May 1993
The year and a half following Tony Stark's legendary toga party had been a whirlwind of achievements that exceeded even Reed's ambitious expectations. But it was the tragedy of Howard and Maria Stark's death in December 1991 that cast the deepest shadow over their senior year. Reed and Ben had attended the funeral alongside thousands of mourners who had come to pay their respects to two of America's most influential figures.
Tony had looked lost and overwhelmed during the service, standing beside the twin caskets with the weight of sudden responsibility and grief etched into his young face. When Reed and Ben approached him after the ceremony, he managed a grateful nod despite his obvious devastation.
"Thank you for coming," Tony had said quietly, his usual charisma completely subdued by grief. "It means more than you know. After everything with the party and our friendship... having you both here..." His voice trailed off, but Reed could see the genuine appreciation in his eyes.
"We're here for you, man," Ben had said simply, clasping Tony's shoulder. "Whatever you need."
Reed had nodded in agreement. "Your parents were pillars of the scientific community, Tony. Your father's contributions to engineering and innovation changed the world, and your mother's charitable work touched so many lives. Their legacy will continue through everything you accomplish."
The encounter had left both Reed and Ben feeling the weight of their own mortality and the importance of the friendships they'd built. Watching Tony face such devastating loss at their age was a stark reminder that life could change in an instant. In the months that followed, their bond had deepened through shared experiences that challenged them in ways completely different from their studies.
The idea for the Boston Marathon had come from Ben in early 1992, naturally. It was a crisp February morning, just two months after the Stark funeral, and they were finishing their usual workout routine when Ben noticed Reed checking his running pace on his new digital watch.
"You know what's crazy?" Ben said, toweling off after their circuit training. "You've been running with me for over a year now, and I bet you could actually complete a real race."
Reed looked at him skeptically. "Ben, there's a difference between our morning jogs around campus and running 26.2 miles with actual athletes."
"Come on, Reed. You've gone from barely being able to run a quarter mile to keeping up with me for five miles straight. Your endurance has improved dramatically." Ben's enthusiasm was infectious, the way it always was when he got an idea in his head. "The Boston Marathon is in April. That gives us two months to train seriously."
Reed had learned over the years that when Ben got that particular look in his eyes, resistance was futile. More importantly, Reed had discovered that Ben's crazy suggestions often led to the most memorable experiences of his life. "Two months? Ben, people train for years to run Boston."
"People train for years to run Boston fast," Ben corrected with a grin. "We just need to train to finish it. Besides, think about it scientifically. It's basically an extended endurance test with measurable parameters. You love analyzing performance data."
"Wait," Reed said, suddenly remembering something he'd read. "Don't you have to qualify for Boston? You can't just sign up like a normal marathon."
Ben's face fell slightly as the reality hit him. "Oh. Right. You need a qualifying time in your age group from another marathon." He paused, thinking. "There's the Vermont City Marathon in late March. If we could somehow run a qualifying time there..."
Reed pulled out his pocket calculator, his analytical mind immediately engaged. "What time do we need?"
"For our age group, under three hours and ten minutes," Ben said, looking suddenly less confident. "That's a seven-and-a-half-minute mile pace for the entire marathon."
Reed stared at him. "Ben, that's incredibly fast. Are you sure we can do that?"
"Honestly? I have no idea," Ben admitted. "But remember that eighteen-mile training run where you dropped me? You were running close to a seven-minute pace for the last three miles. If we can build on that..."
The next six weeks became the most intense training period of Reed's life. Ben restructured their entire routine around speed work and tempo runs, pushing both of them to paces that felt impossibly fast during their morning sessions.
"We need to make seven-thirty feel comfortable," Ben explained as they lined up for another set of mile repeats on the track. "If we can make that pace feel easy, then maintaining it for 26.2 miles becomes possible."
That was how Reed found himself running through the streets of Cambridge at six in the morning, his breath forming clouds in the cold air while Ben kept pace beside him, calling out encouragement and terrible jokes to keep their spirits up during the longer training runs.
"So a neutrino walks into a bar," Ben said during mile eight of a particularly brutal training run. "The bartender says, 'What'll it be?' The neutrino says, 'Nothing, I'm just passing through.'"
Reed groaned, though he was secretly grateful for the distraction. "That's terrible, even by your standards."
"Yeah, but it made you forget about the pain in your legs for thirty seconds, didn't it?"
