Spring fantasies

Dear Santa,

I realize you might be taking a well-earned vacation. God knows, you work harder than just about anyone I know, except maybe Larry Summers's charm school coach. And I know that you're used to receiving most of your mail in December, not April.

But I need you to understand something. I'm writing from Boston. I'm a 44-year-old male with precisely nothing going on in my meager little life. Nothing, that is, except for one indisputably glorious fact: Today is Opening Day at Fenway Park. For a guy like me, Christmas comes in April.

So what I'm saying is, save yourself the whole sleigh-ride-to-my-house thing, the risky rooftop landing, the undignified descent down a chimney that I admittedly haven't had swept in a while.

What I'm saying is, I don't need any gifts, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. I don't even need a stocking. But in their place, in light of Opening Day, there are a few things I want from you, Santa.

I want Curt Schilling to be more of a team leader again than a team spokesman. I want to see him pitch baseballs better than Fords.

I want vendors to serve beer right in the aisles of Fenway Park, just like at virtually every other Major League ballpark in America. They do this at Yankee Stadium. They pop open ice cold Old Style right at the seats of Wrigley Field. And yet the mayor of Boston thinks that we're all such a bunch of drunken imbeciles that we should stand in long beer lines missing huge portions of the games we've spent a fortune to see. Please, Santa, make him see the light.

I want Larry Lucchino and Theo Epstein to throw out the first pitch today, then laugh and hug each other as they walk off the field. I want my brethren on the Sports pages to dub the Red Sox front office ''Team Harmony" because everyone is getting along so well.

I want Manny to hire an airplane to fly a banner over the park that says, ''I love you, Boston and never want to leave." I want to see him move his lips as he reads his own sign.

I want the great Jerry Remy to invite me to lunch. I want him to tell me that Don Orsillo is every bit as good a guy as he seems on the air.

I want to hear Neil Diamond sing ''Sweet Caroline" live at Fenway Park.

I want Kevin Millar to receive a standing ovation when he returns to Fenway -- and the same goes for Bill Mueller and Doug Mirabelli, should they come back. They wanted to stay and were sent away.

Johnny Damon and Pedro Martinez could have stayed and chose to go, so I want silence to reign.

I want Jonathan Papelbon to be firing so hard in the ninth inning of a Yankees game that the radar gun explodes in some poor guy's hands behind home plate.

I want Keith Foulke to go sweat his butt off working at Burger King for a day.

I want Bronson Arroyo to be the best pitcher in the National League.

I want games to be broadcast on FM radio. I want to hear the sonorous sounds of bat on ball and ball in mitt on a sultry summer night when there's nothing in life that matters so much as the next guy to step to the plate.

I want John Henry to run for governor, even if only through an e-mail campaign. Once he's in office, I want to hear him admit that he may not be qualified to run the state, but that's OK, because he's still brought a championship to the Nation.

I want Hazel Mae.

I know I'm asking for a lot, Santa, and I apologize for that. But here in Boston, it's the most wonderful time of the year, and if hope doesn't live today, then it doesn't live at all.

Yours truly,

Brian McGrory

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.