I heard a few folks at the office complaining yesterday about how Opening Day is actually Opening Night. Apparently, as the Globe’s Eric Wilbur pointed out, local movers and shakers — an elite group including one of those Andelman guys, a WAAF DJ and some other folks routinely featured in Boston Magazine — are pretty pissed, too. Opening Day, they say, is supposed to happen during the day. Like, when the sun is out and shit.
To these people, and anyone else who has a hard time coping with this, I have five simple words: Can I have your tickets?
See, I don’t care if they wanna start Opening Day at 3:45am. I’d set my alarm, drag my ass out of bed, mix up a quick Red Bull/amphetamine breakfast shake, and spot-weld myself to the couch in front of the TV. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do on Opening Day.
The last time new, real Red Sox baseball happened, I got sucker punched to the nuts by the Anaheim Angels, watching them get all festive on our home turf. Now it’s time to clean the slate and wash that memory from my brain; I’ve got no time to haggle about what time it all goes down. I just care that it goes down soon. Hell, Josh Beckett does his best work after the sun sets, anyway, which is when he’s typically out in the streets seeking human blood and inebrieated college girls.
My only complaint is that having the game at night means I miss out on my annual ritual of skipping out of the office to catch two or three or eight innings. Granted, the excuses were starting to get a bit thin–I don’t think my boss ever bought last year’s “My cousin Clem is being held captive by sous chefs”–but I’ve always relished the challenge. So this year’s scheduling might actually be a boon to my career, which ain’t a bad thing.
It’s Josh Beckett versus the Yankees at Fenway Park for the first meaningful Red Sox action in almost six months. Starting six hours later ain’t gonna stop it from being the biggest day of my year.
