Aroldis Chapman’s Streak Finally Snaps as Red Sox Capitalize on Rare Mistake

For weeks, Aroldis Chapman had been the immovable object at the back of the bullpen, a flame-throwing closer whose triple-digit fastball and biting slider seemed immune to pressure. But on a cool night at Fenway Park, baseball’s inevitability caught up with him. In a 5–3 Red Sox win that felt like a September statement, Chapman’s run of dominance came to a sudden, dramatic halt.

The game began typically enough. Chapman entered in the ninth inning protecting a one-run lead, his usual intimidation on display as the Fenway crowd buzzed. The first batter worked a patient at-bat, fouling off two fastballs before drawing a walk. A bloop single followed, and suddenly the margin for error was gone. Chapman uncorked a 101-mph heater to Rafael Devers, but the Boston slugger turned it around with a screaming line drive off the Green Monster, tying the game and igniting the crowd.

Moments later, a sharp grounder up the middle plated the go-ahead run. Chapman stood on the mound, hands on hips, as the Red Sox dugout exploded in celebration. The streak—scoreless appearance after scoreless appearance—was over.

“Look, at one point, I was gonna give it up,” Chapman admitted afterward, his voice calm but reflective. “That’s baseball. You compete, you give everything, and sometimes the other guys beat you. Tonight, they beat me.”

Manager Aaron Boone echoed the sentiment, offering perspective on his closer’s rare stumble. “He’s been phenomenal all season,” Boone said. “Nobody is perfect. He’ll bounce back, and we have complete confidence in him.”

The Red Sox, meanwhile, embraced the win as a measure of their resilience. Devers called the rally “a total team effort,” crediting patient at-bats and a refusal to be intimidated. “Chapman is one of the best in the game,” Devers said. “But we stayed locked in and took advantage of the few mistakes he made.”

Fenway Park pulsed with energy long after the final out. Fans lingered in the aisles, savoring the rare sight of Chapman leaving the field without a save. The Red Sox players lingered on the top step of the dugout, exchanging fist bumps and smiles as they absorbed a victory that felt larger than a single game in June.

For Chapman, the night served as a reminder of baseball’s unforgiving nature. His fastball still touched 101 mph, his slider still darted with late bite, but the margin between dominance and defeat is razor-thin. Even the game’s most feared relievers eventually yield to probability.

The Yankees will lean on Chapman again soon—his track record all but guarantees it. But this loss, this snapped streak, will linger as a testament to the Red Sox’s persistence and the sport’s inherent unpredictability. Baseball, after all, spares no one from the law of averages.

As the clubhouse quieted and reporters filed out, Chapman packed his gear with his usual deliberate pace. The streak was gone, but his reputation as one of the game’s premier closers remained intact. And for the Red Sox, a single night’s triumph against a seemingly untouchable arm served as proof that, on any given night, baseball belongs to the team willing to battle until the final pitch.