Reed had to admit that Ben was right. These training runs had become something special, a time when they could talk about everything and nothing while pushing their bodies to new limits. Reed found himself sharing thoughts about his research, his fears about the future, his memories of his parents that he'd never told anyone else.
"You know what I realized during that ten mile run yesterday?" Reed said one morning as they stretched after a particularly challenging hill workout. "I understand now why athletes talk about the mental aspect of sports. There's this moment around mile seven where your body wants to quit, but your mind has to override those signals and keep going."
"That's exactly right," Ben said, impressed by Reed's insight. "It's not about being the strongest or the fastest. It's about being stubborn enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other when everything hurts."
Their training had progressed steadily through February and March, with Ben carefully increasing their mileage each week. But it was during their final long training run in early April that something remarkable happened. They were tackling their longest distance yet, eighteen miles through the rolling hills outside Cambridge, when Reed suddenly felt a surge of energy around mile fifteen.
"Ben," Reed called out as he gradually pulled ahead, his stride becoming more confident and powerful with each step. "I think I've got another gear here."
Ben looked up in complete astonishment as Reed began to genuinely outpace him for the first time in their year of running together. This wasn't just keeping up anymore; Reed was actually pulling away. "Holy cow, Reed! Look at you go!"
Reed was grinning as he maintained his lead, his form looking more natural and efficient than Ben had ever seen it. When they finished the run, Reed was a full minute ahead and barely breathing hard, while Ben was huffing and absolutely beaming with pride.
"I can't believe that just happened," Reed said, bouncing slightly on his toes as the endorphins coursed through his system. "Did I really just outrun you?"
"You didn't just outrun me, Rocky," Ben said, using the nickname for the first time as he caught his breath, his voice filled with genuine amazement and joy. "You absolutely demolished me. That was incredible running, man. A year ago you could barely make it around the block without stopping, and now you're dropping me like I'm standing still!"
Reed laughed at both the comparison and Ben's obvious excitement. "Rocky? Really?"
"Are you kidding? You went from struggling to run a single mile to beating a guy who's been an athlete his whole life. That's the most inspiring thing I've ever seen." Ben was practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "I've been training you like Apollo Creed, and now you're ready to take on anybody."
"Except instead of boxing, I'm just trying not to collapse during 26.2 miles," Reed pointed out, but he was clearly thrilled by Ben's reaction and his own achievement.
"Hey, running a marathon takes just as much heart as stepping into the ring," Ben said seriously, still catching his breath but grinning widely. "Maybe more. In boxing, the fight's over in a few rounds. In a marathon, you've got to keep fighting yourself for over four hours. And after what I just saw, I'm not worried about you at all."
The Vermont City Marathon was a much smaller affair than Boston, with only a few thousand runners compared to the massive field they hoped to join in April. Reed felt more nervous standing at this starting line than he had for any exam at MIT.
"Remember," Ben said as they settled into their pace group, "we're not racing anyone but the clock. Three hours and ten minutes. That's all we need."
The first half of the Vermont marathon felt almost easy. They settled into their target pace and held it steadily, chatting occasionally but mostly focusing on their rhythm. Reed's digital watch showed they were right on track at the halfway point, their split time exactly where it needed to be for a sub-3:10 finish.
But mile eighteen was where their inexperience showed. Reed's legs began to rebel against the sustained speed, and their pace started to drift upward. Ben noticed immediately.
"Reed, we're falling behind pace," Ben said, checking his watch. "We need to find another gear or we're not going to make the time."
"I don't think I have another gear," Reed gasped, his form starting to deteriorate as fatigue set in.
"Yes, you do," Ben said firmly. "Remember that training run where you demolished me? This is exactly the same thing, except now it matters. We're so close, buddy. Don't let it slip away now."
The final eight miles were pure torture, but Ben's constant encouragement and Reed's stubborn refusal to give up kept them moving at the pace they needed. When they crossed the finish line, Ben immediately grabbed Reed's arm to check his watch.
"Three hours, eight minutes, forty-seven seconds," Ben announced, his voice hoarse from exhaustion but filled with triumph. "We did it! We qualified for Boston!"
Reed collapsed onto the grass beside the finish area, barely able to process what they'd accomplished. "We actually made the qualifying time?"
"Not only did we make it, we beat it by over a minute," Ben said, sitting down heavily beside his friend. "Reed, do you understand what just happened? You went from struggling to run a single mile to qualifying for the Boston Marathon in less than two years."
The Boston Marathon registration had closed months earlier, but there were always a few spots that opened up due to injuries or other circumstances. Ben spent the next week calling the Boston Athletic Association daily until they finally had an opening.
