On July 26^th, 2024, I finally took a trip to the temple of baseball to absorb the greatest rivalry in the history of American sports: the Boston Red Sox vs. the New York Yankees. To understand the significance of the moment, it’s necessary to outline what the Red Sox mean to me.

            Boston sports legends embody the spirit of the city, whether it’s by coincidence or by design. There only exists one archetype of human being that can endure the pressures of the stage. They embrace the vitriolic, vicarious viewing from fans whose personal success is symbiotic with that of the team. As a result, a certain fortitude is detectable in these athletes as a result of some Darwinian evolution of players.

Examining the Boston Red Sox’ paramount figure, Ted Williams, reveals the spirit of the city nested within his character. The mystique of The Kid, The Splendid Splinter – or whatever other nickname was given to him – resides in his gruff yet boisterous disposition. He was fueled by the venomous words of sports writers, swinging his bat as if he was cracking their skulls and whacking down newspaper stands – on his way to 521 career home runs, 2654 hits, .344 avg,  and an MLB best career .482 on-base%. That edge kept him chugging around the bases throughout all the success, as he refused to tip his cap to the fans even when he famously belted a home run in his final at-bat. “There goes Ted Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived,” as it was written. He was motivated by spite, from beginning to end, and no external circumstances could reverse that hardware in his psyche. It’s the same M.O. as Boston Legend Tom Brady, who scoured the competitive landscape for any slights or as little as a sideways look that could propel him to reach the extra gear. He was still incensed by his 6^th round, 199^th selection in the 2000 NFL draft, carrying it with him throughout 7 Super Bowl wins and 10 super bowl appearances across 23 seasons. Ted embodied this spirit and simultaneously portrayed the charm of Mookie Betts, The profanity of Bill Burr, the contentiousness of Larry Bird, the wit of Will Hunting and the intimidation factor of Pedro Martínez. Ultimately – like all Boston sports heroes – he was relentlessly committed to his craft like Carl Yastrzemski. In Yaz’s 23 years in Boston, he accumulated a Red Sox record 3308 games, 3419 hits, 1816 runs, and 1844 RBIs, and 646 doubles. Yaz, accomplished this not through flamboyance, but through a Belichickian stoicism.

This workmanlike resolve compelled Ted Williams to dig into the batter’s box in the last game of 1941, when his batting avg was at .3995 (to be rounded to the coveted number of .400). He belted 4 hits. That’s the equivalent of a kid being told he’ll receive an A+ on the final for not showing up, but still taking the test anyways. To me, that’s a pertinent indicator of character. He possessed a level of competitiveness that transcended public adulation. He never played to satisfy anyone else, and I get the feeling that Boston thinks that represents them.

“Never let anyone mess with your swing.”

“Wait for your pitch.”

These integral maxims defined Ted’s hitting approach. A clear, unobstructed vision, even after fighting in two wars in the thick of his Hall of Fame career (’43-45 and ’52-53). He extraordinarily won the hitting Triple Crown before WW2 and after it (’42 and ’47). He led the AL in OPS in every year he played from ’41 to ’49. He led the American League in walks for 6 straight seasons – showcasing his consummate discipline. Ultimately, Boston heroes like Ted reinforce the sentiment that Boston fandom is superior to that of New York: ‘The Big Apple’ is Broadway, Times Square, and obsession with fame and celebrity. Boston is sports. Sure, NY had Joe DiMaggio, the face of baseball during the 1940s, but Ted was better by most objective measures! In the magnificent 1941 season in which Ted batted .406, he was overshadowed by the press around Joltin’ Joe’s record 56-game hit streak from May 15th to July 16^th. Even considering the amazing hit streak that still stands today, Ted was the ultimate player, who lead the major leagues in batting average (.406), on-base% (.553), slugging (.735), home runs (37), runs (135), and walks (147). Because the Red Sox team was worse than the Yankees, DiMaggio won the MVP. These snubs only exacerbate the contempt that Boston fans hold towards New York. Sure, Joe was a great player, but in the minds of Boston fans, he only won because of the NY media publicizing his every word. Ted’s 1.287 OPS in ’41 is second to only Bonds and Ruth. To make matters worse, Ted was robbed of the MVP by another Yankee again the year after: Joe Gordon. He won the hitting Triple Crown with .356 (.34 better than Gordon), 36 HRs (18 more than Gordon), 137 RBIs (34 more than Gordon). And in a Déjà vu, Edge of Tomorrow moment for Ted in ’47,  he lost out to the MVP to DiMaggio while once again winning the hitting Triple Crown.

