Aaron Boone’s home in Greenwich, Conn., is deeply camouflaged by the lush foliage — you need a GPS just to navigate the long, winding driveway. But there’s no mistaking the 2018 Mercedes S560 parked in front, its massive engine idling.

Boone is already behind the wheel, hands at 10 and 2 o’clock, peering out through his shades.

“You ready?” he asks evenly. It’s not a question, it’s a declaration: He’s ready. We embark on what will be a 60-minute Sunday drive down the Hutch, the Cross County and I-87 to the Stadium, during which time Boone never once guns the 463 horses under the hood. He keeps a steady 55-60 mph; the ride is so comfortable the road feels like it’s liquefying beneath the chassis.

Boone’s driving style is as serene as his music choices on Sirius-XM — he listens to The Bridge, which offers a steady loop of Toto, Journey and Chicago. The volume is turned down low, however, and thanks to German technology, the engine is virtually silent. We are incubated as we discuss the Red Sox, Joe Torre, CC Sabathia, Boone’s role in the clubhouse, his demeanor in the dugout. None of these topics puts a dent in Boone’s Zen-like calm.

His day had started like most at home: hanging with his wife, Laura, and children, who were busy FaceTiming with their friends. The Boones just moved to Greenwich from Arizona a month ago, so they’re still in last stages of unpacking.

But one thing Boone did not do is read the papers, listen to talk radio or name-check himself on Twitter.

“Joe Torre told me that when I first got to New York in [2003 as a player],” Boone said. “He said, ‘Don’t read anything.’ I’ve taken that advice.”

Boone’s aversion to the tabloid chatter, the way he seems to float above it all, makes it easier to understand why general manager Brian Cashman was so intrigued while interviewing a candidate who had never managed a day in his life.

During a six-hour vetting process last November, Boone’s fluency with analytics was breathtaking. The Yankees’ stat gurus produced a spreadsheet of the 2017 team’s performance data — but without identifying the players — and asked Boone to make out his 2018 lineup card. Not only did he outperform the other candidates in this blind test, he nailed the exact batting order the staff had recommended for this season.

That alone set Boone apart, but there was more to him than just arithmetic. Boone was the anti-Joe Girardi, whose constant churning sabotaged his bond with the Yankees, especially the younger ones.

Boone is too respectful of Girardi to compare their managerial styles or even mention his predecessor by name. But he nevertheless says: “Emotional stability and consistency are important in this seat. I always admired that about Joe [Torre]. You have to be authentic.”

I asked if he ever gets mad. “I yell at umpires a lot,” Boone said, even if those dugout eruptions don’t seem to come naturally to him. A truer test of Boone’s patience would come two nights later in St. Petersburg, Fla., after Gary Sanchez’s apparent half-effort on a game-ending ground ball against the Rays.

This could have mushroomed into Boone’s first crisis had the Yankees not ultimately discovered Sanchez was playing with a serious groin injury. The fact he will be disabled for upwards of a month effectively silenced critics who accused Sanchez of defying the all-for-one ethos the Yankees have crafted under Boone. Long before the Sanchez controversy, the manager had established his belief in clubhouse chemistry. He repeats that platform in the car: “I believe in culture.”

I stop him right there: Culture? In an age in which advanced analytics have rendered the intangibles obsolete? Boone nods.

“I believe in numbers, but I believe in the culture of a clubhouse and who we have in there,” he says. “We have CC and Gardy [Brett Gardner]. So many things come up in the course of a major league season that if you’re weak culturally, it’ll send you into a spiral.”

Boone was no doubt weighing his political options when reporters asked about the optics of Sanchez’s poor effort on the base paths. The manager was non-committal, insisting he needed to review video of that final sequence before passing judgment. Smart man: He’s aware of the damage Girardi inflicted upon himself by publicly criticizing his catcher for a lack of hustle last year.

Instead of staring into the YES cameras and tersely saying Sanchez “has to do better” the way Girardi did, Boone instead said, “I believe in the player, I believe in the person” as Sanchez was returned to the disabled list a day later. Boone handled a potentially volatile situation with restraint and was rewarded for it.

Clearly, Boone is betting on a light footprint to carry him through his first year in the dugout, even if it makes him a background figure to the public. An SUV pulls up next to Boone’s Mercedes. The occupants, several of whom were wearing Yankees gear, get a good, long glimpse of Boone. They change lanes and drift away after a few moments, unaware or at least unmoved by the brush with the Yankees’ manager.

“Anyone ever recognize you on the road?” I ask.

Boone laughs.

“No … maybe when I get to the Stadium, some kids are waiting,” he says. “But generally, no.”

To this day, Boone has a scar that runs the length of his chest, a telling clue to the imperturbable peace that wafts over him. When the rookie manager was only 36, he underwent open-heart surgery to repair a defective aortic valve and replace a section of the aorta.

Only 2 percent of Americans are born with this congenital flaw, which typically doesn’t require medical intervention until a person’s 50s or 60s. Most people have three aortic valve leaflets. Boone was born with two, and doctors told him during his college years he would someday need the operation.

But just before the start of the 2009 season, during a routine physical with the Astros, Boone learned the condition was worsening. He needed the surgery immediately. Boone insists he was unafraid of having his chest opened up, but family members recall it differently.

