Cotter thinks he sees a path to the turnstile on the right. He drains
himself of everything he does not need to make the jump. Some are still
jumping, some are thinking about it, some need a haircut, some have girlfriends in woolly sweaters and the rest have landed in the ruck and are
trying to get up and scatter. A couple of stadium cops are rumbling down the
ramp. Cotter sheds these elements as they appear, sheds a thousand waves of information hitting on his skin. His gaze is trained on the iron bars
projected from the post. He picks up speed and seems to lose his
gangliness, the slouchy funk of hormones and unbelonging and all the
stammering things that seal his adolescence. He is just a running boy, a
half-seen figure from the streets, but the way running reveals some clue to
being, the way a runner bares himself to consciousness, this is how the
dark-skinned kid seems to open to the world, how the bloodrush of a dozen
strides brings him into eloquence.

Author: Don DeLillo