“I was swinging one of his bats. A big one, thirty-six ounces, all yellow and stained. Like a kind of an old tusk. It used to belong to Joe DiMaggio.” His lined face softened a little as he remembered. “A beautiful thing.”
“I know the one,” I said.
Thursday, February 2, 2017
the last book I ever read (Wonder Boys: A Novel by Michael Chabon, excerpt eleven)
“I was swinging one of his bats. A big one, thirty-six ounces, all yellow and stained. Like a kind of an old tusk. It used to belong to Joe DiMaggio.” His lined face softened a little as he remembered. “A beautiful thing.”
“I know the one,” I said.
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