NY fans have their womanizing DiMaggio, Jeter, Mantle, A-Rod, etc. on their escapades with Marilyn Monroe, Jessica Alba, Mariah Carey and whatever other models they want to date. The Boston greats stick strictly to baseball. If each team was a Beatles song, The Yankees have always felt like more of a pop hit like “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”. It has the obvious mass appeal, girls screaming, and lustrous allure. Meanwhile The Sox provide a more elaborate and enriching experience of “A Day In The Life”. Sophisticated and intricate, but delivered in an elegantly accessible manner.

Still, the contempt from Boston towards NY remains due to the 27 championships they hold vs Boston’s 9. Especially when you consider that the Yankees had zero titles to the Red Sox’ 5 until Red Sox’ owner Harry Frazee gifted Babe Ruth to them in 1920 for $100,000. Babe crushed the home run record in his debut season with the yanks, hitting 54 home runs (second place had 19). The abhorrent act of ineptitude propelled the Yankees dynasty, and a paranoia ingrained into Red Sox fans. “The Curse of the Bambino”, would denote the phenomenon of the Red Sox’s chronic inability to win a world series after 1919, while the Yankees pummeled the competition in the 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s.

The Red Sox next few World Series appearances only affirmed the theory of the Curse – that the Sox were susceptible to some occult misfortune in the big games.

1967: Yaz miraculously and unexpectedly leads the “Miraculous Dream” season for the Sox, racking up hits in 10 of his final 13 at-bats to steal the AL pennant from Detroit and Minnesota. He wins the Triple Crown hitting .326 with 44 HRs and 121 RBIs. The Sox fall short in the World Series to St. Louis.

1975: An epic World Series matchup vs the Big Red Machine of Cincinnati. Rose, Morgan, Bench, Foster, Concepcion VS Rice, Lynn (MVP and ROTY), old Yaz, and Carlton Fisk. 3-2 Reds – Game 6 – Fisk hunches over the plate looking dormant, in a 6-6 tie in the 12^th inning. He hooks a pitch towards the left field pole and famously waves his arms to force the ball into fair ground through some telekinetic power, as Robin Williams reenacts in Good Will Hunting. Ecstasy! Dads hug their kids and rejoice, it’s finally going to happen! … But the Sox lose out on glory in game 7.

1978: One game playoff for the AL pennant vs the Yankees. Bucky Dent sails a ball over the Green Monster, and sends away the Sox’ chance for vengeance.

1986: World Series vs the Mets. Buckner gaffs and the ball snakes through his legs and their hopes are crushed. The Sox blow a 5-2 lead in the 9^th, and squander their most apparent opportunity.

2003: The Sox showdown vs the Yanks on the brink redemption; up 5-1. The most intimidating pitcher of the generation on the mound for the Sox: Pedro Martinez. Pedro preposterously posted a .73 WHIP in 2000, the best ever and only player sub-.9 since. He held a 1.74 ERA while the league average was 4.92 (291 ERA+, best ever).  This was the opportune moment to conquer the demons. Inevitably, the lead evaporated and Aaron Boone sent a walk-off ball into the left field stands and the Yanks back to the World Series: their fans combusted into mania, and left Sox fans sullen.

Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe this was just the destiny Boston had to settle for. Like the 49ers trying to eclipse Mahomes’ Chiefs; or the 00s Colts attempting to surmount Brady’s Patriots. But finally, the euphoric revenge took place in ’04: The U.S. housing bubble was growing, iPod nanos circulating, baggy jeans prevalent, Tobey Maguire’s Spiderman 2 in the works, the Patriots winning their second Super Bowl. It was destined to be the year to launch the monkey off their backs and kill it.

