FRIDAY, AUGUST 30, 2002 — As I write this, the possibility of a Major League Baseball work stoppage continues to loom. Will they stay or will they go? It’s a clash of the titans that has no good guys, just bad guys, and could easily result in a break in the action from which only losers will emerge.

For me, a lifelong baseball fan, I am writing as if I am preparing to attend a funeral, a funeral for a friend, if you will, and I bear a heavy heart. For if there is a strike, even a weeks-long one, I will have said good-bye forever to my undying devotion to the game and its participants, just as I would prepare a eulogy for a departed companion. Should the lemmings walk, I will henceforth forever view the game from a jaded perspective, and MLB will have to work exceedingly hard to pry even a dime out of me in future years.

What burns me the most is this: the players do not have to implement a walkout now. They could just as easily do it at the end of the season, and broadly state that if changes that they feel are unfair are made to the basic labor agreement, they will not show up to spring training in February. The players’ union and the owners could negotiate throughout the winter months, and perhaps reach a resolution that would appease both sides in time for the Grapefruit and Cactus Leagues to open next spring.

Obviously, there would be some disagreements, even lengthy and loud ones at times. But it would be during the off-season, and the memories of thrilling pennant races, playoffs, and the World Series would keep the fans hopeful that the issues between the two sides could be resolved.

Instead, they are doing it now. With a month to go in the season. With the possibility of no playoffs, and no World Series. Again.

After last week's Red Sox " action, " I am more than ready to bid this particular edition of quitters and underachievers farewell. If not for an improbable ninth-inning comeback against Anaheim Monday — only the Sox’ second late-inning comeback since July 23 — this band of frauds would be riding a five-game home losing streak, a stretch that would have included three shutouts. This fine performance came during a homestand once dubbed the most critical stretch of the season: three against the putrid Texas Rangers, four against the Angels, and two against the Yankees. The result? After struggling to take two of three from Texas, the Sox staggered to a 2-4 record against Anaheim and New York, a log that could have very easily been 1-5. That’s a clutch performance, huh? The pinstripers come to town and you get eight hits and no runs in two nights.

Anyway, enough of that. You’ve heard it before. Let’s hope we don’t have to hear it again. After all, when we prepare to mourn the loss of a dear friend, we are better suited to reflecting on the fond memories we have of that person and appreciating what made us enjoy him or her so much — recollections that will sustain us as we endure the loss.

For me, as I view my soon-to-be-departed friend lying in a coma, on life-support, as I brace myself for the inevitable, I know I will be reinvigorated by the following moments in that lifelong friendship that I am now preparing forever to do without.

• Watching the Saturday-afternoon NBC Games of the Week in the ’60s with my late father, a program that was once a staple of the peacock’s weekly baseball coverage, enhanced by network announcers Curt Gowdy, Tony Kubek, and later, Joe Garagiola.

• Going to Shea Stadium in New York for my first major-league game in September, 1969. Every kid remembers his first glorious view of a pro ballpark as he comes up the ramp into the stadium. I got a bonus that day, though; I got to see a no-hitter (by the Pirates’ Bob Moose) in my first game. Even better, my (then-) beloved Mets won the World Series just a month later with their astounding five-game triumph over the Orioles.

• Going back to Shea a year or so later and seeing my first Old Timers’ game, where greats from the past (well, they were from the Brooklyn Dodgers’, New York Giants’, and New York Yankees’ past, since the eight-year-old Mets franchise still had no real history) were introduced to the crowd.

• Attending my first Canadian baseball game, at the Montreal Expos’ former ballpark, Jarry Park, which had a swimming pool beyond the right-field fence. In that game, I saw an inside-the-park grand slam, which is amazingly rare. My parents made us leave early to beat the rush, and the next day I had to read that the home team had won in the bottom of the ninth on a three-run home run by catcher John Boccabella. Loved his name, as pronounced by the PA announcer. Bocc-a-bell-a. Loved his name, hated my parents that morning.

• In only my sixth visit to a major-league park, this time to Yankee Stadium in 1983, I got to see my second no-hitter. Again, it was thrown against the team I was rooting for (the Sox), but the odds of seeing two no-hitters in your first six games are astronomical, especially for a guy who didn’t even live in Metropolitan New York. (For my account of that day, see www.bostonphoenix.com/boston/news_features/sportingeye/documents/02337047.htm ).

