The '75 Series was the biggest effort, trying so hard to keep myself awake during the sixth game. Trying to hide the blurted, sleepy giggles that would alert my parents to the presence of an over-tired nine-year-old.

Fisk's homer was the closest I ever came, I guess, to the experience of actually winning, winning it all, but I continue to find exhilaration in endless possiblility.

Realization is frightening.

What would become of an entire geo-philosophical region, a lifestyle founded on eternal quest, if the Red Sox were ever to win for real?

Inconceivable bliss, but finite bliss. Linked to a specific season, tied to specific heroes.

Far better, at least for now, simply to lie in Fenway and let the infinite hopes and memories of endless summer days wash over me.

"Don't be sad," my friends say, so I stand up and put on the outward smile again, as if I had finally stoically accepted the 8-2 opening day loss that deep inside seems so insignificant in the proverbial grand scheme of things.

There's something that opening-day losses can't take away, that comes the first time you can lie back in the sun and feel as timeless as the sport itself.