I think this week may be the hardest week to be a Red Sox fan. By now the lure and excitement of red uniforms and palm trees has worn off, and the tease of real games starting up north reaches a Christmas Eve type of anticipation level. You can quench your thirst by looking at how many pitches player X threw and how many of those were for strikes. You know that young kid played better then the veteran, but he'll still begin his year in Pawtucket.
I know soon enough I'll have a ritual back that seems like forever since its last been with me. Don & Remy will soon enough begin spinning the soundtrack of yet another summer of mine. I'll begin that ever hard question of, "Should I buy a scalped ticket tonight?", as I help out-of-town New Englanders navigate the T system leaving work. I know that soon enough I'll be walking over that gradual incline, right behind homeplate, happily double fisting my overpriced Bud Light, as I slowly have that beautiful Fenway Green engulf me. I'll smell grass, step on peanut shells, hear batting practice, and smile from ear to ear.
Like a modern day Paul Revere I race through the net with less then a week away, screaming; "The Red Sox are coming! The Red Sox are coming!" and I couldn't be any happier. See you soon boys.