47,700 scorned lovers disguised as baseball fans, one $765 million 'villain'
The moment was scripted perfectly by the baseball gods. Bottom of the ninth, two runners on, Mets down 6-2, Juan Soto stepping to the plate against Luke Weaver. The very definition of a redemption opportunity after a night spent swimming in a sea of hostility.
This was how it was supposed to end. A towering home run. A momentary hush across Yankee Stadium. A reminder of what they lost when they wouldn’t match Steve Cohen’s $765 million with anything more than their own $760 million.
Instead, Soto lifted a harmless fly ball into the night sky. The fairytale dissolved into the Bronx air. The Yankees (26-18) took down the Mets (28-17) before 47,700 vengeance-minded witnesses, and Soto’s first chapter of the post-Yankees narrative closed with all the satisfaction of a book with its final pages torn out.
If there were any illusions about how Yankee faithful would welcome their prodigal son back to the Bronx, the man who helped deliver their first World Series appearance since 2009 before taking his talents and trademark shuffle to Queens, they evaporated the moment Soto appeared for his first at-bat. The cascade of boos that greeted him rivaled the reception reserved for Jose Altuve, which in the Bronx represents the highest echelon of hatred.
Juan Soto didn’t flinch. With a smile stretched across his face, he doffed his helmet to acknowledge the symphony of scorn. It was the gesture of a man who understood the assignment, who knew exactly what awaited him when he chose the Mets’ $765 million over the Yankees’ $760 million.
The response from the Bleacher Creatures? They turned their backs when he took his position in right field.
“F–k Juan Soto” were the three words that thundered through the Bronx with such regularity – The Athletic counted 38 separate eruptions of the chant – that it became the unofficial soundtrack of the evening. But New York, ever creative in expressing its displeasure, mixed in variations to keep their former hero entertained.
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“We got Grisham!” they chanted, a delicious inversion of last year’s “We want Soto!” directed at Trent Grisham when he filled in for Soto. The baseball gods’ sense of irony remains undefeated, as Grisham, the throw-in piece of last December’s blockbuster trade with San Diego, now has 12 home runs to Soto’s eight.
When Aaron Judge singled in the first inning: “You can’t field!”
And most cutting of all, aimed directly at the heart of what could have been: “You miss Judge!”
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Judge, for his part, quietly authored another chapter in his growing legend: 2-for-4 with a walk and two runs, pushing his batting average to an otherworldly .414. Just another day at the office for the Yankees captain.
Meanwhile, the Yankees’ Plan B after Soto’s departure, the additions of Cody Bellinger and Paul Goldschmidt, combined for five hits, three runs and two RBIs. Baseball’s cruelest lesson is that no one is irreplaceable, even a generational talent like Soto.
Not that Soto was ineffective. He worked three walks across his five plate appearances, seeing 29 pitches total and scoring once.
In Section 106, Cooper Hancock, a 21-year-old who traveled from San Diego, sat wearing a Yankees No. 22 jersey with “Sellout” stapled across the back above the number. He’d stopped at a pharmacy en route to the stadium for supplies.
Juan Soto will cash those checks for the next decade and a half. The Yankees will continue searching for their 28th championship. And somewhere in the middle lies the complicated truth about loyalty, value, and the business of baseball in 2025.
Everyone in baseball understands the calculus behind Soto’s decision. The financial security that extends well beyond his playing career, and the external factors that play a role in selecting a team. Baseball executives, players, and agents recognize the transactional nature of the sport, how sentiment may take a backseat, how loyalty is a fungible concept in a business measured in nine-figure contracts.
But fans? Fans metabolize these decisions differently. Their relationship with players isn’t governed by market forces or agent advisories. It’s built on emotional investment, on the belief that the name on the front of the jersey matters more than the one on the back. When that belief collides with modern baseball’s cold realities, the result is exactly what we witnessed tonight: raw, unfiltered passion.
And somehow, incredibly, this wasn’t even the best part of being a Yankees fan on Friday. As the subway cars rattled back toward Manhattan, phones lit up with news that the Knicks had advanced to their first Conference Finals since 2000 by taking down the Boston Celtics. Meanwhile, the out-of-town scoreboard delivered a perfect sweep: Red Sox lost, Blue Jays lost, Rays lost. The baseball gods may be fickle, but sometimes, just sometimes, they align the universe perfectly.
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