There's something magic.

There's something magic about the Red Sox.

Something glorious about the old town team that brings out the best in New Englanders.

Each spring, it begins anew, as the good folks from Eastport to Block Island, from B Street to the Berkshires,

assemble around the tribal meeting house called Fenway Park. Only the real old-timers

remember the glory days of the early 20th century when the Red Sox won pennant after pennant, series after series.

Since those early days, championships have been few and far between.

Yet the glorious dream never dies.

Many fans remember the 46th Sox, the team of Williams, Pesky, and Dorr.

And a lot more Red Sox fans still daydream about the impossible dream of 67 with Lonborg and Hawk and Rico and Yaz and Canigliaro.

Lonborg is within one out of his biggest victory ever.

His 22nd of the year and his first over the twins.

The pitch is looped towards shortstop.

Petraselli's back.

He's got it.

The Red Sox win.

And his pandemonium on the field.

Red Sox fans also remember their team losing the division title by a half game to the Tigers in the strike abbreviated season of 72.

And there was the sad and sorrowful fall of 74 for Red Sox fans to reflect upon.

Likewise, the spring of 1975 offered little for Red Sox fans to cheer about as all-star catcher Carlton Fist would be idled with a broken arm as the team headed north for opening day.

It was a year full of surprises. To most Bostonians, when the season began, Lynn was a city somewhere north of Boston.

Rice was a menu selection at any Chinese restaurant, and Wise was a potato chip company.

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