Four o’clock. Opening Day. Settled into my power recliner, my wife lounging eight feet to my right in its twin leather companion, computer tablet propped up on her lap. The Red Sox and their new flame-throwing phenom, lefty Garrett Crochet, are facing the Texas Rangers in Arlington, Texas.

Half taking in the pre-game festivities over the top of her device, my wife entertains a thought and asks, “Have you ever been to Opening Day at Fenway Park?”

“Nope, can’t say I have,” I responded, immediately drifting off into a raging stream of memories from America’s baseball cathedral that endured till the final pitch.

Funny how an innocent question like that can trigger a vivid journey down memory lane. So, I figure, why not share some of the recollections I judge appropriate, if even barely so, for a family newspaper? And while we’re at it, if space constraints don’t obstruct our path, maybe even random memories from other New England sports venues – such as the moldy old Boston Garden, Harvard Stadium, and the low-budget Schaefer Stadium in Foxboro, where I spent many a sun-baked Sunday afternoon on the east side, shifting in discomfort on Section 218’s aluminum bleacher  seats.

Yes, those were the days at Foxboro, and I was there – often struggling outside the south entrance before the game to get face-value $18 apiece for two extra tickets. When barterers tested my patience with offers of half-price or less, I sometimes just gave the tickets to a couple of kids who looked like they’d appreciate the generous offer, and ended up joining us for the game.

The problem with a narrative like this is that the best stories can never be told in print, even if the statute of limitations has passed. Far too scurrilous. After all, one has an adult reputation to protect. Trust me, many unprintable reputation-busters arose from the permissive Seventies – when stadiums were stuffed with cussing, cigar-chompin’ men akin to racetrack “railbirds,” and, if you can imagine, coolers stuffed with food and beverage were allowed through the Foxboro turnstiles.

Those were wild times, indeed. Maybe we can circle back if space permits.

I have vivid memories of my first trip to Fenway – purely kids’ stuff. I was 10, in the company of my father, younger brother Bobby, and South Deerfield pals Frannie Redmond and David Zima. Reserved-grandstand seats were $2.25 a pop back then, souvenir programs a prohibitive 15 cents. My father knew the ticket manager and, with our seats on the first-base side, arranged a pregame meeting with budding star left-fielder Carl Yastrzemski near the Red Sox dugout. The Minnesota Twins and slugger Harmon Killebrew manned the visiting dugout.

I brought Yaz’s Topps baseball card to the game to try and get it autographed. Unsuccessful, when we returned home, I stapled it to the program cover and tucked it away in a scrap book. Decades later, when my brother was the golf pro at the International in Bolton and got to know Yaz as a member, he got it signed for me with a “HOF ’89” tag signifying his Hall of Fame induction year.

By then I had been to Fenway several times with my dad and brother, but can’t say any of those visits were particularly memorable. However, that cannot be said of the times I attended games in my teens and 20s with friends and without adult supervision. Many of those adventures were memorable but not for print.

I can tell about the 1972 twi-night doubleheader I attended with older St. Joe’s of Thorndike Tri-County League baseball teammates, on the way home from an independent Saturday road game against the Amesbury semi-pro baseball club. Back then, with attendance sparse by today’s standards, you could still get good seats at the ticket windows leading into the ballpark.

On this day, with a few beers under our belts before we passed through the gate near the Green Monster, our second baseman, a garrulous, fun-loving, black Vietnam veteran from Amherst, got into an argument with a police officer that quickly escalated. Uniformed officials had a way of sparking spirited reactions from some Vietnam vets, and my teammate was one of them. To make a long story short, he never made it into the ballpark, and was instead cuffed, stuffed, and loaded into a paddy wagon to – if memory serves me – Boston’s Fourth Precinct jail, where he spent the night as a drunk-and-disorderly.

When we called the station in an effort to bail him out, we didn’t take the bait to come and get him. Sounded like entrapment to us. Not something you soon forget.

The very next year, on a free catered bus trip for St. Joe’s players to another Saturday game, I arranged to meet my college buddy and teammate at the game, got carried away, and missed the bus home. Undeterred, we hit the Commonwealth Avenue bars after the game and spent the night in Boston. Early the next morning I hitchhiked home to South Deerfield, threw on my uniform, and drove to Thorndike in time for batting practice before our weekly Sunday doubleheader, the park equipped with a full bar and concession stand behind the backstop.

Prior to my arrival, the hilltop park was buzzing about my whereabouts. The loyal, colorful, alcoholic grounds crew was concerned: Would I or would I not show up for the game? Was I alright? As I pulled into a parking place along the right-field line, the fellas gave a smiling standing ovation.

I don’t recall how I performed on the field that day. Probably not well. Out late and up early, I was not in high-performance mode, but ready to give it a go nonetheless. Story of my young baseball life.

I also had some memorable Fenway visits with my sons. Among them was the famous October 16, 1999, ALCS Game 3 “pitchers’ duel” between Roger Clemens and Pedro Martinez, won by Pedro and the Sox, 13-1. Clemens lasted two innings and was serenaded with chants from opposite sides of the field of “Where is Roger?” “In the shower,” long after he had settled in the clubhouse.

Also, four years earlier, the post-1994-’95 Major League Baseball strike fan-appreciation doubleheader against the Seattle Mariners, offering $1 general-admission tickets to all on a first-come, first-served basis. I took my family and a group of Frontier Youth League players to the games and, at their request, arrived early to secure primo box seats behind the Mariners dugout. The kids wanted to get a good look at Ken Griffey, Jr., and possibly even his autograph.

Unexpected was the nearby presence of a loud Griffey-hater mercilessly haranguing the young Mariners superstar with vicious banter, including the nickname “Whiffey” as he returned to the dugout between innings, knelt in the on-deck circle, or returned to the dugout after strikeouts.

The man was there for one reason: to get under Griffey Jr.’s skin. It worked. Though big leaguers are expected to ignore such catcalls and insults, Griffey violated the etiquette by engaging in continuous exchanges with the obnoxious fan, who was finally ejected by security guards during the early stages of Game 2. I was surprised, having seen much worse fan abuse aimed at visiting players over the years.

Whew! Enough already. No time for the “Foxboro chronicles.” Just as well – such narrative would require a deep dive into full Hunter S. Thompson-style gonzo mode. I’m not certain a small community weekly is the place for that.

Questions and comments are welcome at gary@oldtavernfarm.com.