I am currently broadcasting from the island of all islands, Cape Cod, MA. I’m spending a week with my family in a quaint cottage aside the therapeutic shores of Jimmy Buffett’s paradise. I’m on vacation (wow, haven’t said that one in a while) and everything appears to be perfect. Keyword: appears to be. The pleasant three bedroom one-level house that we rented has a wrap-around deck, and boasts a smorgasbord of Bon Appetit magazines and bird-watching books (so exciting!). And then there’s the television. Ha. Ohhh, the television. Let’s just say it will suit me well for the 5 days or so that I’m here. But I’m not necessarily as worried about the size or model of the TV as I am so much about the things I am SEEING on it. Am I on vacation or am I on vacation? Did our bullpen just ONCE AGAIN splatter salt water on the cherry-blushed cheeks of the young, and blow smoke in the eyes of Red Sox fans alike? Did they seriously genuflect to the likes of Mark Beuhrle and ORLANDO CABRERA of all people? Is our defense so ill-prepared that they don’t even know that when a ball is retrieved in right field, and there’s a runner approaching third base, they should probably throw home just incase they decide to score? Did I not preach Little League tactics and baseball fundamentals in yesterday’s blog? Maybe I should just stop writing about the Red Sox all together and start taking requests on which sport to write about each day. Hey ‘Guy with the infinity sign as your name:’ you want Pittsburgh Steelers jibber-jabber? The Terrible Towel talk is first-priority for Sunday.

I’m so confused about my emotions right now: furious, violated, and helpless. But I’m on VACATION right? Am I not supposed to be overwhelmed with boredom? Hey, I’m so disconnected, that tomorrow morning I’ll have to walk two miles to get my Boston Globe. The Sagamore Bridge is closed and I’m miles away from civilization—on an island affectionately known as Cape Cod. I feel like a 12-year old sitting in homeroom the morning after her 10 closest friends sat front-row at a Hannah Montana concert. My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. Weren’t our boys supposed to juice up their ‘last minute heroics’ nerve right after Mark Beuhrle was pulled in the 8th? Where was my 2-out 9th inning, ‘I’m-sitting-vertically-in-a-fetal-position-sandwiching-a-pillow-between-my-knees-and-chest-while-covering-my-eyes-because-I-can’t-bear-to-look’ hit? Don’t get me wrong, the ChiSox are a fabulous team, and they have the lineup to prove it, but … (sigh)…I think I need to get on my soapbox for a minute.

I’m sick of Manny Delcarmen and his mediocre arm, and I’m sick of defending the Red Sox bullpen. Isn’t there an unspoken law in baseball that bullpens are supposed to have this “meet me half way” mentality so that no one gets over-worked or stressed out or pressured to do a job that’s inconceivable? Instead of passing the Olympic torch to the next relay runner last night, our boys got poisoned by smoke inhalation, lost their sense of direction (and sanity), and barreled into the visitors scoreboard, stick first and bare naked. Another one bites the dust—up in flames on 8.8.08. After narrowing the score to a feasible 1-run game in the top of the 8th, my heart failed to beat when I saw that number 17 was emerging from the dungeons of hell. “%&$#**” I barked, as did my mother with her caroling Boston accent.

“Ugchhh. Delcahh-man again?! Whaat-izit with this guy? Every time he comes in he just blowz-it. (Carlos Quentin punishes a mid-level fastball into the left field bleachers). What the…! Ugchhh. He sucks. Thay-yah. Write that in yah blog Cou-ahh-tney. Our bullpen SUCKS”

Couldn’t agree with you more Mommy. One other thing:

ENOUGH with the mid-inning caroling in the bullpen. Where is your focus? You aren’t the Boston Pops. Fenway Park is not Symphony Hall. The jingle bells can be heard echoing over the Mass Pike and it’s annoying. No one cares if you can follow the tune of Black Betty 3-minutes after the batting music was played. This isn’t the School of Rock guys, this is baseball, and judging from the trend that has haunted us like the Ghost of World Series past, you should probably be reading a notebook rather than playing tidily-winks with your best buds. Dump the triangles and ding dong sticks; pick up a pencil, paper, and binder. Where is Professor Schilling when you need him the most? 60-Day DL should be baseball vernacular for ‘undying tutelage to those who need it the most,’ and the neophytes need help. S.O.S. CAPTAIN CURT!

              Truth be told, last nights game was a dog fight, and both southpaws pitched valiantly. I guess my emotions can get a little overwhelming when I feel strongly about an issue that has yet to be addressed - our bullpen needs help and it's way past the trade deadline. Someone needs to grab the reigns and steer this bandwagon back on path to title town. For now, the bottom line is this: Buehrle was the better pitcher.

I just remembered an old camp song that went a little something like this:

“No man is an island, no man stands alone. Each man’s joy is joy to me; each man’s grief is my own. We need one another so I will defend, each man as my brother, each man as my friend.”

I guess that’s why I’m so upset—when they hurt, we hurt. I would give anything in the world to fly to Chicago and provide first aid to the Band of Brothers in the form of words and inspiration so that we can finally start winning some games (for everyone that just read that and thought about something else, shame on you). Kinda like how my hypothetical 12-year old self would have done anything to go to the Miley Cyrus concert, just to tag along in the background and be invisible. But come to think about it, I think it was better that I stayed home and spent time with my family. Besides, the gossip girl heard her backup dancers couldn’t stay on their feet, the music was way too loud, and Kelly Thompson threw up all over everyone on the car ride home because she ate too much candy and popcorn. All I have to do now is brush it off and pretend like I didn’t care about going to the concert, while the pre-tweens vaunt and gab about it—for the rest of the year.

I think I’ll just slouch in my homeroom chair for a little longer and wait this one out. Life goes on, and if I’m not mistaken, there are still 3 more games to play in Chicago. Sure I’ll walk two miles to read about the Red Sox, but that’s just the type of person I am. But after the last pages of the Sports section are turned, it’s onto my Sudoku, then down to the beach.

Gosh I need a vacation. Oh wait, I forgot, Red Sox fans can never mentally go on vacation. At least I’m trying.