Opening Day is magic, although I’m not sure I understand why.

Not even certain that I believe in those mystical, romantic powers, to tell you the truth. I think it’s something we were taught and believed and – while I think many of the circumstances were beyond our control – failed to bequeath the next generation.

Baseball’s annual rebirth was formerly, even recently, just cause for skipping school. Or at least a worthy excuse for your teacher to suspend the final lesson of the day, sift through the static and let you listen to the first inning or two.

But now I have to prepare this column for Sunday publication, because heaven forbid that ESPN not be the ones to give us our first look at the defending champions in prime time.

Sorry. I meant ESPN2. That’s where the “opener” has been pushed in order for the mother ship to broadcast the NCAA women’s final four.

Yes, baseball in America now plays Teller to women’s hoop’s Penn. The punch line here either is so self-evident or so much funnier when you provide it yourself that I’ll let it slide.

I’ll give Major League Baseball a minor measure of credit and gratitude for not putting the opener in Tokyo at 5 a.m. Eastern. I’m sure we have the World Baseball Classic to thank for that. The union would have revolted if Bud Selig suggested any more international travel in March.

The commissioner did a smack-up job of handicapping the defending champions by sentencing them to that international series in the past. Between jet lag, a messed-up travel itinerary, forgetting the warning not to drink the water and that week before the next (first?) meaningful game, the Red Sox pretty much took a mulligan for all of April 2008.

Come to think of it, I’d pay to see the Phillies put through that torture.

Nothing is charming as it used to be in a world that’s smaller and colder than ever. Baseball’s pulling back of the curtain is no exception.

TV and technology have made tomorrow like any other non-descript day of baseball in June or July. Between ESPN, the MLB Network, satellite radio and sports bars, I can watch or listen to any opening day/night/week game of my choosing.

Watching the Red Sox hatch a new season in the 1970s or early ’80s was a luxury. That was when Channel 6 picked up WSBK’s live feed on Opening Day, Sunday afternoons, and some Tuesday or Wednesday nights if we were lucky.

Or maybe it’s just that the older we get, we recognize that opening day results are apropos of nothing.

Sure, Ted Williams batted .449 on opening day. But Tuffy Rhodes and Dmitri Young also had three-homer games.

And I’m still wracked by the agonizing memory of rushing home from school to watch the immortal Sixto Lezcano curl a walk-off grand slam inside the right field foul pole at Milwaukee’s County Stadium off Dick Drago. Other than enjoying the distinction of having baseball’s best name until Archi Cianfrocco stumbled along, what did ol’ Sixto accomplish after making a pudgy second-grader cry?

Jimmy Key, otherwise a nondescript, textbook “crafty left-hander,” was 7-0 on opening day.

Heck, highly respected but grossly overweight umpire John McSherry turned away from home plate and felt his heart stop on opening day. Doesn’t get any worse than that.

If you’re a Red Sox rooter, there’s no good reason to jeopardize your status at work after the Thursday and Friday you skipped to watch basketball three weeks ago. Don’t slump over in your chair with a fake migraine 20 minutes before today’s first pitch against Tampa Bay.

Trust me: How the Sox fare in the opener almost never foretells what’s ahead of us when the games begin to matter.

Boston began 1965 – its only 100-loss season in the last 67 years – by whipping the Washington Senators, 7-2, on a gem by Bill Monboquette.

Before your time? Mine too. So how about the five most successful Sox seasons of my lifetime? They won the lid-lifter only once, in 1975. Light one up for El Tiante.

Drago, the human heart palpitation, also blew a save against the White Sox in ’78.

After Dwight Evans’ first-pitch home run off Jack Morris, the bullpen gave away the 1986 opener to Detroit.

Baltimore hinted at Pedro Martinez’s numbered days as the ace by slapping him silly in 2004’s christening.

The mighty Kansas City Royals made us nervous with cause about the health of Curt Schilling, administering a 7-1 shelling in ’07.

Baseball still maintains its grip on my soul and many others. Thousands if not millions of 20-to-40-something dudes are anxious to start seeing how their fantasy team pans out. Those of us with active love lives simply yearn to think spring and hear the crack of the bat. Hey, to each his own.

For millions, even dedicated sports enthusiasts, opening day may not even jiggle the give-a-crap meter. My son, for one, is far more interested in who’s cutting down the nets in Detroit and – egad! – the NFL draft.

I’ve failed. We’ve all failed.

Opening day is still special. Only now it seems easier to construct a case for why it isn’t.

And that makes me sadder than Sixto Lezcano ever could.

Kalle Oakes is a staff columnist. His email is [email protected].