The baseline isn’t a superstar carrying everything anymore. It’s about whether the younger core holds up once the pressure shows up every night. When Casas stays patient and still unloads when he gets his pitch, the lineup feels dangerous instead of hopeful. When the timing slips and the strikeouts stack, innings die fast and Fenway gets quiet in a way everyone notices. Rafaela’s glove keeps him in the lineup no matter what, but the at-bats are under a microscope. We’re watching approach more than box scores right now, even if we pretend otherwise.

Pitching is still where the tension lives. Bello’s starts feel like checkpoints. When he’s commanding the fastball early, the whole night settles. When he starts fighting himself, you can feel the unease by the third inning, people checking the bullpen before they want to. The back end of the rotation still feels like borrowed time. Every short outing pushes stress onto a bullpen that already feels one reliable arm short.

Late innings remain a nightly adventure. Kenley still spikes the heart rate even when it works. The bridge to him is a constant shuffle, and every one-run game feels like it’s decided by nerve more than stuff. We’ve flinched too many times not to.

Fenway itself is part of the story again. Cool nights. Wind killing balls to right. Line drives screaming off the Monster. You can tell when a homestand matters before anyone says it. Rival energy creeps in fast. We show up not because it’s settled, but because it isn’t. Because being there while it’s messy and unresolved feels different than catching it once the answers are already written.