“Stinky Yankees” was one of the first things I ever learned to say. I didn’t grow up in Boston—born and raised in Arizona—but my Dad’s a Boston kid through and through, so I was doomed to love the Red Sox and hate the Yankees before I could figure out what a double play was. He’d plop me in front of our old TV, NESN cutting through the desert heat, and ramble about the Green Monster, Bill Buckner, and the heartbreak that stuck to the Sox like dust on a windshield. I didn’t get the game as a kid, but I got him—his passionate voice lighting up the room, the way he’d smack the armrest when we blew it, how he’d glare at the screen whenever Jeter or A-Rod stepped up, like they’d kicked his dog.
I couldn’t stand those two. Jeter with that dumb grin, like he was baseball’s golden boy. A-Rod strutting around, acting like he owned the diamond. I’d yell, “Get outta here, A-Rod!” and Dad would crack up, mess up my hair, and say, “That’s my boy.” I learned to spell “Garciaparra” before I could spell “house”—N-O-M-A-R, scratched all over my notebooks in wobbly kid handwriting. Nomar was my guy—gritty, real, not some Yankee show-off with a manicure.
We had this Rottweiler named Pedro, after Martinez, the pitcher who’d stare down batters like he was ready to scrap in the alley. That dog was a beast—pure muscle, growling low whenever we hollered at the TV. My closet was painted like the Green Monster, this beautiful green wall I’d stare at every night, dreaming of smashing a homer over it someday. That room was my Red Sox hideout—David Ortiz bobbleheads teetering on the shelf, Manny Ramirez stickers peeling off the door, Jason Varitek posters tacked up crooked, baseball cards scattered across the floor.
I was seven when 2004 hit. Didn’t have the Curse weighing me down like Dad did, but that year sank into my bones. The ALCS against the Yankees—I can still see it, clear as day. Down 3-0, Dad chain-smoking on the porch, grumbling about Bucky Dent and ’86, me hugging Pedro on the couch. Then Roberts swipes second, and the air shifts. Papi crushes that homer in Game 4—Dad’s screaming so loud the neighbors probably hated us. We didn’t sleep for days, glued to every pitch, and when they swept the Cardinals, I bawled like a kid, snot everywhere. Dad pulled me into a hug, squeezing so tight I thought my ribs would crack, tears in his eyes too, happier than I’d ever seen him. That team—Papi’s big laugh, Schilling’s bloody sock, Manny being Manny—they hooked me for life.
I didn’t live through the brutal years like Dad or those old-timers with their ’67 stories. Didn’t see Buckner’s ball roll through or feel ’78 twist the knife. But ’04 dragged me in anyway. It wasn’t just a win—it was a giant middle finger to the Yankees, to fate, to every prick who’d ever laughed at us. It was ours. And it kept going. ’07 rolled around, and that fire flared up again—another title, another rush, the Sox proving they weren’t a fluke. ’13 hit after the Boston bombing, and it was bigger than baseball—a gritty, gutsy win for the city, like icing on the cake. Then ’18 came, pure domination, a loud “Take that!” to the Yankees, and I soaked up every minute. The roster changed, the years piled on, but that Red Sox magic? It never left me.
Then 2024 came. I was 26, finally made it to Fenway—against the Yankees, no less. All day I had goosebumps waiting for that game. Walked through those gates, and it hit me like a fastball. The smell—hot dogs, spilled beer, grass, history—nearly knocked me off my feet. The Green Monster loomed, huge and real, not just my closet wall anymore. I stood in those rundown wooden bleachers, yelling “Yankees suck!” with 37,000 other lunatics, throat raw, strangers slamming into me when Soto whiffed in the ninth. Beer splashed my shoes, I was laughing, maybe crying a little—I don’t know, man, it was the best day of my life.
I’ve got two kids of my own now, already rocking Red Sox gear and learning to hate the Yankees. We’ve got a dog named Mookie—yeah, I jumped the gun a bit there—and I tell them about Duran and Devers, hating Judge and Cole, about ’04 when we flipped the script. They’re too young to get it, but I’ll take them to Fenway someday, point at that big green wall, and say, “This is us. This is home.” Win or lose, choke or claw back, I’m a Red Sox fan ‘til I’m gone—‘cause it’s not about the score. It’s the dirt, the noise, the ghosts, the way it tears you up and patches you back together. It’s family.
Go Sox.
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