I sat uncomfortably in the rock-hard azure seats at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. The sound was so loud that it stung my ears like the bees that attacked me when I was eleven years old and my father was emotionally distant and wasn’t paying attention to me or my mother or my brother Peter. But this was not then. I was sitting next to my husband, Ted Turner, the owner of the Atlanta Braves.

I had not grown up with baseball, and I didn’t really understand the rules when I first started dating Ted. That was okay though — neither did he. He often laughed about this, as we ate bison steaks and quaffed a 1787 Chateau Lafite Bordeaux. “They think I know what I’m talking about,” he often scoffed, “just a-cause I own the damn team! No one wanted them suckers back when I bought ’em!” He regaled me with stories about how he managed the team for one game before being ordered to resign, and how he made a pitcher put the name “channel” on the back of his jersey just to advertise WTBS. Then Ted would wipe gravy and wine from his mustache with one of his impeccably tailored sleeves and fall asleep in his chair, as I gently rang the bell for our maid. These were the glory years, when we still thought everything would turn out all right. I was 47 years old.

I wanted to be a good wife, so there I was, squeezed into those unforgiving plastic seats. It was the sixth game of the 1995 World Series. I might have looked uninvolved in the action, disconnected, boredly doing “The Chop” along with the other 51,874 people in the crowd. But that is just what I learned from Mother and Father, from being an international sex symbol at the age of 20, from being married to one of the world’s most notorious ladies’ men, from being screamed at by conservative warmongers and anti-exercise advocates and film critics for my entire adult life. Deep down, I appreciated what was going on in this game I’d come to love over the last five years. I knew the kind of game Tom Glavine was hurling against the Cleveland Indians. But I also knew that the fierce competitive spirit of David Justice (booed before the game for his caustic comments about Atlanta’s fanbase, just as I had been booed for speaking my mind about the lost cause of Vietnam!) would carry the day.

Justice’s sixth-inning homer off Jim Poole was the only run of the game. The Braves had won the World Series. When Deion Sanders drenched Tim McCarver, he was symbolically drenching everyone who said we couldn’t “seal the deal,” win “the big burrito.” We thought that dream would never end. But, like all dreams, it did. The Atlanta Braves won the AL East for the next nine years, and even revisited the fall classic several times, but never again came home with the title. Ted and I divorced in 2001, and he soon was no longer the owner of the Braves. And, last year, the final indignity befell them: they failed to win the division, or even the wild card.

I am no sabermetrician; they didn’t have anyone to tutor me in algorithms on the set of “Barbarella.” But I do a little research here and there, and I am shocked at how pessimistic everyone is about the Braves’ chances this year. Of course, no one is exactly doing backflips over the hated New York Mets either, not with that pitching staff. (Tom Glavine aside, of course.) But the Philadelphia Phillies? Seriously? I mean, it’s true that they have some talented players. But their outfield is uglier than Dabney Coleman’s back hair, and by supporting Brett Myers as their #1 pitcher they are just asking for some bad karma. (Of course, as a born-again Christian, I don’t technically believe in karma…but if you have ever read “The Secret” you know what I’m talking about. Remember: good thoughts bring forth good fruit; bullsh*t thoughts rot your meat!)

I would just challenge you all to look inside yourselves and tell us all why you are doubting Atlanta’s chances this year, is all. The team is great! The Jones boys are healthy and happy this year, and dear little Édgar bounced back just like my film career did when I made “Monster In Law.” We’ve got rising stars in Jeff Francoeur, Brian McCann, and Chuck James, and sleeper guys at first (go Scotty go!), at second (go Kelly go!) and in left (go Ryan go!). And with veteran pitching leadership like John Smoltz, Bob Wickman, and Tim Hudson, we can’t go wrong.

And don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Mr. Bobby Cox! I am still furious at you for your domestic abuse; but, as Pastor Dennis says, I must hate the sin but love the sinner. And I do love you dearly, you crusty old buzzard. I’m glad you’ve stopped drinking, I’m glad you’ve stopped beating your wife. Now just start winning!

The gloom-and-doom predictions for the Braves this year sit uncomfortably, just like I did in those blue seats 12 years ago, trying desperately to “do the chop” while watching David Justice hit that home run. (Oh my, I just remembered he was yet another spousal abuser. I’m beginning to sense a pattern.) I just know we’ll win the division this year, and the pennant, and the World Series itself. After all, there are a lot of us who love the Braves — and we’re all praying madly. Remember, as Pastor Dennis so often says, “The oak sleeps in the acorn. The giant sequoia tree sleeps in its tiny seed. The bird waits in the egg. God waits for his unfoldment in man. Fly on, children. Play on.” Well said!

Jane Fonda is an award-winning actress, fitness personality, and author. Her book “My Life So Far” was a huge bestseller in 2005.