"Two spots just became available," the registration coordinator told Ben over the phone. "But you'll need to provide your qualifying times and pay the entry fees today."
"Done," Ben said immediately, not even consulting Reed first. "We'll be there in an hour."
When Ben broke the news to Reed, his friend just stared at him in amazement. "We're really going to run the Boston Marathon?"
"We're really going to run the Boston Marathon," Ben confirmed. "In three weeks."
The morning of the Boston Marathon dawned crisp and clear, with that perfect April weather that made Reed understand why this race was so legendary. As they lined up in their assigned corral with thousands of other runners, Reed felt his stomach churning with a mixture of excitement and absolute terror.
"You ready for this, Rocky?" Ben asked, bouncing slightly on his toes as they waited for their wave to start.
"Ask me again in four hours," Reed replied, trying to keep his voice steady as he looked around at the sea of serious runners stretching in every direction.
When the starting gun finally fired, it took them almost ten minutes just to cross the starting line due to the massive crowd. But once they were moving, Reed felt his nerves settle into the familiar rhythm he'd developed during their training runs.
The first ten miles flew by faster than Reed had expected. The crowds lining the route were incredible, cheering and holding signs, offering water and high-fives to anyone who wanted them. Ben kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out landmarks and cracking jokes to keep Reed's mind off the distance ahead.
"Check it out," Ben said as they passed a group of college students who had set up a sound system blasting classic rock. "They're playing 'Eye of the Tiger.' That's got to be a good omen for you, Rocky."
Reed laughed despite the growing fatigue in his legs. "If we start hearing the Rocky theme, I'm definitely going to cry."
By mile fifteen, Reed was starting to understand what runners meant when they talked about "the wall." His legs felt heavier with each step, and the mental calculations that usually helped him through difficult situations were becoming harder to focus on.
"How you doing?" Ben asked, noticing Reed's pace starting to lag slightly.
"Starting to hurt," Reed admitted. "But I'm okay. Just need to find my rhythm again."
Ben slowed his pace slightly to match Reed's, never making it obvious that he was adjusting for his friend. "Remember what we practiced. Don't fight the pain, just acknowledge it and let it pass through you."
Miles sixteen through twenty were a test of pure mental endurance. Reed's body was sending increasingly urgent signals that this was a terrible idea, but Ben's presence kept him moving forward. They passed the famous Scream Tunnel at Wellesley College, where hundreds of female students created a wall of sound that was both energizing and overwhelming.
"Mile twenty two," Ben announced, checking his watch as they passed another marker. "You're doing incredible, buddy. How are you feeling?"
"Like my legs are going to fall off," Reed admitted, but he was smiling. "But also like I could keep going forever. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense," Ben replied, giving Reed an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "That's the runner's high everyone talks about. Your brain is flooding with endorphins to deal with the physical stress."
But mile twenty-five was when Reed's body finally started to shut down. His stride became uneven, his breathing labored, and he began to sway slightly as they climbed the final hill before the turn onto Boylston Street.
"Ben," Reed gasped, his voice barely audible over the crowd noise. "I don't think I can..."
"Yes, you can," Ben said firmly, moving closer to Reed's side. "You've come 25 miles, Rocky. You're not stopping now. One foot in front of the other. That's all we need."
Reed's vision started to blur as his body fought against continuing, but Ben's voice cut through the fog of exhaustion. "Talk to me, Reed. Tell me about electromagnetic field theory. Anything to keep your mind working."
"Electromagnetic... fields are created by... moving electric charges," Reed managed to say between labored breaths, using the familiar concepts to anchor his consciousness.
"Good, keep going. What happens when you change the magnetic field strength?"
"You can... manipulate the... the force vectors," Reed continued, his scientific training providing a lifeline when his body wanted to quit.
The final four hundred meters were the longest of Reed's life. He could see the finish line banner, could hear Ben shouting encouragement, but his legs felt like they belonged to someone else. He stumbled twice, but Ben caught his arm each time and kept him moving forward.
When they turned the corner onto Boylston Street and saw the finish line banner stretched across the road, both of them started tearing up despite their exhaustion.
"There it is, Rocky!" Ben shouted over the deafening crowd noise. "We're going to make it! Six hundred meters! You're almost home!"
Reed found one last reserve of strength from somewhere deep inside, probably from sheer determination not to collapse in front of thousands of spectators. They crossed the finish line together, arms raised in triumph, both of them grinning like idiots despite being completely destroyed.
