I was a baseball addict and I didn't even know it.

So I stayed. I was there when they let the next big group into the ticket office. I was there when the sun went behind the buildings. I was there when the woman I stood next to for three hours gave up and left, like many around me.

Then, around 3:30 p.m., the ticket manager opened up the gates to Fenway Park. Everyone in line at that time would get a ticket. We walked under the gates and saw them slam shut behind us.

It was a perfect baseball junkie's dream: there I was, locked inside Fenway. If I leaned over far enough, I could even see a few of the box seats, still the same red color they were a few months earlier.

The ticket manager handed out coffee stirrers. Then he passed out bags of cookies. It was then that I first realized I hadn't eaten all day. It didn't matter.

People got Red Sox stationery, Roger Clemens "K"-cards, schedules, applications for media guides and video yearbooks.

In short, everything you always wanted from a baseball team. Except tickets.

But the crowd remained friendly. We talked about the Red Sox, the Celtics, the Patriots, the Bruins and then the Red Sox again. After a few hours in line, I didn't wan't to hear another Oil Can, Buckner or Stanley joke for the rest of my life.

The rumors flying around made everybody nervous. There were no more tickets for Opening Day. Tickets for all of the Yankees games were at a limit of two to a customer. Larry Bird hurt his (hand, ankle, knee, you name it) in the game the night before. People were tense.

It wasn't until 5:30 p.m. that I finally got into the main office and took my place at one of the seven lines. I found out the comforting truth: there were seats for the opener, and customers could purchase up to six Yankees tix per game.

At 6:15 p.m., a 10-year-old boy came into the office and approached his mother, who had been waiting in line all day. He told her that his team had won its basketball game, that Vinny Testaverde had won the Heisman Trophy and that Army had defeated Navy that afternoon.

It became clear that I had just wasted my day entire day standing in line. And even this began to give me trouble: the human body was not designed to stand up for seven hours without relief.

But the end was near.

At precisely 6:37 p.m., I stepped up to a ticket window. The man staring back at me looked weary. I wonder what he thought of me.

Before I knew it, the ordeal was over. Just a check from my checkbook, and the tickets were mine.