The co-publishers of this newspaper had a brief exchange of e-mails last Friday morning - the morning after the annual quest for the gonfalon came to a sudden halt in a ballyard in the Bronx. What follows is a slightly expurgated version.

Dear Mary:

As part of what it is to be a Real Bostonian, the search is on for a scapegoat. And the need is urgent!

Certainly Grady Little will receive some votes; Pedro, too for his failing at a critical moment.

But my vote here is for Ronan Tynan - that elephant-eared, bespectacled, toothy Irish Tenor who appeared in the middle of the 7th inning in the deciding game, in his Yankees jacket - then walked over and bussed Giuliani, Bloomberg and nearly everyone in the Yankees dugout! And him not even an American, singing God Bless America, for crying out loud!

Please join with me in disinviting him anywhere north of Scarsdale. He has shown his true colors: green, the color of George Steinbrenner's money. Next time he sings, "Take Me Home to Mayo," I'll be there to help him out.

Kindest Personal regards,

Edward

Dear Edward:

As if things aren't bad enough, I'm forced from my sickbed to listen to the message of a normally decent young man, who because of a bunch of rat bastards in red socks has drunk himself into a stupor and leaves what is tantamount to a suicide note for his employer.

Let it be know that from here on I will not listen to anything positive about that passel of ungrateful, overpaid, untalented, gutless wonders who pass for a prominent New England sports team. I think the next banner those idiots in pants create for their group of so-called athletes should not be a pair of 19th century stockings, but the image of a nasty mannered, ugly, 30-something young punk slamming a 72-year old village idiot to the ground! Or perhaps a pair of pantyhose! So much for America's favorite pastime.

They are the living positive proof that the Curse of the Bambino, whoever the hell he is, is alive and well, and there isn't a thing they can do about it, because there isn't enough testosterone among them to return the "menacing stare" of a rural Oklahoma halfwit who probably can't read, and actually hit the stupid ball which he is throwing toward them. Oh yes, they can brawl and strut and go about thinking their hot stuff with their Louis Vuitton canvas bags, but they can't rise to the occasion when they have to. They might as well all be carrying little beaded purses. Let them hit old men with them!

They should be compelled to wear uniforms for the rest of their lives, but instead of a number on their backs it should read: "I'm not a baseball player, but I play one on TV."

Thank you for your attention.

Mary C. Forry