Meanwhile, 200 girls and 200 Instamatics had pressed up against the stage to await the arrival of their hero. I tried to picture these girls eight years hence, some of them perhaps sitting in Sanders Theatre listening to William Alfred lecture on Thucydides. What was the girl sitting next to you in Fine Arts 13 doing ten years ago?

The cops were waiting in the wings. The emcee came out and said that Bobby'd be out in front of them in four minutes. "Four minutes! Four minutes!" a girl in front of me screamed at her girl friend. Yes, in four minutes, their lives would reach fulfillment.

He also told them to go back to their seats. If they didn't, he warned, Bobby simply wouldn't come out. "Sit down!" the rest of the mob yelled at the offenders, and they crept back to where they belonged. Even the adults were beginning to get excited at this point.

I wondered what Bobby boy was thinking about. Was it a chore for him to do these shows? Is it a threat to his safety? Or do the demands of his ego make thousands of teeny-bopper girls straining to touch him rewarding? Then there's the possibility that adolescent girls are what turn him on.

And then it happened. Bobby came to us. The door opened again and there he was, walking out to the center of the stage. Flash bulbs went crazy; it was practically daylight in there for five seconds. I had to cover my ears.

Bobby wore a dark blue shirt and pants which clung to his body. His boots and a handkerchief-tie around his neck were white. The air filled with flowers and other objects of adoration being thrown to him. He picked up some and put them on his microphone while the girls who threw them tried to faint in the aisles.

Then it was time for a song. For some reason it had to be "Roll Over, Beethoven." Roll over, Chuck Berry. Anyway, singing is only a minor part of his performance. His job is to walk along the edge of the stage smiling, flashing peace signs to his fans, and pointing at individuals. Obviously, he is also expected to touch as many of them as possible. By this time, everyone had left her seat again to be closer to Bobby. Anyone still in her seat was standing on it in order to see-and be seen by Bobby. If you were conspicuous enough there would be no doubt if he pointed a finger in your direction that you were being singled out. He shot a finger toward one of the two girls standing in front of me. She nearly fell. "Did you see that?" she shrieked to her companion. "He was looking at me. At me!" Damn it, I thought. If they hadn't been in the way, he would have been singling me out.

Everyone in the crowd was either waving, blowing kisses, crying, or flashing peace symbols back at Bobby. It was clear why the two-finger sign just wouldn't do in anti-war protests these days. The teenyboppers have taken it over. Love, flowers, beauty, peace. It oozed from the crowd. Bobby soaked it up.

After finishing "Roll Over, Beethoven," he moved into his originals, which, after all, are what we came to hear. There was "Little Woman" and "Easy Come, Easy Go." They sounded just as great as they do on the records. But the pushing and shoving in the mob around the stage was getting out of hand. Some of the girls were really taking a beating. I stayed in my seat out of fear. Suddenly Bobby hustled off the stage, and the emcee came out to warn everyone to get seated or else Bobby wouldn't come back. Those were strong words, and people scattered for their scats.

I looked up and took in the signs hung over the railing. "Hi, Bobby,From Dawn," one read. Then there was "Bobby Forever" and "We Love Bobby."

Bobby was back shortly, and so was mob rule. He didn't exactly calm the audience when he returned and played the old "throw the crowd your clothes" trick. Off came his white handkerchief-tie, and he tossed it out to the masses. The absence of this item, of course, provided the fans an extra bonus: Bobby's shirt came undone a bit at the top, and Bobby's chest peeked out at the screaming teenies. It wasn't exactly Jim Morrison masturbating for a Florida audience, but it kept these kids happy, to say the least. It would make for fine dreams that night.

Between one pair of songs, Bobby talked to his followers. He gave them the usual line about Boston being his favorite place because of the great fans. They swallowed it whole, naturally. After a few more words, he started an introduction to his next tune, an introduction which was absolutely devastating. "This is for you. I love you." Then his song "Julie, Do You Love Me." I think that's what it's called.

What shocked everyone was Bobby's departure for good after that song. He just ran out another side door, and that was it. He hadn't been on very long, but the kids didn't really know what to do except cry a little. Any sort of negative reaction would be nothing less than a personal sting for Bobby.

He seemed to have left the building-and that's what all the important-looking persons said-but hopeful teenies crowded around the door to the dressing room. They seemed to figure that if there were four cops with riot helmets posted there, then Bobby might still be nearby. It was worth hoping for.

Back inside the auditorium itself, a few girls were hanging around trying to figure out what to do while a few patient cops tried to talk them into going home. One was asked by a teenies where Bobby was staying. The cop responded that he was at the Sheraton-with 22 policemen. What was a girl to do? One particularly young one gave the cop a napkin and asked him to wipe it on part of the stage where Bobby had walked. He did and returned it to the grateful girl. I wondered how many die-hard fans of this genre had crowded close to the stage and popped especially heady pimples so that Bobby might walk on the fluid with his bright white boots.

Again, my thoughts wandered. This time back to fourth grade. I remembered watching Ozzie and Harriet Wednesday nights and living for the show's last five minutes, when Ricky Nelson sang a couple of his latest hits. Could I have been as sad a sight as these Bobby Sherman fans? Had I been more than a teenybopper, except that I was in the 1959 mold? Was taking guitar lessons as a fourth grader in order to follow in Rick's footsteps no better than sewing a picture of Bobby Sherman in your panties? I searched my soul.

Then I searched for the exit. While I filed out I heard one red-cheeked girl of 12 or so remark, "Did you see how he danced? I was ballin in my seat."

Outside it was more of the same. I approached a particularly sad-looking girl sitting on the steps. Her face was framed in her hands, and she was talking to herself in a low voice. "Bobby, I love you. Where are you now? Please don't go. Don't leave me here, I pray."