You are Terry Francona, and you were spitting blood in Sunday's postgame press conference in Seattle, supposedly the result of taking too many blood thinners.

Or maybe it was the result of playing Mark Loretta at first base, Kevin Youkilis in left field, Javy Lopez at catcher and Kyle Snyder on the mound.

Either way, is it any wonder you got swept by the Mariners?

Any wonder that your Sox are now in disarray, their season having imploded, the month of August a trail of tears? Any wonder that this is a team that in the last few weeks has been swept by both the Mariners and the Royals, never mind the Yankees? Any wonder that this is a team that seems deader than a three-week-old corpse?

You are Terry Francona, and this has become your fate in these last days of summer, this sense that this season has gotten away, that this team that was in first place in the American League East at the All-Star break, has spent the last month in a free fall. Your fate to sit in the dugout every night, forever chewing on something, the tension etched all over your face, looking like you're watching some horror movie where everyone already knows what's going to happen, one of those where everyone dies in the end.

You are Terry Francona, and a big part of your job is that you take a lot of the blame, because that's just the way it is, as much a part of being the Red Sox manager as filling out a lineup card. No matter that a manager must play with the cards he's been dealt. No matter that the Red Sox manager always has a target on his back, even in the good times.

No matter that you've been saddled with a bullpen all year that could break a manager's heart. Julian Tavarez. Rudy Seanez. An aging Mike Timlin. Two kids in Craig Hansen and Manny Delcarmen. No left-hander. This is a group that makes a manager sleep soundly at night? Not really.

No matter that you've had Jason Varitek out, the same Jason Varitek who made the pitching staff better. The same Jason Varitek who seems like a coach on the field, leaving you with perennial backup Doug Mirabelli and Lopez, who pitchers shake off as routinely as a horse trying to shake away flies in the summer sun.

No matter that you always have to deal with the mercurial Manny Ramirez, forever making excuses for him, regardless of the transgressions. Is he hurt? Or is all this just more Manny moments? Does anyone know anymore? Do you even know anymore?

Not that that even matters anymore.

The bottom line is that at this time when the season is slipping out the door, all those spring dreams going up in smoke, Manny is not available. Not enough, anyway. So your lineup gets two hits Sunday against the Mariners. Two. Count 'em.

You are Terry Francona, and you are supposed to win anyway, because that's just the way it goes when you're the Red Sox manager. So people call talk shows and say you don't inspire the players enough. They want you to yell and scream. Throw things. Do something. Anything. As if there is some secret formula to shake this team out of its lethargy, and it's your job to decipher it.

But there's no "Cowboy Up" this year, no sense of anything other than a team that's seen its season turn as sour as last week's fruit. There's no Johnny Damon to jump start the offense, no spark, no real identity as a team. Instead, it's become a team that's been playing as if its next important game will be in Fort Myers next spring.

So you are called Terry Francoma, as if this is the height of originality. You are called the ultimate enabler, as you never say a harsh word about any of your players. You routinely are trashed, your every move analyzed as if it's protozoan under a microscope -- damned if you do, damned if you don't. The Red Sox manager pays dearly for his uniform.

Maybe this can change. Maybe you can still salvage this season, find one more push, get into the playoffs, go on a run, make the memory of August disappear like some bad dream. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Your kingdom for a list of maybes.

Until then, the season goes on like some forced march in some bad war. Goes on with too many injuries, too many holes, a team in which makeup no longer hides all the warts. Until then you will continue to sit in the dugout, forever chewing on something, the tension all over your face, like you're watching some horror movie where everyone knows what's going to happen, one of those where everyone dies in the end.

You are Terry Francona, and right now you're a manager with no answers.

breynold@projo.com / (401) 277-7340