Responsibility for last-evening's debacle falls squarely on the shoulders of our once-reliable corps of relief hurlers.
When Skipper Francona operates his dug-out telephone device and the corresponding station in the bull-pen emits its feeble tinkle, is there no man able to answer the call in reliable fashion? The voice crackling over the wires makes a simple request: Deliver the pill to the awaiting backstop in a manner that confounds opposing bats-men, and record "outs" in the game ledger!
Instead, Rooters are treated to a procession of ineptitude not seen since Mike "Old Dog" Remlinger limped out of the 'Pen in aught-five!
These demonstrations of swatting-practice twirling must end at once!
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