The following world-championship photographic image, which is soaring in its implications, comes via @Super70sSports. Please bear inadequate witness ... 

Onlookers, that man, don and cavalier is Joe Torre, baseball pantheon-dweller, chairman of this and every board, author and finisher of this and every Saturday night.

He is dancing the night away, and then he will lure the night back via same -- i.e., his dancing. The night cannot get away from Joe Torre in large part because Joe Torre is more powerful and in smaller part because it does not want to escape the captive embrace of Joe Torre. For his chest hair is a tractor beam. As for us, the mute remainder, we are all this lass, outfitted in a billowy, high-waisted pantsuit; teeth shimmering from a fresh application of Pepsodent For Smokers; willing prisoners to the groove.

For Young Joe Torre, the world is an oyster. That oyster is on the half-shell and conceals a valuable pearl. It is served with cocktail sauce, a glass of Riunite and a copy of the Daily Racing Form.

The vest he wears is made not of imported fabrics but rather of possibilities.