Rounding out our illustrious staff are Jerry Stephenson, who died his hair green, and Tracy Stallard, who served up the 61st homer of Roger Maris, and Matt Young, who lost a no-hitter. Finally there's Ferguson Jenkins. Everywhere else he pitched he was headed for the Hall of Fame. Here he was a charter member of ''the Buffalo Heads,'' commanded by Carbo and Lee, whose sole purpose in life was to drive Manager Don Zimmer nuts.

Infielders: At first, the glut of wonderful eccentrics is so deep there's no room for Billy Buckner. Instead, we go with Rudy York, once described as "part Indian and part first baseman." He set his Kenmore Square hotel room on fire while smoking in bed. Our star though has to be homer-happy Dick Stuart, variously known as "Stone-fingers" and "Dr. Strange-glove." One day he bent over and picked up a gum wrapper and received a standing ovation. Red Sox Nation had a better sense of humor back in those halcyon days.

At second, who else but Steve "Psycho" Lyons. You may recall the day he pulled down his pants to shake out some dirt disregarding the minor fact that 30,000 people in the stands plus a TV audience were watching. The shortstop has to be Don Buddin. In his five seasons here he was in constant combat with the "Knights of the Keyboard." Clif Keane wrote his automobile license plate should read, "E-Six." Mr. Buddin was not pleased. At third, we have Vern Stephens. If the post-war era was truly a "country club," as was oft alleged, the affable Junior was the Maitre D'.

And for utility infielder, we have a quite special gentleman; Elijah "Pumpsie" Green. He had the difficult role of having to de-segregate the reactionary Red Sox thrust upon him and it placed him squarely in the bitter cross-fire of the team's front office. A half century and two ownerships later, the Red Sox still don't like to talk about it.

Outfielders: An intriguing group. For openers you have Jackie Jensen and Jimmy Piersall, both wildly talented but deeply haunted. Their strange tales intertwined in the raucous fifties. Jose Canseco was "the typhoid Mary" of the steroid set. Smead Jolley, whose attempts to play "Duffy's Cliff" in the old Fenway Park were hilarious. Ben Chapman, who was immensely skilled but fiercely racist. Manny Ramirez! Because he didn't make "the Dream Team" he has to be on this one. He belongs.

Finally, there's long-forgotten Cedric Durst. In a stroke of madness, they traded Red Ruffing to the Yankees for him in 1930. Lasting only that one season, Cedric hit .240 with one homer and promptly disappeared. In New York, Ruffing lasted 16 years winning 234 games plus seven more in the World Series.

It was all so typical of the way of things for large and merry chunks of that rollicking Fenway century and as such surely deserves to be remembered and maybe -- with a laugh here and there -- even celebrated. Clearly no history of the era is complete without such mention nor near as much fun to recall.