Emergency! Disaster! Disaster!

Like the great molasses flood that ended the lives of dozens of Bostonians, the recent events in Rooterville has shook verily to the core the faith of Red Stockings supporters from New Bedford to Bangor.

For six tilts against Eastern League rivals -- the Tampas and the dastardly New Yorks -- our once-vaunted heroes in flannel have appeared as if they are the buffoons at a sideshow carnival, the local lads gathered together to sport against the magically skilled players of the traveling circus.

Where to begin, friends? Perhaps we can broach the subject of the leaky relieving corps, whose propensity for delivering steaming piles of meat to opposing batters has made them more likely to find employment as servers at a North End spaghetti establishment.

Or, perhaps we might discuss the terribly limp noodles that our supposedly fearsome swatters chose to wield instead of their usual racks of ash clouting bats. Again, perhaps our offensively-minded base-ballers would more enjoy a role in the kitchen at said restaurant, choosing whether to fashion their meal into linguini, rotini or even spaghettini!

What about the revelations of The Colossus and his use of various liniments and ointments meant to increase swatting power? Or the discovery that "Lil' Hands" Pedrioa is just a lad of 15 years? Or that Mr. Matsuzaka-san has been sighted frolicking at the far points of Cape Cod rather than deign to palm the horsehide and vex another batsman?

Could it also be the parade of newly-minted Red Stockings treating the turnstiles of Fenway Park into a revolving door of mediocre talent? Whether from the enclaves of Providence and Portland or the confines of some other ball-club, men have continued to stream to the Fens to fill the ranks emptied by injured Red Stockings.

Indeed, when the Beard of the Ages, Yukon Kevin Youkilis, is reduced to patrolling the left outfield for games at a time, it is a signal of desperation from the franchise brain-trust.

The upshot: It is a veritable disaster of the highest order when the Bostons are reduced to a bench of simpering ninnies at the hands of our rivals.

My advice to our erstwhile heroes: Wipe away the tears and let us not hear your whimpers. Shoulder the bats like men, and toe the mounding rubber with authority. Take charge of your futures, men.

If you cannot, all will be lost.