Tuesday, August 17, 2010

A Romping Boy Lost to Time

Bobby Thomson is dead at 86. Take it away, Mr. Hodges.

And once more for posterity's sake, Mr. DeLillo:
Then [Russ] raises a pure shout, wordless, a holler from the old days—it is fiddlin’ time, it is mountain music on WCKY at five-thirty in the morning. The thing comes jumping right out of him, a jubilation, it might be heyyy-ho or it might be oh-boyyy shouted backwards or it might be something else entirely—hard to tell when they don’t use words. And Thomson’s teammates gathering at home plate and Thomson circling the bases in gamesome leaps, buckjumping—he is forever Bobby now, a romping boy lost to time, and his breath comes so fast he doesn’t know if he can handle all the air that's pouring in. He sees men in a helter-skelter line waiting at the plate to pummel him—his teammates, no better fellows in the world, and there’s a look in their faces, they are stunned by a happiness that has collapsed on them, bright-eyed under their caps.

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