on weedy, glass-splintered sandlots--even to an America where people never had to punch in or punch out for lunch.

But there is something very exceptional about Boston baseball fans, as any New Yorker will note. The Red Sox boast the second highest attendance in baseball and have always been the biggest attraction in Boston, despite winning only one World Series and five pennants in their history. They are always flawed, never quite able to transcend the whims of fate and injury. Despite their competence, they have arguments, make stupid business deals and stupid strategical decisions. They have been accused of racism, choking and mediocrity down the stretch. But every year the fans keep coming.

"It's a vicarious thrill they get out of the game," number 37 said. "They have expectations of players, and you have to be careful not to let their expectations affect your playing because then you'd be negating your principle in life because you're playing for them and not for yourself." Number 37 was speaking during spring training last March.

"It's a kind of reverse psychology," he said, but if you try too hard for the dangling carrot out in front of you, all you do is spend your energy too fast too soon; and when it comes time to get the carrot, you can't do it. You just gotta learn to have patience," he explained.

Number 37 is William Francis Lee III, alias "Spaceman." During spring training, Lee was healthy and "hot," entering his ninth year with the Red Sox. He is the second most successful southpaw in the team's history.

At the time, Lee's words, unbeknownst to him or his much-maligned manager, were more than prophetic; they defined the basic, time-hankering flaw of the Boston Red Sox: They are an obsessive team, so narrowly focused on winning an elusive pennant that they are too inflexible to cope with sudden injuries, slumps and clubhouse conflicts. They are tragic heroes in a city full of tragic heroes. And so, for Boston baseball fans, the Red Sox are true heroes, the perfect cast of real-life drama.

"We win 97, 98, maybe 99 games a season and we still don't win a pennant," Don Zimmer moaned after the 161st game of the season. "What can we do about it?"

"You could have been pitching Bill Lee," I said to him.

Zimmer's paunchy face contracted and his eyes dropped to his feet as he pulled his pants up. He had just towelled off after a cold shower. "I don't want to talk about him. I don't know anything about it. Go ask somebody else," he said very, very drily.

So I asked Lee.