Chance to boo A-Rod priceless

I should have sold my ticket.

I drove by the Fort Myers (Fla.) stadium at 8 a.m. Sunday on the way to breakfast. It was the first game between the Red Sox and Yankees (boooo) since the seventh game collapse in Yankee Stadium. The national television trucks were already in the back lot and the scalpers had formed into rings around the stadium … five hours before the game. At a red light, I was offered $100 for my $17 ticket. I heard later that two tickets for the spring training game were going for $500 on eBay.

At the time, I wouldn’t sell for $500. After all, I had driven the several thousand miles (some of us don’t fly) to Fort Myers from Maine for the chance to boo the Yankees, and especially the newest Yankee, Alex Rodriguez. I decided on the trip (and bought season tickets) when it looked like A-Rod (that’s what we call him), only the best player in baseball, was coming to the Red Sox.

Naturally, in keeping with their pathetic 100-year history, the Red Sox blew the deal. Naturally, in keeping with their 26-championship history, the Yankees stepped in, bought A-Rod and put him at third base to complete their $200 million payroll.

Not only did he end up with the Evil Empire, but they scheduled his welcoming press conference on WFAN as I was driving through New York City, in case there wasn’t enough pain.

So the Yankee game gave me my chance to offer my opinion in person. I am still hoarse from booing and screaming at A-Rod, who was only a few feet away at third base. I love spring training.

I am sure that A-Rod was not bothered in the least by the hostile reception (I was not the only one booing), since he collects, it has been reported, $14,000 an inning under his current contract. You could stone me and shoot at me with fire arrows every single inning, for that kind of cake.

My pleasure increased as the Sox ran off to a 4-0 lead. Of course, the Yankees (they almost always do) came storming back and creamed the Red Sox 11-7. A Red Sox aspiring pitcher named Jason Sheill will go down in history for allowing six runs in a single inning. He should not pack his bags in expectation for a trip to Boston real soon.

As soon as Derek Jeter (who may not be God, but must be on a first-name basis with the deity) slammed a home run to the deepest part of the ballpark, all the fun was gone and I wished that I had sold my ticket.

But in spring training, it’s not whether you win or lose, but whether the temperature stays above 75. At the beginning of every game, they announce the temperature in Fort Myers (usually in the mid-80s), then in Boston. Maine residents deduct 10 degrees for the likely temperature back home. The report normally brings big cheers as fans reach for the cell phones and another chance to rub it in to their frozen friends back home. There are few pleasures in life as deep as watching the Weather Channel as another snowstorm slams into New England while you are languishing in Florida weather.

Local television warned of a “cold snap” this week, with temperatures plunging to the mid-70s.

The season started with a bang with more sellout crowds against Boston College and Northeastern University. I applied to BC in 1958 and have yet to hear back. The application must have been lost in the mail. Northeastern, on the other hand, welcomed me to its bosom although keeping me on academic probation from the start to finish of my academic career on Huntington Avenue.

My economics training at dear old N.U. allowed me to recognize that buying beer at the stadium was a bad move. The price is now $5.75. According to my N.U. classes, that comes out to $34.50 a warm six pack. While I believe deeply that 80-degree days were designed with cold beer in mind, even I don’t like beer that much.

Not when that very same beer, much colder, can be purchased for the happy hour price of $1 at my hotel, complete with a river view and spectacular sunset. If I was smart enough to sell that damned ticket, I could have bought beer for the entire month.

But then I wouldn’t have had the chance to boo A-Rod.

Priceless.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.