To make it all the more magical, the Sox were down 0-3 in the AL Championship series to the dreaded Yankees of Jeter, A-Rod, and the indominable Mariano Rivera. The fans lamented their fate as the second-place team to NY. Still, this team was tight as a pack of zebras. Kevin Millar declared to Boston Globe reporter Dan Shaugnessy: “Don’t let us get one”. Down 3-4 in the ninth, Kevin Millar drew the first postseason walk off Mariano Rivera in 3 years. It was then all sparked by Dave Roberts stealing second base on the brink of being ignominiously swept. That jolt of energy was all that was necessary to initiate the revolution. Dave Roberts activated the Overtime Contingency like in Severance, and the innies saw the outside world. Once they felt the cold breeze of the outie world, free of the suppressive Lumon-esque Yankees, their mentality irreversibly shifted. A tempestuous roar ensued at Fenway as Papi’s clutch home run in the 12^th set the series to 1-3 games. Joe Buck screamed “See you later tonight for game 5!”.  The Sox were enlightened, sought to rewrite history, and claimed their first title in 86 years against the St. Louis Cardinals.

Yet, 20 years later, even with 3 more titles since then (2007, 2013, 2018), the ghosts still linger. Red Sox fans are like post-trauma victims battling psychological wounds. They’re fearful of the bleak possibility of Aaron Judge wielding a new curse over Boston. Aaron Judge reached 300 home runs quicker than any other player in MLB history. Of course, the Yankees again trot out the most gargantuan stars onto the baseball diamond; just like they did with Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Berra, Jeter, etc. New York is casted in the role of Goliath. If the Sox are dwarfed by the Yankees in regards to star power, they embrace that dynamic by playing into their speed. In a league obsessed with launch angle and home runs, the Sox are subverting the trend by leaning into hustle. Top 2 in the AL in steals in 2024, this underestimated team scavenged a scrappy identity. Resilient Iron Man Jarren Duran– who doesn’t take any rest days– personifies the identity of the team by Forrest Gump-ing every ball in play. He converts singles into doubles, and doubles into triples. Duran has endeared himself to the Boston faithful, formerly maligned as an underwhelming 2016 7^th round draft pick. He reshaped his mentality and the rest of the team aligned. Leading the majors with 14 triples last year, it’s a treat to watch Duran skate around the base path like a tatted up Jason Bourne escaping law enforcement. His red and black Jordan cleats emit sparks soaring into the air, along with specks of infield dirt mix which swirl into mini tornadoes behind him as if on a Cartoon Network Saturday morning special. I often watch with the same naïve joy that accompanies weekend cartoons after a long school week, as Duran swipes a stolen base slip-n-slide style. Seems like the best way to enjoy Red Sox games now is scooping cereal into your mouth. In 2024, Duran was third in AL extra-base hits, and became the first player in MLB history to record 10 triples, 20 homers, 30 stolen bases, and 40 doubles in a season. Scrappy youngsters like David Hamilton and Ceddanne Rafaela follow Duran’s lead with superb athleticism on the base paths. Chaim Bloom may have shamefully traded away Mookie Betts (maybe the second-worst trade in MLB history outside the Babe Ruth trade), but Ceddanne vaccums up littering fly balls in the outfield in a fashion reminiscent of Mookie.

The Sox only have one player left from the 2018 championship team, but he’s a gem. Perhaps the most unappreciated hitter in baseball, Raffy Devers preposterously strung together 6 straight games with a homer in 2024 (Red Sox record). He has slugged the most extra-base hits out of any hitter in the MLB since 2019, and was 6^th in OPS in 2024. It’s a treat to watch Raffy unleash his violent, thrashing swing like the release of a tangled rubber band snapping into place. You can’t help but to think “How does he even see the ball?” as he somehow maintains focus to whack an opposite field shot into the Green Monster. He can catch up to any heater with his bat speed, or golf a curveball at the knees 400 feet while chomping golf-ball sized tobacco. Watching a Devers home run is like watching a John Mayer guitar solo or a Michael Phelps butterfly stroke: it’s more of a dazzling spectacle than it is an athletic feat.