The moment Reed stopped running, however, his body finally rebelled against everything he'd put it through. His legs buckled, and if Ben hadn't caught him, he would have face-planted right there in front of the finish line cameras.
"Oh no," Reed mumbled, his face suddenly going pale as his stomach lurched violently.
Ben barely had time to guide him to the side before Reed doubled over and threw up spectacularly onto the grass, his body finally processing the physical trauma of running 26.2 miles. Volunteers rushed over with water and towels, but Reed was too busy retching to be embarrassed.
"That's totally normal," one of the medical volunteers assured Ben as Reed continued heaving. "His body just needs to reset after that kind of exertion."
When Reed finally stopped being sick, he looked up at Ben with watery eyes and managed a weak grin. "Did we really just do that?"
"We really just did that," Ben confirmed, helping Reed to a nearby chair and wrapping him in one of the marathon blankets. "Reed, your official time was 4:47:23. That's incredible for your first marathon, especially after what you just went through."
Reed wiped his mouth with a towel and laughed weakly. "Ben Grimm, I am never, ever going running with you again. This is officially the worst idea you've ever had."
Ben burst out laughing. "You say that now, but give it a week. You'll be asking when we can sign up for New York."
"Absolutely not," Reed said emphatically, though he was still smiling. "I'm retiring from athletics effective immediately. My legs are filing a formal complaint with my brain."
Reed wiped his mouth with a towel and laughed weakly. "I feel absolutely terrible and absolutely amazing at the same time."
"That's the marathon experience right there," Ben said, settling into the chair beside him with his own blanket. "Your body hates you, but your soul is flying."
They sat there for almost an hour, watching other runners cross the finish line and sharing the post-race snacks that volunteers kept bringing them. Reed's color gradually returned, and his stomach settled enough for him to keep down some water and a banana.
"You know what the crazy part is?" Reed said as they finally made their way toward the subway station, both of them walking like they'd aged fifty years. "I actually want to do this again."
Ben burst out laughing. "Reed, twenty minutes ago you were puking your guts out, and now you want to sign up for another marathon?"
"I know it sounds insane," Reed said, still moving with the careful shuffle of someone whose legs had just carried him twenty-six miles. "But there was something incredible about pushing through that wall at mile twenty. When my body was screaming to quit, and my mind just... took over. It was like solving the most complex equation of my life, except the solution was just taking one more step."
"That's exactly what I was hoping you'd discover," Ben said, his voice filled with pride. "The feeling that you can accomplish literally anything if you're willing to push through the pain."
"You know what your problem is, Reed?" Ben said with obvious affection. "You always underestimate yourself. You think because something seems impossible at first glance, it must actually be impossible. But look what happens when you just decide to try anyway."
Their adventures weren't limited to endurance sports. Ben had also introduced Reed to the incomparable experience of baseball fandom, though this had proven more emotionally complicated than either of them had anticipated.
The plan for their Red Sox game had actually started in Professor Williams' Physics 8.03: Vibrations and Waves class, of all places. Reed had been looking forward to the guest lecture that day, since Williams had mentioned they'd be hearing from Dr. Jay Garrick, a physicist whose groundbreaking work on speed and motion had emerged in the 1950s and 60s, building on research he'd started as a graduate assistant in the late 40s.
"Dr. Garrick was one of the pioneers in understanding kinetic energy applications at the molecular level," Professor Williams explained as they waited for their guest to arrive. "His work on energy transfer and acceleration in mechanical systems laid groundwork that we're still building on today."
When Dr. Garrick walked into the classroom, Reed did a double take. The guy looked like he could be Williams' younger brother, maybe late forties at most, with barely a streak of gray in his dark hair and the kind of easy stride that belonged on a track field. But Reed knew from his reading that Garrick had to be in his seventies.
"Morning, everyone," Dr. Garrick said, grinning as he noticed a few students staring. "I know, I know. People always think I've got the wrong classroom. Perks of clean living and good genes, I guess."
A few students chuckled, and Reed found himself immediately liking the man's easy confidence.
"Professor Williams tells me you've been wrestling with wave mechanics and energy propagation," Garrick continued, moving to the blackboard with that same effortless energy. "I thought I'd share some thoughts on what happens when we push those concepts to their limits. How fast can energy move? How efficiently can we transfer it? And what happens when we start thinking about the human body as part of the equation?"
Reed leaned forward in his seat. This was exactly the kind of practical application that made physics feel alive rather than abstract.
