Long before the days man discovered deviled eggs even, artists of the written word have continuously passed on the idea that debt harbors a gloomy cycle of resentment, greed, insecurity and hyperbole, until ultimately, someone gets squashed.

After his 90 win team went channeled the South Bend Blue Sox for the month of September, Terry Francona reached a mutual agreement to step down as manager of Boston’s own Red Sox last week . Judging from the media and fan reaction to the historic meltdown, the old skipper sure owes Red Sox Nation an explanation-or does he?

Papi was the October hero. But when Francona got the axe last week, it also symbolized the end of the greatest Sox era.

Before he won his first World Series championship in 2004, he was known as “Fran-Coma” by the millions of diehards. Since October of that year, he was often referred affectionately as “Tito.”

With Christmas of ’04 fast approaching, Santa Claus’s phone bill had suddenly begin to parallel A-Rod’s gentleman’s club tab. In order to keep up with the growing demand to deliver Red Sox trinkets for good kids from Bean Town to Seattle, St. Nick had no choice but to hire more and more elves from out of eastern Asia.

By late 2007, Boston no longer had just a professional baseball organization-they were like revolutionaries passing out something reminiscent of “I Voted” buttons that instead read, “Red Sox Nation” with “Tito” as its spokesman.

But now, October 2011, it’s all over. And all that’s left is an aging DH, a knuckleball pitcher, and some smaaaught kid whose responsible for handing out more dollar bills to Carl Crawford than the amount of times 81-year-old Willie Mays has ever blinked.

So the kid gets a fresh shave today. He’ll wake up in his Rain Man suite, scan his closet for the right match of Tommy Bahamas and Hush Puppies, splash on some Banana Republic, think about spinach for lunch and soon send a few joshing texts to his Northwestern cronies about his thoughts on The Windy City.

Meanwhile Fran-Coma, the unemployed manager briefly known as Tito, most likely starts his day scrolling through text messages from veteran journalists seeking confirmation that pitchers did indeed drink beer during games.

The day cats and dogs get along is when the skipper of the Red Sox isn't scrutinized around the clock.

“Throw me one name for whose responsible in reporting this to begin with, and I’ll give you publishing authorization to my bio, I promise ya” Francoma replies to Joe, an ESPNWorcester-AL East blogger.

“If I don’t protect my sources,” the blogger replies, “I’m doing a disservice to my profession, Terry.”

Now Francoma hobbles over to his bathroom-not because he has to go-but because he’s in need of the patch, located in the medicine cabinet, in order to calm his annual Autumn craving for a Lancaster wrapped in Dubble-Bubble.

After a bowl of Captain Crunch with the kids, he drives them to school, then its over to the city to pick up his paycheck. After today, the cashflow will cease, but the yellow journalism never takes a day off.

Text #2 comes from a female television personality whose known to brake for clichés, pinot grige and flamethrowers. Ms. Thunderlips wants to get Fran-Coma’s thoughts on his former captain Jason Varitek, along with an assortment of other teammates, popping late-night bubbly in a Boston club upon returning from the season-ending loss in Baltimore.

Fran-Coma immediately says a four-letter noun to himself. But ever the diplomat, he reminds Ms. Thunderlips that a.) they don’t have to play tomorrow and b.) finishing a 162 game season is merit enough for a little cough medicine outside the clubhouse keg-erator.

“Jeesh!” Fran-Coma said, hours before Bigelow Tea will send an email to his agent passing altogether on moving forward with contract negotiations. “Eight years of dealing with nincompoops. When will this debt be paid already?”

Finally, while he was picking up the wife’s dry-cleaning, his most respected local counterpart, Bill Belichick, head football coach of the New England Patriots, leaves a voicemail from his desk in the Ivory Tower of Gillette Stadium out in Foxborough.

In the NFL, a head coach is only as good as his quarterback and vice versa. Hoody had the benefit of winning with Tom Brady early, but where his shrewd intelligence shines through is his ability to continuously give the media nothing but nuggets of coal.

Foxborough = Winter Wonderland

When hired by the Jets post Parcells in ’99, remember how Hoody instead ran a go-route in under 4.3 out of the Big Apple? Patrick Ewing probably reminded him that the press in that town has the longest winning streak in sports.

For pro sports in Boston, there’s rarely a delay in traffic; where a baseball game is more important than parent-teacher conferences, it’s the Red Sox taking the top two spots, with AAA Pawtucket a very distant second, of course. For the common sports lover in New York has more teams that they can-and certainly do-choose to invest their time with. New Yorkers’ favorite teams are the Yankees followed by the Democrats and the Mets.

Yawkey Way = Chop Shop

Once his lunch has settled, Fran-Coma finally collects enough fortitude to listen to Hoody’s voicemail a few hours later.

Belichick says, “Terry you’re a good guy and a better representative of the game of baseball. Someday you’ll be re-admired in Boston, I promise you. Just remember when you go to Chicago, like any big city, the media uses its own beauty to destroy. Good luck and keep in touch.”

So the media told you someone had to go, and you Red Sox nation, choose to cut loose the meat and potatoes manager instead of the egg-whites and ricotta general manager.

Job well done, Tito. Debt paid and you were a model spokesman for years in New England.

Job well done, Hoody. You just may have the best job in pro sports.