There are a few things you can count on in this life: death, taxes, and me posting this same exact story every year on Fenway Opening Day. Any why not? It’s a tradition that runs deep, like dressing up as a wolf to scare the mailman, drying your laundry on the roof, or filling your neighbor’s socks with pudding to mark the anniversary of the first episode of “Bob Hearts Abishola.” We can’t fight it. Instead, we must embrace it. Give in to its gentle pull. And enjoy, once again, this story of what I consider the greatest Opening Day of my lifetime, which was originally posted on this here blog thing back in 2011.

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My dad and I never missed an Opening Day. Sometimes we were in the stands — Manny’s first-pitch-at-Fenway-as-a-Red-Sox home run and the Mo Vaughn Ninth Inning Comeback Special the most notable Fenway ODs we attended — and other times we were hunkered down at the old house in West Roxbury, setting up chairs to look like rows of ballpark seats and rolling out hot dogs and beer. It was a Holy Day of Obligation — you were obligated to blow off work, sit your ass down, and scream for the hometown boys ’til your throat hurt.

One Opening Day stands out in my mind. Me and Dad were headed into Fenway and, for some inexplicable reason, I convinced him to forsake the T for my car. Dumb idea. So with a few minutes to go before first pitch, we found ourselves gridlocked on Longwood Ave, rolling past parking lot after parking lot filled to capacity.

So I figured — and it’s important to point out that I’d lived in Boston my whole life to that point and hadn’t had one drop of alcohol to impair my thinking — that there had to be some side street metered spots that no one’s thought to look for. Dumber idea. And thus began a painfully slow backstreet tour of Boston, from one end to another, weaving and bobbing while listening to the first few strands of the game on EEI.

A more rational father might have strangled me, leaving my lifeless body by the side of the road while he high-tailed it to the Fens. But dad, God rest his soul, just soaked it in, talking about how back in the day, he could just walk over to the Park on a whim after classes at Northeastern and get a bleacher seat. And telling me once again about the summer he spent housebound as a young’un, obsessively playing his Strat-O-Matic baseball game. And reminding me that I need to hold on to that Jim Rice-Fred Lynn pin he bought me when I was barely crawling, because it was bound to be worth something.

And the car rolled on. And the first and second innings played out. And dad and I just sat there. Driving aimlessly. Sometimes not moving at all. Enjoying that thing that happens when dads and sons get together and talk baseball. The stuff we don’t get back in the NESN recaps and Globe articles.

Eventually, I gave up on the free or cheap parking dream and landed at the garage by the Hynes (conveniently next door to Bukowskis). And by the time we trudged our asses to the Park, it was the top of the fourth. And though I couldn’t even begin to remember who we were playing or the final score or even the year, I can replay every goddam minute of that car ride.

“Best Opening Day ever,” Dad said after the game as we walked back to the car.

And he was right.