Worst. Pitching. Ever.

Isn't suffering supposed to be good for the soul? Isn't pain and unhappiness supposed to be inspirational of great art? There was a line in a movie, I think it was "The End of the Affair," that talked about how the stories of happy people were all the same, but each sad person had a unique story.

That was during the bombing of London. I'm writing here, sixty years hence, during the bombing of Boston. We're just past the halfway point in this miserable five-game series with the Yankees, and Red Sox pitching has already given up 36 runs. Our hitting has actually been pretty good, and Yankee pitching has been anything but spectacular. Our pitching has been nothing but completely disastrous, and you must give some painfully grudging credit to the Yankee hitting. They've been relentless, 1-9, and they've been merciless.

You can't blame Theo, or Terry Francona, or the pressure of the series. The blame lies with the pitching itself. I lack words to describe its awfulness. I lack the words to describe the awful feeling within me right now as I feel the once-promising season dying and postseason hopes withering.

I look to you, my readers (all 3-5 of you) to help me out. How are we to describe this feeling? How are we to salvage some hope from this weekend? How do we face the rest of the season? Somehow, though, I feel like when you are a Red Sox fan, you are part of a collective story. And in that story, we all suffer in the same way.