Winter came early for me this year.

While the season doesn't officially begin until Sunday, I have felt nothing but its cold since a sad night in late October.

The night the 1986 baseball season died.

The moment Jesse Orosco's final pitch landed safely in Gary Carter's glove, green grass began to brown and snow began to fall.

Winter had come.

After two months of this bitter chill, I again needed the feeling of the roaring crowd, the soggy hot dogs, and the fresh scent that is unique to the game of baseball.

Two weeks ago, I was supposed to go to the Gardner Museum. I had a paper to write about some paintings there.

But something happened on the way to the Gardner. I saw the sign across the street from the ballpark: "Boston Red Sox: 1986 AL Champions. 1987 Tickets on Sale December 6."

At first, I thought there might not be a line. I mean, I knew there would be people outside the ticket office when it opened at 9 a.m.--but I was going to get there around noon, and by that time they would be gone.

I was wrong. As I came up over the bridge from Kenmore Square, I saw people. Lots of people.

The Gardner Museum would have to wait for another day.

When I took my place in the back of the line, it was 10 minutes before noon. I was standing more than 200 yards from the ticket office. This was crazy.

I was crazy.

All through the afternoon, I kept trying to convince myself to leave. It was freezing. I had a paper to write. There would still be plenty of tickets if I came back on Monday.

But I couldn't do it. I needed those tickets in my hands, as badly as a wino needs a bottle.