"The thing about kinetic energy," Dr. Garrick said, sketching a simple diagram, "is that most people think it's just mass times velocity squared, plug and play. But energy transfer at the molecular level is far more complex. Friction coefficients, thermal dynamics, material stress points. When you start accelerating particles or objects to extreme velocities, you're not just moving them faster. You're fundamentally changing how they interact with their environment."
He turned back to the class, and Reed could see genuine passion in his eyes. "I've spent decades studying the theoretical limits of kinetic acceleration in various materials. The results can be... surprising. We're talking about energy transfers that approach what most people would consider impossible."
During the Q , Reed couldn't help himself. "Dr. Garrick, your work on molecular acceleration suggests you've found ways to minimize energy loss during high-speed transfers. Have you ever considered scaling those principles up for propulsion applications?"
Garrick's eyebrows shot up, and he grinned. "Williams wasn't kidding about you, Richards. That's a hell of a question." He paused, seeming to consider how much to share. "The short answer is yes, I've thought about it. The long answer is that what works at the molecular level doesn't always translate cleanly to macro-scale engineering. But the fundamental principles... those are sound. Why, you working on something along those lines?"
"Electromagnetic propulsion systems," Reed said, feeling his excitement build. "I'm looking at ways to scale up field generation for spacecraft applications."
"Now that," Garrick said with obvious enthusiasm, "sounds like exactly the kind of impossible project that's worth pursuing. Mind if I take a look at your work sometime?"
After class, Reed was practically bouncing as he packed up his notes. Dr. Garrick had given him his contact information and promised to review Reed's latest propulsion calculations. Reed was so caught up in mentally rehearsing what he'd send over that he almost walked straight into Ben, who was waiting by the door.
"Whoa there, genius," Ben said with a grin, steadying Reed with one hand. "You've got that look again."
"What look?" Reed asked, though he was already pulling out his notebook to jot down a few more thoughts while they were fresh.
"What look?"
"The look that says you just had seventeen new ideas and you're trying to process all of them at once." Ben grinned. "Come on, we've got that Red Sox game tonight. Time to expand your education beyond physics."
"You have to understand," Ben explained as they walked toward Fenway Park on a gorgeous September afternoon, "this isn't just about baseball. This is about family loyalty, neighborhood pride, and the kind of suffering that builds character."
Reed studied the crowds of Red Sox fans streaming toward the historic ballpark, noting their mixture of hope and resignation that seemed uniquely Boston. The energy was infectious, even though Reed didn't fully understand its source. "And you're a Yankees fan because...?"
"Because my dad was a Yankees fan, and his dad before him," Ben said with the solemnity of someone discussing religious doctrine. "When you're from New York, you don't get to choose. It's bigger than personal preference."
The approach to Fenway itself was an experience Reed hadn't anticipated. Street vendors hawked everything from peanuts to team jerseys, while the smell of grilled sausages and the sound of competing radio broadcasts created a sensory carnival that was both overwhelming and exhilarating.
"First time at Fenway?" asked a vendor selling programs as they approached the entrance.
"First time at any baseball game," Reed admitted.
The vendor's eyes widened in mock horror. "A virgin! And you're here for Yankees-Sox? Kid, you're either gonna love this sport forever or swear off it completely. No middle ground with this matchup."
Ben bought them programs and scorecards, then spent the walk to their seats explaining the basics of how to keep score. "It's not just about watching the game," he explained. "It's about being part of it. Recording the plays, tracking the statistics, understanding the strategy as it unfolds."
Reed found himself genuinely fascinated by the complexity of the scoring system. "So you're essentially creating a permanent record of every play, every decision, every outcome?"
"Exactly. And at the end of the game, you've got a complete story written in numbers and symbols. It's like poetry, but with RBIs."
Their seats were in the right field grandstand, close enough to see the players clearly but far enough from the field that Reed didn't feel completely out of place among the serious fans. The atmosphere was unlike anything he'd experienced, with 35,000 people united in their passion for the same event.
"Look around," Ben said as they settled into their seats. "See that guy in section twelve keeping score with a fountain pen? He's been coming to games for forty years. That woman with the scorebook that's falling apart? She probably knows the batting averages of every player going back to the Carter administration. This isn't just entertainment for these people. It's religion."
The pre-game ceremonies were elaborate in ways Reed hadn't expected. The national anthem, performed by a local high school choir, gave him chills as 35,000 voices joined in. When the starting lineups were announced, the crowd's reactions told him everything he needed to know about which players were heroes and which were villains.