• Now living in Boston after growing up in Upstate NY, I was given a ticket for Opening Day at Fenway in April, 1986. On that day, reliever Bob Stanley blew a late Sox lead and the team lost to Kansas City. After the game, he said to the media, " They booed me today, but they’ll be cheering for me when I’m standing on the mound with the chance to close out the World Series. " Six months later, there he was, on the mound at Shea Stadium with the chance to close out the World Series for Boston. Yeah, we cheered for him then, but not for long. " Next batter, Mookie Wilson. "

• But two weeks before that, another magical baseball moment had occurred as I sat with my best girl and a best friend in a bar in Burlington, Vermont, watching Game Five of the American League Championship Series. The Sox, having lost both games in Anaheim to fall behind, 3-1 in the seven-game series, were on the verge of elimination. It was 5-2 Angels in the top of the ninth, and all was lost. Truly it was. A Don Baylor home run brought the Sox back to 5-4, but with Rich Gedman on first, Dave Henderson flailed helplessly at the first two forkballs thrown by Angels closer Donnie Moore. A whole summer of watching the best Red Sox season since I had become a Boston fan was now quietly going down the drain. It was, regrettably, over. But then — Henderson golfs the next pitch over the left-field wall, and I am speechless. ABC announcer Al Michael was not; I can still hear his call: " And Henderson hits it high, and deep, and Downing goes back, and it’s gone! Un-be-liev-a-ble. " (Those who witnessed that HR have probably not had a moment like it — a complete, unexpected, thrilling reversal of fortune in favor of a New England team — until the Tom Brady fumble call was reversed in the snow game in Foxboro last January.) Hendu’s dinger was the most improbable Red Sox home run ever, and it’s still my single greatest baseball memory, as the Sox went on to win in extra frames, 7-6. I had tickets to Game Six back in Boston two nights later, and those ducats I was all set to rip up were suddenly relevant again. Oil Can Boyd shut down the demoralized Angels in a packed Fenway that Tuesday night, and Roger Clemens nailed down Game Seven on Thursday. On to the World Series (gulp!).

• Skipping ahead to August 21, 1991. Sitting with a friend courtesy of his third-base grandstand seats on a Sunday afternoon, I watched then–Seattle Mariner Ken Griffey Jr. get into the batter’s box to face Clemens. The pitch is fouled off to the left. Toward us! That ball is coming right toward us! Everyone stands in our section, hoping to catch it, and as it bounces off the hands of the guy behind me, I grab it out of mid air. I pull it down, and just stare at it for a couple of seconds. I caught a foul ball. Hold it up, you idiot! Thirty-two years old, and I was as gleeful as a Little Leaguer getting his first hit. (Strangely enough, just a few weeks later, as I sat in the center-field bleachers in section 35, a friend who accompanied me asked, " Do baseballs ever reach this far out? " " Nah, " I said, " although it would have to be a tremendous shot. " Next pitch — Sox batter Eric Wedge drives it to straightaway center field. Right toward us! Again. It bounces off the stairs below me and it comes right to me, and I, along with another fan, simultaneously grab it. After a bit of tug-of-war, I release it, realizing that this guy in full Red Sox regalia deserves it more than a guy who just caught a foul ball two weeks earlier. He looks like I felt just two weeks earlier; an unbelievable ear-to-ear grin adorns his face, and I marvel at how funny fate is sometimes. After seeing hundreds of major-league games, I finally get the chance to catch a foul ball, and then have my hands on another one in my very next game. What are the odds?

• The 1991 World Series, which was until last season probably the best Fall Classic in my adult life. In particular, the seventh game in the Metrodome, where the Braves and Twins battled through a scoreless game into extra innings. Lordy, I never wanted that game to end.

• Opening Day, 1997: The Red Sox rally for seven runs with no outs in the bottom of the ninth — capped by Mo Vaughn’s grand slam. Those who were there will never forget that day. (See www.bostonphoenix.com/boston/news_features/sportingeye/documents/02215689.htm for my take on that game.)

• Opening Day, 2002 — my 17th straight Fenway opener since 1986. The " Star-Spangled Banner " plays, two F-16s fly over the ballpark, and the World Champion Patriots come out from behind a Green Monster–size flag draped over the left-field wall. As the players stroll in with the Lombardi Trophy as U2’s " Beautiful Day " blares over the sound system, the reverberation of the fans cheering is as loud as I’ve ever heard it. Back then, a lot was written about how the Red Sox could learn from the Patriots’ " team " concept after the Sox’ dismal fall from grace last season.

Well, it’s August 30th, and whether the players go on strike or not, I am convinced that the Red Sox have embraced the team concept. Unfortunately, it is not as teammates, but as union mates, and as they all prepare to walk the plank together, I can only say this to my once-favorite pastime:

Thanks for the memories, baseball, and I’ll always treasure the moments you gave me.

To the 2002 Red Sox baseball club, I can only say, good riddance.

As for the players who might out on their fans and the season, or actually contemplated it and prepared for it in the days leading up to the union-imposed strike date, well, please join me in saying this:

Good-bye.

Sporting Eye, which normally runs Mondays and Fridays at BostonPhoenix.com, will return on Tuesday, September 3 because of the Labor Day holiday. Christopher Young can be reached at cyoung[a]phx.com