There are Ted People and Papi People, and there is no reason why they can’t get along.

I took the Red Sox a bit to task last week for the ad they had taken out in the Sunday Globe. In it the declaration was made that among the nearly 2,000 players who have worn the Red Sox uniform, David Ortiz “stands alone.’’ I said, “Wait a minute. Hasn’t anyone in the Red Sox hierarchy heard of Ted Williams?’’

There was a lot of fallout.

People lined up to defend the athletic honor of the Splendid Splinter. Predictably, there was a clear generational divide. Ted Williams’s final game was on Sept. 28, 1960. In order to make a valid claim that you had actually seen Ted Williams play, you had to be at least 61 years old, and that’s stretching it a bit. That means you were 5. In all likelihood, you probably would have needed to be 7 or 8. And then you weren’t what we could politely label a “sophisticated baseball observer.’’

I’m willing to bet that most of the people rushing to Ted’s defense in this matter have been receiving their Social Security for several years. That’s perfectly understandable.

A common theme of the pro-Ted folks was the DH issue. David Ortiz, they maintain, has been aided by the rule. Writes John Sullivan, “He would have had to play a position — something he cannot do. Even today, he can only play in one league. He would have been finished at 30, 32, at least.’’

The funny thing about citing the DH in this argument is that anyone who followed Ted Williams’s career has to know that had Ted been given the option he very likely would have written Tom Yawkey a check in order to keep him away from the outfield.

This is a man who loved to hit, a man who in his youth famously practiced his swing while standing out in left field. The opportunity to be a DH would have brought great joy to his life. I think it would have been a Ted Williams dream come true.

Now, at least one of his fans says that, contrary to popular opinion, Ted wasn’t all that bad in left. In fact, says Nathan Withington, he was a sly devil out there.

While playing a ball off the wall, says Withington, “He would pretend to juggle the ball and make the throw to second and nail the runner.’’

But I don’t think there is any question Ted would have relished being a DH.

One of the things many readers pointed out on behalf of Papi was the changing nature of the game. Complete games were the rule. Relief pitching was not specialized as it is today.

Had anyone told him the day would come when a manager would employ six pitchers in an inning during a 4-3 game, such as Dusty Baker did Thursday, Ted would have thought it to be some kind of baseball science fiction.

Ted routinely got to see a pitcher four times during a game, and thus had the advantage. He never had to deal with an Andrew Miller or Aroldis Chapman-type southpaw in what we now call a “high leverage’’ situation. But that’s all Papi has ever known. We all knew before those games with the Indians started that Miller would be facing Papi in some big situation.

With regard to my compilation that Ted led the league in an offensive category a career total of 76 times, as opposed to Papi’s 11, Rich Feinberg pointed out that Ted only had to beat out competitors from seven teams, whereas Papi had to do so against either 13 or 14. A counter-argument can be that Ted played against a higher concentration of the best players of his day, that expansion has watered down today’s game. It’s something to chew on.

Many people pointed out that Ted, because of the race barrier that’s not broken until 1947, did not play against all the best players. This, of course, is undeniable. But let the record show that it was Ted Williams, more, perhaps, than anyone, who led the way for the great Negro League stars to become Hall of Famers with his heartfelt endorsement of their cause during his 1966 Hall of Fame acceptance speech. I am sure Ted would have welcomed the competition.

I will confess to loading the deck somewhat here. The ultimate issue isn’t which man was the better player. Even David Ortiz himself has shown continual deference whenever the name Ted Williams comes up. (But Papi does doubt the veracity of the famous red-seat home run, however.) The answer is Ted, period.

What I’m sure the Red Sox ad is alluding to is something that transcends mere statistics or actual accomplishments. We are talking about stature in both the local baseball community and the city of Boston in general. Does Papi really “stand alone’’ in respect and admiration among all the nearly 2,000 men who have worn the uniform?

There is a myth that the fans hated Ted Williams, and vice-versa. The truth is that if ever there was an ongoing love-hate relationship between a truly great player and his fan constituency, it was that between Ted Williams and the citizenry of Boston. John Updike put it as only he could in his seminal essay, “Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu.’’

“The affair between Boston and Ted Williams was no mere summer romance; it was a marriage, composed of spats, mutual disappointments and, toward the end, a hoard of shared memories. It fell into three stages, which may be termed Youth, Maturity and Age; or Thesis, Antithesis and Synthesis; or Jason, Achilles and Nestor.’’

(One edge Ted had was his cache of literary champions. Ain’t none of us today no Updikes to give Papi his proper due, if you know what I mean.)

Stoking the anti-Ted flames were some vitriolic Boston scribes, most notably Dave Egan and Huck Finnegan. And writers back in those days had an influence no one possesses today. But when it was all said and done, people were in complete awe of Ted Williams.

Reader Andy Powell relates an incident in which his father took him to the Hynes for a Ted Williams offseason fly fishing show, armed with a pair of 8-by-10 color photos to be signed. And, yes, Ted signed them.

“It was like we had just met God,’’ Powell explains. “It took my father a half-hour to get the blood circulating in his body.’’

That was the actual reality of Boston’s relationship with Ted Williams. Hence, the tunnel.

Papi may very well hold that position with this generation. I return to Mr. Powell, who, while correctly alluding to “the hyperbole that the current ownership group adds to everything they do,’’ postulates that, “There is something to be said for what Papi has done for this franchise. I don’t think it’s a stretch at all to call him the most important player they’ve had. I don’t compare Ted and David. It’s really not fair to. But there’s nobody more important to this franchise than David Ortiz.’’

Understand, please, the vastly different times and team circumstances. After finishing third, four games out, in 1950, the Red Sox never came closer than 12 games of first place for the remainder of the decade; i.e. the remainder of Ted’s career.

More than ever, Ted was the focus of baseball interest in this town. There was even a second coming and going to and from a war to spice up the plot. Ted was his own 24/7/365 reality show in a baseball vacuum. During that entire decade, Ted was the one who “stood alone.’’

Each represents a specific time and place in Red Sox history. Ted was larger-than-life in a different type of media world. Ted was Ted. He hit a home run in his last at-bat and didn’t deviate from his two-decades policy not to tip his cap. Papi walked in his last at-bat and then came out to bond with his fans after the game. Different times. Different men.

“We love David Ortiz,’’ writes Michelle Frumkin. “His grace, his humor, his postseason heroics, his love for us. He just seems to get it. That’s why he stands alone. At least why I think so.’’

Michelle, you have every right to feel that way. I would just suggest you go read Updike.

Bob Ryan’s column appears regularly in the Globe. He can be reached at ryan@globe.com.