Word: roar
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...announced concession speech made that sentiment a bit dated. Then a touch of originality: "The Duke is dead, long live the King," on and on for a solid seven minutes--good, lusty, raw-throated cheering. Then the man struggled into the tent and the blood frenzy began, an animal roar on the verge of losing control, the disbelief and delight and confusion all muddled together, losing all sense. The band switched from its 14th rendering of "Stardust," all of them bad, into a very passable rendition of the B.C. fight song. Reporters aside, everyone there knew all the words...
...million, it will pay for itself in short order: $6.5 million was donated to U.S.T.A. coffers by CBS in exchange for rights to televise the tournament for three years. Flushing Meadow is glass and concrete modern, not Forest Hills grass and Tudor. Jets from nearby La Guardia Airport roar overhead. And that most crucial modern convenience - enough restroom space for thousands of tennis fans-is in ample supply...
...first real look at this engagingly humble man until the next day, when 200,000 people filled St. Peter's Square for the weekly Sunday noon blessing. John Paul spoke for seven minutes, dispensing with the Papal "we," brimming with good nature, bringing forth an adoring roar. "Let us understand each other," he told the crowd. "I do not have the wisdom of heart of Pope John, nor the preparation and culture of Pope Paul. However, now I am in their place and must try to help the church. I hope you will help me with your prayers...
...astonishing seven seconds, finishing nearly half a pool length in the lead. In the 200-meter medley, Caulkins smoothly shaved 1.02 seconds off her own world mark. Too nearsighted to see the Scoreboard, she had to get a teammate to explain the reason for the crowd's roar...
...last night's stars. At the head of the waterfall, downstream, its sparkle leaps into the air, leaps at the sun, and sunrays are tumbled in the luminescent waves that dance against the snows of southern mountains. Upstream, in the inner canyon, dark silences are deepened by the roar of stones. Something is listening, and I listen, too: who is it that intrudes here? Who is breathing? I pick a fern to see its spores, cast it away, and am filled in that instant with misgiving: the great sins, so the Sherpas say, are to pick wildflowers...