It's a sad day. The Luxury Box Era has officially corrupted me.

Carl Yastrzemski waves to Fenway's adoring fans, and the indifferent ones in the luxury boxes over his shoulder.

I fought it for years, I swear I did. I hated the corporations for treating the boxes as tax write-offs. I hated their clients, who were more interested in schmoozing than watching. I figured the boxes were great places -- to see little kids scurrying around and dropping popcorn in their wake, or to hear two men discussing tech stocks and the latest Zegna clothing line, or to field questions like, "Clemens is still on the Sox, right?"

I knew this. All of it. And then I spent a Sunday afternoon at Fenway, in a luxury box on the third base side. Within 45 minutes, I'd sold out faster than Jason Giambi. I had the giddy feeling that I'd been given free access to a hotel room's minibar, times 100. I kept reminding myself that these evil inventions caused the demise of Boston Garden, Chicago Stadium and Mile High Stadium, and helped price average fans out of premium seats (like high school -- you're "in" or you're "out"). But the perks. Good God. For nine innings, you're Julius Caesar.

Crispy chicken fingers. Hot pizza. Spicy buffalo wings. Juicy spare ribs. Cornbread and coleslaw. Enough beer and soda for a frat party. Silverware and napkins. And everything's free.

Did I mention the bathroom? Or the air conditioning? Or the waitresses? Or the comfortable sofas? Or the television showing the ballgame? I kept waiting for someone to feed me grapes.

We threw down free food until game time, then finally settled into our cozy seats outside before the opening pitch. The Green Monster loomed to our left. The Prudential and John Hancock buildings guarded center. It was like seeing an IMAX movie -- just high enough to see everything. And we weren't crammed like sardines -- that is, like everyone else in the park.

Within two innings, I was restless, so I headed back inside for more of the Roman emperor treatment, popping back outside just in time for a full-scale donnybrook. Benches and bullpens emptied, the players throwing more cheap shots than Joan Rivers. The brawl spilled into the outfield, just a train wreck of people, too much mayhem at the same time. When things calmed down, we quickly raced inside to watch the replays. Who started it? Why was Jason Varitek so upset? Who was that Oriole throwing sucker punches? Everyone else in the ballpark was wondering what had happened; we were getting answers. And that's the moment when I finally succumbed to the dark side.

A spare rib in one hand, a ginger ale in the other, watching replays in the cool air ... it just couldn't get any better. I felt like Michael Corleone ordering Fredo's death. I'd passed the point of no return.

We spent the next few innings bouncing between outdoor seats and indoor AC. I demolished two more plates of food, and I couldn't tell you one thing that happened after the fifth inning. I played with kids, talked hoops, discussed the stock market ... the events on the field were completely irrelevant. Besides, the Sox were up by 10 points and Clemens was pitching well, so the match didn't matter, anyway.

After the eighth inning, some of us decided to leave to beat the postgame crush. We shook hands, said our goodbyes and promised to have our secretaries arrange lunch. I pulled my car out of the $25 parking lot and cruised home on Storrow Drive, conveniently avoiding the traffic. In just four precious hours, I'd mastered the Luxury Box Experience.

Hugh Hefner's Staples Center luxury box comes with a few more modern amenities.

The question is: After this, can I survive as a common fan, fidgeting in cramped, wooden seats. No AC, no TV and only lukewarm beer and boiled hot dogs to keep me going? Peeing next to strangers?

You know the Seinfeld where George dates a model and enters an exclusive "circle" of cool people for two weeks, then realizes he can never go back? Luxury boxes are sports' circle. I have to find someone to give me a lifetime pass.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to sell my soul on eBay.