The Red Sox, Fenway, and the Annual Ritual of Opening Day Delusion

There are a few things in life that will never leave you no matter how much time passes. Your high school crush. The theme song to Cheers. And that irrational, annual, deep-down belief that this Red Sox season might actually be the one.

So here we were—Opening Day 2025 at Fenway Park. Fenway buzzing like it was 2007 again, except with slightly more crypto bros in the crowd and less Manny Being Manny. The sun came out, the beers were $15.75, and my section had a guy in a faded Ellsbury jersey yelling about launch angle like he was pitching a TED Talk. Everything felt right.

That’s the power of Opening Day in Boston. It’s like Thanksgiving dinner if everyone wore David Ortiz jerseys and yelled “Let’s go!” instead of talking politics. It’s part baseball, part religion, and part masochistic performance art. Even if you know the team’s going 81-81 and missing the playoffs by eight games, you show up like it’s Game 7 of the ALCS. Because maybe—maybe—this is the season where the ghosts of post-2018 finally stop haunting us.

Let’s talk about the pregame for a second. Fenway looked good. Real good. Like when your ex posts that one picture where they suddenly look like they just walked off a Vogue set and you briefly forget all the emotional damage. The Monster was sparkling. The grass looked like Augusta National. They rolled out some legends—Jim Rice, Dwight Evans, Pedro (who’s slowly morphing into the Dominican Yoda of Boston), and even Tek gave a wave from the dugout, looking like he could still throw out half the league.

Then came the intros. I won’t lie—half of this year’s roster required a quick Google. A lot of new faces, a few familiar ones, and a general sense of “Oh, this guy? He’s on the team now?” But that’s how it goes these days. We don’t build rosters anymore—we rent them. The Red Sox have been operating like a mid-budget Netflix drama: some young, unproven stars, a couple of reliable vets, and a plotline that may or may not stick the landing.

Ceddanne Rafaela got some cheers. The guy covers center field like he’s trying to make amends for Jacoby Ellsbury’s entire post-2009 career. He’s fun. He hustles. He smiles like he doesn’t know we’re going to boo him the first time he goes 0-for-12 in May. But for now? He’s ours. We love him. He’s the new crush. Just don’t trade him for a fourth starter and a bucket of Fenway Park dirt in two years, please.

As for the game? Oh, it was exactly what you’d expect if you’ve watched more than 30 Red Sox openers in your life.

And yet—and this is where it gets weird—I still left Fenway with that dumb, irrational smile. That “this was fun, right?” kind of grin. Because that’s what Opening Day does to us. It lies. It seduces. It tells you the bullpen will figure it out. That the kids are all right. That the front office’s “sustainable competitive model” is just around the corner from greatness.

Opening Day is not about logic. It’s about tradition. About walking through the turnstiles, grabbing a Fenway Frank that tastes suspiciously like 1998, and yelling at the ump like your grandfather used to. It’s the one day where the standings don’t matter, where the record is 0-0 (or 0-1, I guess), and the whole season stretches out like a road trip playlist—long, unpredictable, and full of questionable choices.

So here’s where we stand: The 2025 Red Sox are a little weird. A little messy. A little “please, for the love of Yaz, let this team be fun.” There’s potential. There’s youth. There’s Devers. That alone gives us a fighting chance in the AL East Thunderdome, where four teams are playing chess and we’re kind of halfway through a game of Uno.

But you know what? I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after. Because that’s what we do. Because hope, like Fenway Park itself, never really goes away.

Even if the bullpen does.