Jonah nailed it a week or so ago. I bit my tongue about all the over-top Red Sox romanticism during the Massachusetts race in the interest of intra-conservative comity. I even ordered up a home-page image of Schilling’s bloody sock — a mere flesh wound, I’m sure — for a Shannen Coffin corner post. Yes, that’s how much I love my country.

But now, a week on, it’s time to correct for all the lopsided baseball analogies that we endured during the race. Let’s face it: Martha Coakley folded like the 1949 Red Sox on the last weekend of the season; she popped up ineffectually like Yaz in the bottom of the ninth in 1978; she got crushed like a Tim Wakefield knuckler by Aaron Boone; she got spanked like Pedro; she deflated like Davd Ortiz’s numbers in the post-steroid era.

I could go on, but in the Schilling-Brown afterglow, I’m still harboring a flicker of sympathy toward a franchise that so labors under its manifest inferiority to its most hated rival. Go Sawks!