"Why are they booing that Yankees player so loudly?" Reed asked as the visiting third baseman stepped into the batter's box.
"Because he used to play for the Red Sox, then signed with New York for more money," Ben explained with the tone of someone discussing a war crime. "In Boston, that's considered the ultimate betrayal."
The game itself was electric in ways Reed hadn't expected. The rivalry between the teams created an atmosphere that was part celebration, part warfare, and entirely passionate. Reed found himself caught up in the drama despite not fully understanding all the strategic nuances.
What surprised him most was how much he enjoyed Ben's running commentary on the strategic elements. Ben explained the pitcher's approach to different batters, the significance of defensive positioning, the mental chess match between managers as they made substitutions.
"See how they shifted the infield to the right?" Ben pointed out during the third inning. "The batter's a notorious pull hitter, so they're giving up the left side of the field to take away his power zones."
Reed studied the field positioning with growing interest. "It's like defensive schemes in football, isn't it? You're making calculated risks based on statistical probabilities."
"Exactly! Except in baseball, you can see the strategy unfolding in real time. Every pitch is a decision; every swing is a calculated risk."
By the seventh inning, Reed was keeping his own score and asking increasingly sophisticated questions about situational strategy. When the Red Sox manager brought in a left-handed pitcher to face a left-handed batter, Reed immediately understood the reasoning.
"Platoon advantage," he said with satisfaction. "Same-handed matchups favor the pitcher statistically."
Ben looked at him with obvious pride. "Look at you, understanding baseball strategy like you've been watching for years."
"It's just applied probability theory," Reed replied, then paused. "But I have to admit, there's something compelling about watching the theory play out in real time with actual consequences."
The drama reached its peak in the bottom of the ninth inning. The Red Sox were trailing by one run with the bases loaded and two outs, exactly the kind of scenario that made Fenway Park feel like it might explode from accumulated tension.
"Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs," Ben explained, his voice tight with nervous energy despite his Yankees loyalty. "This is what baseball is really about. All the strategy, all the statistics, everything comes down to one pitch, one swing, one moment of perfect timing or complete failure."
Reed found himself on the edge of his seat, caught up in the drama despite not having any emotional investment in either team. The collective tension of 35,000 people was palpable, creating an energy that felt almost electrical.
When the Yankees' closer struck out the Red Sox cleanup hitter on a nasty slider that broke just off the plate, Ben leaped out of his seat with a victory yell that carried across three sections of increasingly hostile Red Sox fans.
"YES!" Ben shouted, pumping his fist in the air. "That's how you close out a game!"
"Ben," Reed said nervously, noting the murderous looks they were receiving from the surrounding crowd, "maybe we should celebrate more quietly?"
"Are you kidding?" Ben laughed, apparently oblivious to the danger. "This is the best part! The beautiful agony of victory in enemy territory!"
The reaction from the Red Sox fans was immediate and creative. Someone behind them began a chant of "Yankees suck" that spread through their entire section. A middle-aged man in a vintage Carlton Fisk jersey turned around and glared at Ben with genuine hatred.
"You got some nerve, celebrating like that in our house," the man said, his Boston accent thick with indignation.
"Hey, good game," Ben replied cheerfully, apparently immune to the hostility. "Your guys played hard. That slider in the ninth was a thing of beauty."
The man's expression softened slightly, apparently disarmed by Ben's genuine appreciation for the game. "Yeah, well, your closer's got filthy stuff. Doesn't mean I gotta like it."
As they filed out of the stadium with the subdued Red Sox crowd, Reed noticed how the atmosphere had shifted from electric anticipation to resigned disappointment. But even in defeat, the fans seemed to maintain their passion for the team and the game itself.
"That was terrifying," Reed said as they walked toward the subway station, noting how they were getting hostile looks from Red Sox fans who remembered Ben's celebration.
"That was amazing," Ben corrected. "Reed, did you feel that energy? That passion? People care so much about their team that they're willing to defend it against strangers. There's something beautiful about that kind of loyalty."
Reed had to admit that Ben was right. Despite the hostility, there had been something infectious about the crowd's energy, the way total strangers became united by their shared emotional investment in the outcome of a game.
"It's like they're all part of the same extended family," Reed observed as they descended into the subway. "Different personalities, different backgrounds, but all connected by this shared experience."
"Now you're getting it," Ben said with satisfaction. "Baseball isn't just a sport. It's a way people connect with something bigger than themselves. History, tradition, community. Even the disappointment becomes part of the bond."