Donald J. Trump was back on his feet. He had just been shot at, his white shirt was undone and his red hat was no longer on his head. Blood streaked across his face as riflemen patrolled the perimeter of the stage. A pack of Secret Service agents pressed their bodies against his. “We’ve got to move, we’ve got to move,” one pleaded.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” the former president instructed, his voice a harried — but startlingly clear — command. Reluctantly, they halted. He peered out into the crowd.
And then his arm reached toward the sky, and he began punching the air.
The crowd started to chant — “U-S-A! U-S-A!” — as the agents inched Mr. Trump toward the stairs. When they reached the top step, they paused once more, so Mr. Trump could lift his arm a little higher, and pump his fist a little faster. The crowd roared a little louder.
It’s difficult to imagine a moment that more fully epitomizes Mr. Trump’s visceral connection with his supporters, and his mastery of the modern media age.
Mr. Trump would not leave the stage without signaling to his fans that he was OK — even as some were still wailing in fear. And he did not just wave or nod, he raised his fist in defiance above his bloodied face — making an image history will not forget.
He has always been highly conscious of how he looks in big moments, practicing his Clint Eastwood squint and preparing for his mean mug-shot grimace. But there was no time to prepare for this.
This was instinct.
As the agents coaxed him onto his feet, he stammered, “Let me get my shoes on, let me get my shoes on.”
“I got you, sir, I got you, sir,” an agent replied. Mr. Trump rose, his voice uneven at first, still repeating himself: “Let me get my shoes on.”
“Hold that on your head,” an agent told him, “it’s bloody.”
“Sir, we’ve got to move to the cars,” another said.
“Let me get my shoes on,” Mr. Trump said again.
Fierce one moment, he looked drained and stricken the next.
After the agents managed to hustle him off the stage, they led him toward an idling Chevrolet Suburban. He began to clamber inside, but before the door could close, he turned back toward the crowd again. His head appeared more blood-soaked than before. He raised his fist one more time.
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