Saying the Red Sox are off to a slow start to the 2026 season is an understatement. As I write this, they just suffered their 27th loss in 46 games. Yet somehow, I still find myself clicking on another highlight video during my golden 25 minutes of lunchtime.
A few years ago, that would have been unimaginable to me.
In Korea, sports felt strangely irrelevant to my life. Sure, I practiced taekwondo for years, but I never understood the appeal of sitting in a crowded stadium just to watch famous athletes play games that lasted for hours. I felt that watching extremely scripted reality shows on TV was a better use of time than watching these people. Sports existed in the background of my life, but the blaring horns, shouts, and booing never made me feel anything.
My dad, on the other hand, is an avid sports enthusiast. He loved basketball so much in college that his girlfriend—now my mom—thought he liked basketball more than her. Naturally, he wanted me to enjoy sports, too. When I was in elementary school, he took me to several professional basketball games in Seoul, hoping I would eventually become interested.
But the game was unapologetically boring.
From my perspective as an impatient elementary school kid, it made no sense to spend more than two hours watching players miss more than half their shots. At the time, I genuinely believed I could play better than some of them.
The fact that my home team never won a single game while I was watching did not help either.
Of course, I now realize how unfair my perspective was. Looking back, these professionals are, at the end of the day, professionals. I could never be that athletic, nor could I play a single sport at such a level.
Another thing I learned was the intensity of sports culture.
When I first moved to America, the zeal toward sports confused me. Teachers casually discussed the Patriots on Monday mornings. Students wore Celtics jerseys to school even during the offseason.
My dad, an avid fan of American sports from his time as an MBA student at Emory during the early 2000s, brought me to Fenway Park two years ago, knowing I had low expectations.
The Red Sox lost, but for the first time, I understood what it means when people say it is more than a game. What mattered was the atmosphere. The crowd standing together for a final strike, the collective booing when rivals are in town, and the random conversations with strangers wearing the same colors were the spirit of sports that I never felt in Korea. Sitting down after the first wave in the stands gave me jitters because it felt surreal that thousands of people were able to coordinate something together, even in this divided world.
I felt this even more strongly at TD Garden during the Celtics’ 2023 playoff run. The arena felt larger, louder, and far more technologically advanced than any basketball venue I had visited in Korea. The massive screens were a beautiful sight, and the audio system made it feel as if the sound could echo for miles surrounding the Garden. The energy inside the building was difficult to ignore.
Slowly, sports became tied to my daily life in America. I started watching highlights. I began to understand rivalries, learn statistics, and obsess over every game, injury, trade, or minor development in each season of the Red Sox or the Celtics.
I used to think Americans were irrationally obsessed with sports. Now I understand that sports are one of the few things capable of making thousands of strangers feel connected for a few hours.
Even when the Red Sox are losing.
Especially when the Red Sox are losing.
Junyoung Hong moved to the U.S. in 2023 and has lived in Belmont since. He is a junior at Belmont High School and is interested in writing about social issues, getting to know people, and playing sports. He plays for the Belmont varsity golf team. He also practices Taekwondo and leads the demo team, which performs at Belmont Town Day every year.