In celebration of Joe Torre's ascention to the Hall - AND Joba Chamberlain signing with the Tigers: From The Book of Joe: JOBA

And in the summer of 2007, Joe’s staff had turned rubbery of elbow and spit.
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For it had been a six-year drought; Karsay had begotten Quantrill, who had begotten Sturtze, who had begotten Farnsworth, who had begotten Proctor, the burner of garments, who had begotten a lost generation of Scrantonites.
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And the House of George faced a year without October; for the Bostonites were the most 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 great desk warrior, 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 hath fallen long ago into the sea of Randy Choate; 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, noble goat of scape, hear me!
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“I know of one 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 be 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.”
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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 Valley of Mariano; 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, the Cleveland tribe routed Joe’s minions.
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And in the second skirmish, his army barely held an advantage, as the cock crow grew near; and so Joe called upon Joba to bring heat and vanquish the hordes.
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Then a trillion billion gazillion locusts descended upon the field of battle; and they did not devour hotdogs of concession; and they did not devour painted female Ohioites; and they did not devour the Clevelanders, who huddled safe in their bunker.
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But they devoured the Leviathan, Joba.
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And the plague covered his face, probed his anus and roamed his mind.
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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 Hank, spake:
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“Uh, Joe, hey, guy, yo!
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“My pop hath turned over this stuff to me, and I hath brought think to it.
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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 do not care. I gotta go smoke.”
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And Joe replied:
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“Hear me, o, cancered seedling, o Hank!
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“Behold, for the End of Days hath come sooner than you planned; and for me, it cometh now.
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“For I am the soul of Joe McCarthy, the Scooter, the Yogi and the Clipper; 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 loss can find any team at any time; and all victory is short lived, and all success should be cherished for the way it comes and goes.
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“For champions be not purchased, but taught. And they be not expected, but celebrated; and it is over only when it is over. And, yea, it is over. Amen.”

So endeth the The Book of Joe.