Tonight the high school dedicates Caitlin’s choral concert to a beloved custodian who died suddenly of a heart attack. The teacher reading a speech about him confesses that they bonded as Sox fans, and that “the morning after the Sox had blown another sure thing, we knew not to talk about the game until we’d had our coffees.”

An easel at the front of the auditorium holds a picture of him. He couldn’t be more than fifty-five, and I think how unfair it is that he never got to experience the Sox winning it all—like Trudy’s uncle Vernon, who died last year in his sixties. Whenever I saw him, we talked Sox. It was our one point of connection, a joshing, bitching camaraderie shared over beers. This summer’s going to be different without him, emptier. I think of the millions of Sox fans who rooted their entire lives and never felt that giddy vindication the Pats have given us twice now. There has to be a tremendous psychic charge built up from those faithful generations. This year, if we do it, we’ll be doing it for them too.

I don’t want to spend a long time maundering over mortality, but you know, when I was eighteen and Lonnie was pitching for the Sox, I knew I’d be around to see them win the Series. You know how it is when you’re eighteen and bulletproof. Now, holy shit, I’m fifty-seven, I’ve been hit by a car, I had a lung practically go up in smoke this winter, and I realize maybe it really won’t happen. And still I look at our team and sometimes wonder…Who are these guys? Oh well. I used to joke, you know, about having a tombstone that read: STEPHEN KING with the dates, and then, below that, a single sock, and below that: NOT IN MY LIFETIME. And below that: NOT IN YOURS, EITHER. Not a bad tagline, huh?

March 18th

I’m shocked to read in the paper that Nomar is 0 for spring—0 for 8, really—and has missed four straight games with that bruised heel. Cesar Crespo’s seizing the opportunity, hitting .435. Maybe he can take that extra roster spot.

March 19th

Trot flies out to L.A. to get checked by a specialist and looks doubtful for Opening Day. Kapler, who took a pay cut to stay with the Sox, must be cursing his agent.

Nomar shows up at the clubhouse with a boot on his foot. The trainer’s diagnosed him with Achilles tendinitis, but an MRI shows no structural damage. And Manny, I discover, is hitting .172. Now I’m glad we’ve got a few weeks to get things together.

The lottery for Green Monster seats begins, one entry per e-mail address. After getting aced out of regular tickets, I’m resigned, punching in our two entries.