Six-sixty-six? A-Rod remains within two home runs of SATAN.

Friday, October 26, 2007

From the Book of Joe: Joba


And in the summer of 07, Joe’s staff had collapsed of elbow and spirit.
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For it had been a six-year drought; Steve Karsay had begotten Paul Quantrill, who had begotten Tanyon Sturtze, who had begotten Kyle Farnsworth, who had begotten Scott Proctor, who burned his clothes and still had begotten a generation of Scrantonites.
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And the House of George faced a year without October; for the Bostonites were the most powerful and ruthless nation on earth, and their slaughter of small markets rivaled all empires that had come before.
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And one day, Joe appeared unto Cashman, the lord of management, and spake:
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“O, Man of Cash, hear me!
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“We hath no wings to fly upon, for our bridge to Mariano Rivera hath fallen long ago into sea of Randy Choate.
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“In the pit of mid-game, no lead can is safe, no contest secure. Until we find a savior, our battle is lost.”
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And Cashman replied:
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“Joe, o, ye noble goat of scape, hear me!
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“I know of a hummongus being whose girth and growl portend the End of Days. I hath seen the Leviathan, and it is called Joba.
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“And though he is but a babe, he hath the size of a whale, the head of a manatee, and the shape of a designated hitter, and his father rolls on wheels, a tale that shall juice the tongue of every working scribe.
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“We shall summon Joba from the mines, and he shall be our bridge to heaven. And a child shall lead us.”
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And for a fortnight, Cashman’s words came to pass.
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For Joba Chamberlain, son of Goose, forded the streams of mid-game to reach the fertile land of Mariano.
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And Joe’s weary army survived to another October, where pundits foresaw the House of George reclaiming its rightful throne.
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But in the first encounter, a rival tribe routed Joe’s minions.
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And in the second skirmish, his army barely held the advantage, as the cock crow grew near.

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And Joe called upon Joba to bring heat to the near vanquished hordes.
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And then, thick as clouds, a trillion billion gazillion locusts descended upon the field of battle. .
And they did not devour hotdogs of concession.
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And they did not devour painted female Ohioites.
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And they did not devour the opposing tribe, which huddled safe in its bunker.
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But they devoured the Leviathan, Joba.
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And the plague covered his face and blinded his eyes and filled his ears and roamed his mind. .
And in the big inning, there was darkness.
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And Joe’s legions were routed.
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And the House of George summoned Joe unto Tampa, where the Son of the Owner, known as Stubby, spake:
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“Uh, Joe, guy, hear me!
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“My father hath turned over this stuff to me, and I hath brought think to the day.
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“We shalt cut thy pay. We shalt stab thy back. And next year, we shalt whack thee. Here is thy contract. Sign on the line of dots. I gotta go smoke.”
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And Joe replied:
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“Hear me, o, cancered seedling, Stubby!
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“Behold, for the end of days shalt come faster than you planned.
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“For me, it cometh now.
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“But I shalt testify to things, and all men shall know them to be true.
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“For I am the soul of Joe McCarthy, the Scooter, the Yogi and the Clipper.
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“And I am the spirit of the Iron Horse, the Mick, the Billy and Whitey – though not in the Gary Sheffieldian sense of the word.
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“And all who read these words shall know that sickness and loss can seek any team at any time.
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“And all victory is short lived, and all success must be cherished for the way it comes and goes.
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“For champions be not made, not born. And they be not purchased, but taught. And they be no imported, but found. And they be not expected, but celebrated.
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“And it is over only when it is over. And, yea, it is over. Amen.”

So endeth the The Book of Joe.

1 comment:

dadlak said...

Can we now look forward to a Latter Day Book of Joe (G)?