Dear Josh:   
       
        The fact that you've opened this letter is a good sign. After Sunday's game versus the Phillies I expected you to do one of a few things with these pages; tear them into confetti with your teeth, find Pedro Feliz and shove them up his nose, or maybe fold them into one of those origami fortune tellers to ask it why the Phils were hitting your stuff more than Brad Penny hits the buffet line. Don't get me wrong--I love your intensity. Your oft-criticized temper only speaks to your passion for the game, and besides, what do I care if you reel off more obscenities during your starts than an Ozzie Guillen/Bobby Cox Cursing Contest? I watch baseball with friends in ballparks and bars, not preschools. 
       
        On that note congratulations are in order for earning high honors on Maxim's "Baseball's Worst Tempers" list. Intimidation is an integral part of a pitchers arsenal and since Papelbon owns the most menacing breathing techniques, Penny's opponents fear he will eat them, Matsuzaka threatens to bore batters to death, and Wakefield--well, Wake baffles more than he frightens--you just stick with the four-letter language. Swear on, Sir.
       
        You see, I'm also an infamously sore loser. My role model for competition while growing up was my older brother Dominic. Thanks to Dom I can fling a Monopoly board with flair, boot a basketball with perfect pomposity, and perform a post-win "end zone dance" that would make Deion Sanders come out of retirement to challenge it. This is why I sincerely appreciate the heat you bring to the hill, Becks.

        Surprisingly, it was no better encapsulated on Sunday than when you had a bat, not a ball, in your hands. The sixth inning spank you put on J.A. Happ's failed four-seam fastball was the most heated offense I've seen all season. You didn't even look like you enjoyed it, oh no--I think it only made you angrier. Remember spitting out your gum between first and second base? That Dubble Bubble had more velocity than the changeup you used to strikeout Shane Victorino.
           
        But enough of that outing.
           
        The reason I'm writing is because of a text message I received yesterday during the game: "Lester > Beckett. Sorry."
           
        That was it.
   
        One simple mathematical inequality that questioned--nay, rejected Shaq-style into the third row--your pitching proficiency. Well Josh, I like math as much as I like losing board games suitable for kids ages 3-8 but I had to go to the stats and investigate this equation on your behalf.     Wins and losses: Your record stands at 7-3 whereas Lester has thrown for 5-5; ERA: You're edging Lester's 4.76 average with 4.15; Innings: You've eked Jon out again-- 82.1 to 81.1; Hits: Batters have gotten to you 78 times with seven homeruns and to Lester 81 times with 11 homeruns. Jon's only got your goat with fewer walks and more strikeouts: He recording 28 and 96 and you with 32 and 81 respectively. What about WHIP? They're identical: 1.34.
   
        What do all of these numbers mean? Statistically you remain the Red Sox ace despite a start that had you ranting and raging in the dugout. But I'm not playing favorites like my ill-informed friend. I think it means that Sox fans are lucky to have more than one pitcher spitting impressive stuff even though they've stumbled some. So let's think of Sunday as exactly that; just a Philadelphia shaped bump in the road. If you need to curse into your glove until it blushes, fire-punch some paper cups, or maybe even get yourself restrained by Varitek then go for it. Or maybe you could channel that passion into your pitching and punish the Braves next Saturday.

        Either way Beckett--I like your *@%ing style.
               
                Sincerely,
                        Sportsgal