“It was a humbling time for Aaron, how much it scared him,” said his brother, Bret. “Aaron was always a churchgoer, but [the surgery] took it to another level. It made him a better person and better dad.”

Indeed, despite his faith and the doctors’ assurance he would be OK, Boone nevertheless wrote letters to his then-pregnant wife, his children and then another to his parents — “just in case” he didn’t wake up. Aaron handed the notes to his best friend, Ryan Stromsborg. No further instructions were necessary.

If the surgery did, indeed, change Boone, it has created a man universally respected in the baseball community. Boone is funny and kind, a practical joker who can impersonate anyone. Even today, Boone can still nail A-Rod on demand, down to the pursed lips as he peruses the stands from the batter’s box.

Ichiro’s between-pitch, sleeve-tugging routine? In his sleep.

Torre? Easy. He’s got the plodding walk to the mound as if it’s 1998 and it’s time to pull Pettitte for Rivera. Boone can’t quite explain the gift — “if I feel ya, I feel ya” — but the ability to channel others is only part of what makes him an effective leader. It’s that sixth sense, knowing who can be pushed and who needs a softer touch and still get the same results.

His brother Bret hit for more power and had the more successful major league career, but the famous edge in Bret’s personality is nowhere to be found in his easy-going brother. Bret calls Aaron “the likeable Boone.”

His father, Bob, a major league legend as well, added: “Aaron was always the kid who went to the kids who had no friends in school. Aaron became their friend. That’s the kind of person he was from the very beginning.”

This was true even at ESPN. Time and again, Boone stood up for Jessica Mendoza when she first joined the Sunday night broadcast and became a target of traditionalist criticism. Mendoza, a former U.S. Olympic softball player, was told she was unqualified to offer commentary on baseball — different sport, different strategies, different career path than someone like Boone.

Mendoza turned to her partner for support.

“Aaron was like a brother to me; I opened up to him and trusted him,” she said. “I found that he’s different. Baseball players tend to be conformists. By the very nature of the sport, things that are out of the ordinary are seen as a negative. But he always had a way of simplifying things.

“People would tell him, ‘I can’t believe you’re working with a woman’ — I’m sure he even heard it from his own family — and Aaron would just cut them off and say, ‘It’s going to be fine.’ He had this way of calming me down when the conversation went in that direction. He said, ‘Jess, stop talking about being a woman. Stop worrying. Just talk about baseball.’ ”

Boone had one other trick up his sleeve. Thirty seconds before going on the air, with an audience of nearly two million viewers waiting, Boone would look at Mendoza and mock-shriek, “Oh my God, the lights are about to go on and I’m freaking out!” Mendoza laughed at the recollection. “Of course he wasn’t freaking out. The only one freaking out was me. But he totally made me laugh and calmed me down.”

We’re about halfway to the Stadium when Boone has to ease off the accelerator. A sea of brake lights ahead prompts him to check the GPS on his iPhone. “Looks like we’ve got some traffic,” he says. If he’s worried about showing up late, he doesn’t say so. Besides, it’s still nearly seven hours before the first pitch of an 8 p.m. game against the Mets. Even then, Boone says, “Larry [Rothschild, Yankees pitching coach] is already there.”

Between Rothschild and hitting instructor Marcus Thames, much of the pregame machinery is supervised by Boone’s staff. He’s more of an overseer than hands-on supervisor, at least with strategy meetings. Before every series, the Yankees will break down how they will attack that night’s opponent (Thames) and how they will prevent runs from being scored (Rothschild).

Boone is more about vibe than details. He wants the Yankees to know he will have their backs and that they will never see him grinding his teeth in the dugout in the ninth inning. The era of Girardi’s anxiety came to an official end on the first day of spring training. I asked Boone how long it took for him to explain that philosophy to his players in Tampa.

“You’re talking about that first meeting?” he asked. “It lasted about 60 seconds.”

The traffic starts to thin out, we continue talking about pressure. The Red Sox are pulling away in the East; the wild card looms as the Yankees’ only path to the postseason. The thought of distilling a 162-game season to just nine innings is a bummer for any team. But it would be a particularly crushing end for the Yankees to see their .650 winning percentage go to waste because they couldn’t catch the Sox.

But Boone wouldn’t indulge the growing unease among the ticket buyers.

“I think that’s one of the questions that does annoy me: ‘Are you worried?’ I mean, what does worrying do for anyone?” he said. “Of course I like it when [the Red Sox] lose, but we’re either good enough or we’re not. If all you’re going to do is worry about results on any given night, you’ll play tight. And that’s how this game will knock you to your knees. There has to be a balance of pouring yourself into preparation and saying, ‘Screw it.’ ”

That’s the kind of Zen that Girardi never understood, even though he loved the job so much he cried the day Cashman told him he wasn’t being brought back.

It remains to be seen whether Boone can go one step further than Girardi did last season and take the Bombers to the World Series, but if being calm, hip and young counts for anything, this is more than just a crazy experiment Cashman hatched last November. Boone is already the future.

Award-winning writer Bob Klapisch has covered the Yankees and Mets for The Post, Daily News, Bergen Record and USA Today. He is currently collaborating with Rolling Stone’s Paul Solotaroff on a book about the 2018 Bombers.