At the game I attended on July 26^th: I emerged from the subway stop at Kenmore to the sight of the ever omnipresent Dunkin Donuts, and a flock of fellow Sox fans rounding the corner inland. The sensations of hot dog aroma and bellowing, drunken crowds pervaded my perception as I caught a glimpse of the rear of the imposing Green Monster guarding the perimeter of the park on Lansdowne street. The moment of confrontation with something you’ve only seen through a TV screen feels hallucinatory. The olive green-like paint job is just as pristine as I thought it would be, yet I might’ve been saying that no matter what it looked like. It’s hard to imagine that the players do not reserve a moment to internalize the history around them before each game.

My seat provided full view of the 10th fielder for the Red Sox which is the Green Monster. Ideally the 37 ft high wall would be high enough to prevent Yankee home runs from exiting the park, but be shallow enough (310 ft deep) to magnanimously grant passage to Sox batted balls overhead. The incongruence of the park facilitates its gamification as a jumbo baseball puzzle for outfielders and hitters to toggle with. Whoever can leverage its anatomy in their favor, will harvest baseball luck. I feel like the Green Monster judges the gameplay, demanding an entertaining spectacle of athleticism. Sort of like the Joaquin Phoenix character in Gladiator, seeking to be sufficiently amused by the raucous in the arena. You can imagine players turning up to yell “ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?”. The historical weight of the park is particularly encapsulated in its aesthetics, its Helvetica font disclosing its advanced age with antique-looking advertisements: “FB Wells since 1866”… I don’t know what company that is, but it must’ve been around when ball players were named “Whitey Ford”. It does however augment the classical aura entrapped by the park. I found myself imagining the score board operators (still the only manual scoreboard left in MLB) tallying Ted Williams’ home runs in the confines of the Green Monster.

I sat down and absorbed the reflected rays of sunshine off the checkered, lush grass during pregame warmups. The park was buzzing with anticipation around our participation in another storied chapter in the rivalry. As the sun set, fans’ roars grew in decibel level, and the probability of a spat between Yankee and Red Sox fans exponentially grew. After Aaron Judge nuked a 3 run homer on the first pitch he saw in the 7^th inning, the air got thin and fans sunk into their seats. Yankee fans capitalized off the opportunity, throwing up an array of gang signs and reveling in the boos hurled their way. The animosity between Sox fans and Yankee fans is like a rehearsed dance number in a Broadway show. Both sides agree to play their roles, to recreationally spar with each other for the sake of the adrenaline rush it provides them as caustic fans. The choreographed dance gives that escape from the day job and immersion into the emotional contours of the game.

Some examples of these sensations are :

The spongy white bread and warm dog in the Fenway Frank topped with sweet ketchup and sour mustard.

Taking a bite at the same instant where you’re flooded with the nourishing smell of fresh dirt and grass,

the circus-like agility of the pitching motion, and the anticipation of a bat crack and a double shotgun banging off the wall.

In a world of AI algorithms, hackers, scammers, fake news, Only Fans, anxiety, isolation, and rampant egotistical behavior, I think that a classic Red Sox-Yankees rivalry game is the perfect antidote. It’s a tradition that’s untouched by these modern issues. From a seemingly superfluous loyalty to a uniform and set of colors, you receive an entrancement into the kaleidoscopic Rubix cube that is the instantaneous randomness of sports. It’s where 10,000 hours of dedication comes to fruition before your eyes in an infinite array of possibilities.  Along this “yellow-bricked road” of baseball ballparks, we find connection to the now facilitated by the senses afforded by the ballpark. From breaking free of our feedback loops, we can transcend space and time and access the inspiration that struck the generations ahead of us. You can feel the presence boomers post in the WW2 MLB in top hats enjoying a Ted Williams masterclass in 1947. In this moment, we unlock a portal to both the past generations and those strangers next to us when we share a high five after a grand slam that ignites the park. Getting out and interacting in the ballpark, which is a tradition that needs to be a part of our culture forever. It’s the perfect time to engage in such nostalgia when a golden age of the rivalry could be brewing again.