The roar of sixty-five thousand people was louder than any thunderclap that night. Stranger’s voices had become mine, and mine became theirs. The Boss had given an inordinate set-list, and no one could stop singing, laughing, or dancing in the dark under the stormy night sky. Comity was abundant that night in East Rutherford.
All of a sudden, in a moment of overt tranquility, the stadium went completely voiceless. In a distance, a violin was being played. From seventy rows away, I could feel the vibrations of the bow in my fingers. Suddenly, an accompanying piano began bursting notes that spoke a universal language to all that had heard them before. The Rat had returned to East Rutherford.
Every word was sung. Every beat was kept. Every line, note, and voice was forever etched into my mind.
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