Recovering from abdominal surgery. Belly so sore it hurts to laugh ? and, presumably, to scream bloody murder at the TV set during one game, let alone two.So I vow not to watch. I didn’t watch the Red Sox out in Anaheim as much as I checked in for the same reason – yelling at the TV was more than just an unpleasant distraction around the house ? it was a health risk for me.So I checked in. Not too often, but often enough. I happened to hit it right in time to see J.D. Drew hit a two-run homer to make the score 5-1, and I’m thinking “must stay calm ? must stay calm ? find a good movie to watch. Anything.”Except it was Sunday afternoon, and there are never any good movies to watch. Bruce Springsteen had it right when he wrote that song, “57 Channels and There’s Nothing On,” except these days there are 157 channels ? and STILL nothing on. Not even on demand.Except football, that is. And the Giants-Raiders game (whose idea WAS that????) was just awful; and the Chiefs-Cowboys game would have cured insomnia.So it was a long afternoon.Thankfully, things are humming along smoothly, so I’m calm. I miss the whole Daniel Bard double-play drama, but catch up with it online. Good, I think. Nice to see the kid come through.Now, I note that in the eighth inning, it’s 5-2, with Billy Wagner giving way to Jonathan Papelbon and two runners in scoring position. Hmmmmm. Where’s Bard? Good enough to get out of a bases-loaded jam, but not good enough to start the eighth inning? Uneasy feeling. Change the channel.Except I don’t. I leave it on in time to see Victor Martinez set up inside and see Papelbon put one right down the middle and give up a two-run single. I can FEEL the blood rising. I can FEEL the rumble come up from the pit of my stomach (which, remember, is not to be disturbed).I hear myself say (no, scream), “Dammit, Papelbon!” My son hears me, too. It’s his turn to babysit.He marches into the bedroom. “Turn it OFF,” he says. “I don’t want to have to take you to the hospital. Turn it OFF.”Funny thing ? it didn’t hurt. It felt GOOD! Maybe I needed the tension release.OK. So the Red Sox score a run in the eighth to make it 6-4, and I manage to keep the TV off until there are two outs in the ninth (following along, as I often do when I can’t bear to watch, on Gameday or some other Internet outlet).But with two outs and nobody on, I feel it’s safe to watch. I at least want to see the ending. Two outs, two strikes on Erick Aybar, and Papelbon completely misses Martinez’ target and allows Aybar to line a single to left. Another uneasy feeling. Now he has the top of the order up, and 1986 isn’t that long ago.So, I stop watching. I figure they can get the third out without me, and I’ll see everything I need to see on the highlights.But Gameday is too much of a temptation. So I fiddle about on the computer and see that he walks Chone Figgins, but has Bobby Abreu 1-2. That should do it. So I go off Gameday and look for something else to occupy my time, but, of course, I cannot. Back on Gameday, and now it’s 6-5 with runners on second and third, and Torii Hunter up.Now, I’m getting agitated. Those rumblings are starting again. By this time, no one but me is home, and I can scream to my heart’s content and take full advantage. My stomach does not hurt any more than it did before the game started, so I figure I’m good.And there’s plenty of screaming, which extends past Vladimir Guerrero’s two-run single, and right through the bottom of the ninth. It all comes out. And it’s therapeutic. Papelbon’s a fathead. Francona’s an idiot for taking out Bard and letting the Angels back into the game. And why’s he taking the bat out of Alex Gonzalez’ hands for Jed Lowrie? Not the time to worry about Jed Lowrie feeling good about himself.So now, I vow not to watch the Patriots. My system just can’t take another one of these. But, of course, that doesn’t last long. There’s NFL.com, and, well, you just can’t escape it when it’s on.So I watch that horror show, too, ge