There are certain players you remember for what they did. And then there are the ones you remember for how they made you feel. Mike Greenwell and Tim Wakefield belong to that second group. Not because they were perfect. Not because they were flawless legends. But because they were human in ways that connected with the rest of us—stubborn, loyal, sometimes overlooked, sometimes doubted, and ultimately brave. They wore the uniform of the Boston Red Sox at very different times. Greenwell carr

There was a time when Red Sox fans argued about lineups. About rotations. About whether the bullpen was one arm short or three. Somewhere along the way, the argument shifted. Now it’s not who’s batting cleanup—it’s who’s leaving next, and who’s coming in to explain it. For years, the Red Sox were defined by stars who felt permanent. You watched them grow up. You bought the jersey assuming you’d get more than a couple good summers out of it. You believed—maybe a little stubbornly—that if a player

Behind the intimidating glare was a quiet, generous leader whose impact on the Red Sox went far beyond the box score. Jim Rice was never interested in being liked. Or misunderstood. Or explained. He wanted to hit, do his job, and go home. For a long time, that’s how people read him around here: intense, closed off, intimidating. The kind of guy who looked like he might glare at you for asking an innocent question. Which is funny, because once you got past the surface, Jim Rice turned out to