An actual shirt! Not some kind of funky eye exam!

Look, the world is gonna kick your ass. That’s what the world does. That’s its job. But knowing that there’s fresh, all-new, never-before-seen baseball played at Fenway at 11:00 in the morning every Patriot’s Day somehow takes away the pain.

Sure, there are injuries. There are questions. There’s Bobby V’s “unique” managing style that could likely leave him hanging by his boxers from a billboard over the Mass Pike.

Today, they all take a backseat.

Because I haven’t even had my second helping of “breakfast juice” (pure vodka mixed with vodka) and there are already people milling around Kenmore, filling Lansdowne and Yawkey Way, and contemplating the first of several Fenway Franks.

It’s going to be 90 degrees in Boston in April and the Red Sox are trying to win their fourth game in a row at Fenway Park. If this doesn’t reaffirm your belief that this is the most exciting time ever to be a fan of excitement, I don’t know what will.

Physically, I’ll be in an airtight office roughly seven miles south of the Fens, drooling over the hot secretary and struggling to remind my boss that I’m worth the weekly paycheck. But in my mind I’m in Dad’s old seats in section 16, sucking down some ten dollar beers and rooting the boys to just keep rolling. Just keep rolling.

If you’re jonesing to follow the action but can’t connect at the office or in your personal spacecraft, check the good folks in our comments section or follow me on twitter, where I’m bound to say at least one stupid thing during today’s game.

Oh, and the New Monkees said hi.