There were a few horrible days during the past nine months when I forgot about the Red Sox. I tried to keep their memory alive by wearing the team cap almost every day, but words like "Fehr," and "Harrington" (and even "thesis") made me forget. But Wednesday, all I thought of was the Red Sox as I watched them pummel the evil Twins and start their triumphant march to the World Series.

One of my friends was disappointed in me for jumping enthusiastically into baseball so quickly after the strike. He agreed with a fan walking outside Fenway Park yesterday who tried to give Red Sox fans a guilt trip with his sign that chided, "How quickly we forget." How could I, as a self-respecting individual, crawl back to my unfaithful baseball lover without so much as even one day of a boycott?

Easy: the Red Sox were never on strike, and the Red Sox can never go on strike. The Red Sox are a mythic creation, a feeling of longing born of 76 years, a sensation of always almost making it. The team is a force that binds New England together, that conjures memories long buried, that at times breeds hope in even the most cynical.

As I found myself chanting "Jose, Jose," I realized that it is the uniform, not the player inside, to which I have a loyalty. After all, Jose Canseco was the embodiment of Satan when he crushed the Sox in the playoffs in 1988 and 1990. This explains how my grandmother, a diehard fan who listened to almost every Red Sox game in the Morgan Magic season, couldn't tell the difference between Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens.

So while greedy players and foolish owners may have stopped working for a while, the Red Sox just took an extended off-season. And I am not a Jose Canseco fan or a Roger Clemens fan; I am a Red Sox fan. So when my brother called me up Wednesday morning out of the blue, saying he had just bought Opening Day tickets, I cut my classes and went to see the Red Sox.

And, working their magic on my soul, the Sox were back Wednesday in full glory. Sitting in intimate Fenway Park, I felt connected with the father who took his two sons out of school to see the game, with the army vet waiting in line for pizza, even with the drunk guy three rows behind me who heckled opposing pitcher Scott Erickson ("They got you shaking in your boots, Scowtie!"). We all cheered in unison.

Talking with my brother, I relived memories of victories past on Opening Day. While waiting for autographs, my 18-year old brother was once again in fifth grade, with short hair, returning triunphantly with a Jim Rice autograph. Jeff Pierce tossed him a ball, and we thought of the 40 other regulation baseballs my brother has been able to sweet talk players into giving him over the years.

And most importantly, on Opening Day I once again felt foolish hope: Aaron Sele carried a no-hitter into the fifth, and my heart fluttered as I longed for all goose eggs for nine innings. In good Red Sox form, Sele blew it, but that just means I have something to hope for next time. I hope that the Red Sox win it all this year, for I know that will bring the Messiah.

Opening Day is the time when the real world melts in favor of the mythic. And I, for one, am going to go to as many Red Sox games as I can.