As a friend, Julio Lugo, I feel it’s important to tell you that no matter what you do, you’re going to be the scapegoat.

We just can’t boo Papi. It’s not in our DNA. So when something goes wrong, you’re gonna be the guy who hears it. Sox offense can’t buy a hit? Your fault. Fenway beer tasting a little too “warm” and “rodent-like”? Your bad. Girlfriend won’t give it up, despite the fact we just shelled out seventy bucks on dinner and wore our fresh-pressed, Sunday-go-to-meetin’ Youk shirt? I blame you, Dinkus.

Could you have actually snared those ground balls last night? The ones that allowed the Rangers to avoid some outs and push a few more runs across the plate? Dude, I could barely put my jockstrap on the right way in high school, so I’m hardly qualified to judge your athletic prowess. But it’s beyond mattering. You’re the guy. The handsomely-paid shortstop who always seems to come up a dime short when we need something big (or, as is increasingly the case, something seemingly routine). And, again, as we just can’t bring ourselves to hate on the most glaring problem on the team–especially not since we owe most of 2004 and, therefore, our sanity to the guy–it looks like you’re going to bear the brunt of it.

Just so you know.

Anyway, the game itself was a rather sordid affair. Penny got knocked around and the offense was silenced by Millwood. One of those games you just flush from the memory banks while looking forward. As the great Sparky Anderson told us, you’re gonna win some ballgames and you’re gonna lose some ballgames. Last night was a loss. Today… who knows?

But this I do know: Patty Smyth’s version of “Downtown Train” kicks Rod Stewart’s version’s ass. How in the hell was this not a hit? Listen to this goddam song and tell me why it languished at the bottom of Billboard’s Hot 100 while Rod Stewart’s mangle-rific version made the top ten? F@#kgodalmighty over 20 years have passed and this still bothers me.

BTW, Patty and Scandal will be in Foxboro next week. If you think I won’t be there, drunk off my ass on cheap beer and shouting “The Warrior” as security drags me down route one, you’re crazy. Who’s with me? Represent!