As if 627 pages aren’t enough, I hit the local bookstore and pick up Jerry Remy’s Watching Baseball, just out. As a color analyst, he’s usually pretty good with strategy, and I’m always willing to learn. I’m not disappointed. While a lot of it is basic, he also talks a fair amount about setting the defense according to the batter, the count and the pitch, and how important it is not to give your position away. He also lays out the toughest plays for each position, and the slight advantages base runners can take of pitchers and outfielders.

I’m psyched to use some of my new knowledge watching the game, but the website says it’s been cancelled due to “inclement weather and unplayable field conditions.” It’s a letdown, as if I was supposed to play. After Sunday’s walk-off homer, I’m feeling a little withdrawal.

April 15th

It’s raining when I wake up, but by midmorning the sun’s out, so I think we’re okay. Even better: in the mail are Steve’s dream seats for tomorrow night’s game, along with a parking pass. Look for me on Fox. (Last year, for one nationally televised game, we noticed that Todd Walker was miked, a transmitter tucked in his back pocket. Every time he was on deck, we yelled “Rupert Murdoch sucks!”)

Sunday’s game is On-Field Photo Day. I call up Sox customer service to find out more, but the woman there doesn’t know when it starts or what gate you need to go in or where the line will form.

In the paper, the Yanks asked UConn men’s hoops coach Jim Calhoun if he’d throw out the first ball at one of their games. Coach Calhoun’s a serious Sox fan; after his squad won it all in ’99 (beating a Yankee-like Duke team), he threw out the first pitch up at Fenway. “No chance,” he tells the Yanks. “Sixty years of torment is enough.”

The confusion the Yanks had is natural. The monied southwestern corner of Connecticut drains toward New York, and historically supports the more established Gotham teams. For a couple years, before moving to Jersey, the football Giants played in the Yale Bowl. The northern and eastern edges of the state, butted up against Massachusetts and Rhode Island, are country, decidedly New England. The suburban middle, where I live, is disputed territory. On the Sox website, there’s a petition for Connecticut residents to sign, pledging their loyalty based on “traditional New England values of hard work and fair play,” and denouncing the encroachment of, yes, the evil empire. I’ve signed, though what good it does against George’s bounty hunters and clone army, I have no idea.