Appearances can be deceiving.

I stretched my legs over recently emptied seats, eased my body backwards, tossed my face in the fresh sunshine, closed my eyes.

Just lay there, in the thinning jamboree.

Crushed?

Through half-shut lids I watched concerned friends, milling crowds, and kind of laughed to see them eyeing me. Through wide-open ears I heard the half-hearted "Sox stink" jokes, barriers against the pain of opening day losses.

A couple of "cheer ups" floated my way, masking carefully-disguised exhortations to hurry up, to get up, to catch the T.

Disconsolate?

I chuckled inwardly.

Or maybe just smiled, but the kind of smile with no social consequence. The kind that doesn't care if anyone sees the imaginary upturned lips--that exists as an inward show of pure happiness.

The scoreboard in center melted away.

No more K.C. 011 000 060.

No more BOSTON 100 010 000.

Everyone kept clucking. An eternity of Red Sox failure. Generations cursed. Cluck, cluck.

And all the while, I was floating in a baseball-induced, spring-scented heaven.

Opening day became weeks, months, years. My mind flitted through time, measured by seasons, defined by baseball cards and doubleheaders and static-filled radio broadcasts on WTIC-Hartford.