We’ve been here before. High on hope, finally talking ourselves into believing something might be happening, and then very quickly being reminded that baseball does not care about our feelings. When I last wrote, the Red Sox had just finished off the Yankees in a 4-game sweep in about the most Red Sox way possible. Down two runs in the bottom of the 10th, against the Yankees, and somehow walking it off. It was dramatic, it was fun, it was exactly the kind of game that make

If you had told Red Sox fans a week ago that Boston would sweep the Yankees in a four-game series, most would've laughed. Not because the Red Sox aren't capable of beating New York, but because nothing about this season has suggested they're capable of sustaining that kind of baseball against anybody, never mind their biggest rival. And yet, that's exactly what happened. Four games. Four wins. A sweep of the Yankees that reminded everyone why this rivalry still matters,

The calendar says June, but the reality in Boston feels a lot more like late July. When a season starts slipping away before the Fourth of July, every conversation eventually lands in the same place: the trade deadline. Nobody in Red Sox Nation wants to hear the word "seller." We spent an entire offseason talking ourselves into a contender. Craig Breslow added veterans. The roster looked deeper. The young core was supposed to take another step. Instead, the Red Sox have s

Fenway Park is supposed to help the Red Sox. That is not exactly some deep baseball thought. It is kind of the whole point. You build a team for 81 games at home. You understand the wall. You understand the corners. You understand the weird angles, the short porch in left, the huge gap in right center, the wind, the pressure, the noise, all of it. Other teams are supposed to come in and feel like they are playing inside a baseball museum that also happens to have traps hid

I never thought I'd be sitting here in early June looking at the standings and finding more comfort in Worcester than Boston. Yet here we are. Most Sundays this season have followed a pretty familiar pattern. I watch the Red Sox. I get frustrated. I tell myself not to overreact. Then I sit down and write about them anyway. This week, though, I found myself drifting toward the Worcester Red Sox. Not because they're loaded with future Hall of Famers or because they're do