Sometime around the third inning Friday evening, as we sat in our upper deck aerie and watched the Yankees battle the Red Sox, my son Nick and I gestured at the weirdly placid crowd and exchanged shrugs of confusion.
Once upon a donnybrook, to attend a Red Sox clash with the Yankees was like getting an engraved invitation to watch Visigoths trade ax blows with the legions of imperial Rome.
This night, we heard no frenzied screams or vulgar chants demanding that Red Sox players commit physically impossible acts. It was as menacing as an accountants’ convention.