The Book of Joe: Song of Rocket

And in the year 2000, the great bringer of cheese, Roger Clemens, returned to the tiny village of Boston, seeking old friends.

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But across its pagan tabernacles, those who once exalted Roger now brought hurtful chants about his plumpness and etched crude remarks onto signs and loincloths.

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Stricken with woe, the beefy hurler appeared unto Joe and spake:

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“Hear me, o, wise and decent Joe!

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“Why doth my former lovers now so loathe me? How doth my robust physique come to gird such geysers of venom and spleen?”

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Joe placed his calm hand on the pitcher’s abundant shoulder and declared:

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“Verily, o, Rocket! Thou art truly King of Pitchers.

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“Let no arrows of poison ink draw tight the strings of thy magnificent hams. Their foul showers of spittle shalt never include the spice of truly deserved bile.

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“They loathe not you, o, Rocket, but the pinstriped linens that hug your ample buttocks.

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“They loathe not you, o, Rocket, but the bareness of their fingers, which hath never felt the warmth of championship ring.

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“Go forth, King of Pitchers, with music of chin!

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“Go forth, o, Rocket, and hurl!”

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But on that day, Roger did not go forth with music of chin or stuff of filth.
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Verily! He serveth balls of gopher.

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And he suffered smiting from the corked and angry bats of his tormentors.

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And he yielded five earned runs in just two innings.

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And the House of George was routed.

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And the King of Pitchers collapsed into a bottomless despair.

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Presently, the form of Joe appeared and spake:

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“Hear me, o, Rocket!

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“Do not drown thyself in mead or seek thy false salvation of Krispee Kreme.

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“Long ago, the House of George foresaw a calamity such as this. At the cost of a hundred Marlins, the Owner hath secured El Duque, the exiled Cuban prince, to hurl on the morrow.

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“Behind El Duque, this defeat shall be avenged! The Bostonites shall be vanquished.

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“This I do decree!”

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And so it came to pass.

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Behind El Duque, the Yanks cast out the Bostonites, four games to one, to secure the Kingdom of the American League.

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And they went on to capture the Series of the World.

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And they went on to frolic on flatbed trucks along the Canyon of Heroes through a glorious deluge of tickertape and feminine undergarments.

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And Roger went on to hurl more seasons for the House of George, and the House of Houston.

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And in his final appearance in Boston, his accusers stood to adore him as the true King of Pitchers.

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But by then, their hatreds had been softened by the warmth of Championship rings.