Word: beers
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...that soldier's feet." The demonstrator tries to explain that the trooper has moved up behind him and that he can't move because of the people sitting around him. The Marshal smashes the demonstrator over the head. The Guardsman panies and hits someone else with his rifle-butt. Beer cans, coke bottles, and rocks hail onto the mass of soldiers and there is more clubbing. A bald scalp is split open with a bonecrushing sound. A girl is shricking hysterically...
Once inside, you survey your 10,000 fellows: M.I.T. professors, roving-eyed men, grandmas, unworkingmen, stiletto-heeeled tootises, and ordinary crowd material. They mill around the closed-circuit TV's, the long rows of betting windows, the beer and hot dog stands. They wander back and forth eating popcorn, spilling out to the open-air section by the track, crowding against the rail at the finish wire. Some flourish fistfuls of money, looking like scarecrows stuffed with green straw...
Faster your disappearing beer than lately mine: Your naked passion for the floor...
Smokey Joe's at Ken more Square. Remember that Sunday, drinking beer from pitchers and cradling transistors tuned to the Detroit game. "YAZ, YAZ ,YAZ," we shouted as the fiddle player swung his instrument at an imaginary pitch, and clapped as the band struck up with "Hold That Tiger...
Boston's heroes immediately began plotting revenge. Soon after the game, Fenway Park was the scene of a vignette that would have brightened the eyes of any mother whose kiddies hate their homework. While most of the other players were sipping beer in the locker room, there in the batting cage stood Boston's idol, the man they call Yaz-Tremendouski, taking batting practice, while Coach Bobby Doerr called "Keep your hands high! Quick, now! Snap those wrists!" For 30 minutes it continued before Yaztrzemski was sat isfied. "Tomorrow," he said, "I'm gonna get three hits...