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.

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.

I looked one last time at the tickets, just to make sure they were all there. Three for Friday, April 10, Opening Day vs. Toronto. Two apiece for Friday through Sunday, May 8-10, vs. California. They were all there.

I said goodbye to my newly made friends still in line, and I cut out the side door. Stuffing the tickets into my pocket, I let out a whoop.

People outside gave me funny looks. I didn't care, for I was a battered but triumphant warrior.

Was it worth it? Were nine tickets to baseball games four months away worth wasting an entire day?

Probably not.

But baseball is a magical sport. Every one of us has fantasized about being on the mound, or at the plate, or in the field in the middle of that crucial game that will decide the pennant.

It is also a game of eternal optimism. The Boston Red Sox have thrived on that optimism for 68 years, ever since that last World Series victory in 1918.

After an ending like last year's, optimism is a must for Red Sox fans as well. That's why I waited in line, and that's why 2000 other people did too.

So if it wasn't worth it, would I still do it again?

You bet.

Because every time during the next few months when it snows or freezes, all I have to do is open my desk drawer and see those nine tickets sitting there and I'm fine.

Because April 10 will be here sooner than you think.

So to hell with winter. Let's just make spring training a little bit longer this year.