I've had this odd build-up behind my sinuses for the past week.

It started on Friday, when a serendipitous lunch with Shawn and Laura DeVeau (met out of the blue at, of all places, Burrito Max) was interrupted with the news that Ted Wiliams had died.

Pressure built as the Sox lost 2 of 3 in Detroit, was alleviated slightly by the Home Run Derby, and came back with a vengance in the wake of the All Star Game. It reached titanic proportions with the flood of talk regarding labor, steroids, and fiscal ill health.

Oh, and there's the whole Ted on Ice thing, too. That's not helping.

It could be the only thing that'll clear my head is to chuck baseball. Again.

About 10 years ago, I would tell just about anyone who brought the subject up that I was sick of baseball. The 1990 lockout was still in people's minds, and after a divison title that year the Sox were slumping to medocrity. Consider that their big off season signings for the 1991 season were Matt Young, Danny Darwin, and a very old Jack Clark.

Then 1994 came around. The nadir. As far off my radar screen as baseball was before the strike, it was buried deep after that.

But then baseball came back. Cal Ripken broke Lou Gehrig's consecutive game streak. The Sox stopped stinking. And I undertook the previously mentioned baseball book a week challenge specifically in an attempt to become interested in baseball again.

It worked. Baseball still wasn't my favorite sport, but I watched a lot more, and followed the sport more closely. Fantasy sports, as often as they're derided for eroding fandom into rooting for individuals and situations, brought more interest into learning who certain players were and who was coming up and wrapping up.

But now that feeling's back. That feeling that my revived interest in baseball is about to be stomped on by men both in cleats and in Gucci loafers. That feeling that I might as well adopt NASCAR as my summer sport of choice to fill time between the Stanley Cup playoffs and preseason football. That feeling that anyone who has any pull in major league baseball doesn't care one whit about my interest- except when I'm paying for tickets, buying overpriced concessions, or plumping ad revenue when I watch at home, generating ratings.

As I've said, I'm dubious about orgainzed fan action against baseball. I don't think there are enough hardcore fans to make a strike work, be it for one day or the whole season. I also think that, for most folks, spouting rhetoric is enough to make them feel better; venting often fills the bill, even if it's venting aimed at sparking a course of action. Unlike this person, I don't see such action as a sign of jealousy. Yes, there are bigger things to get outraged over. But baseball relies on fan support. Without fannies in the seats or people watching at home, there'd be no money to pay anyone. When the powers that be treat their consumers in a fashion akin to the way Godzilla treats the Ginza, the consumers should respond.

How should they respond? Just walk away. No torchlight rallies, no wailing and gnashing of teeth, no impassioned speeches decrying players and owners alike. Just tuck your money back in your billfold and find something else to do when you'd normally focus on baseball. Rent a movie. Read a book. Go to a musuem. Spend time with family just talking.

Most important: once you walk away, don't look back. Orpheus learned the hard way about looking back before you get what you want. Baseball fans should heed that lesson if we lose another season.