I must have one, to put next to my Voltaire and Dorothy Parker bobble head dolls.
I bet the head bobbles superfast from all the Benzedrine.
I’m still waiting for the Anne Boleyn topple-head doll.
How about an Ernest Hemmingway one?
He could have a shotgun that you knock into his head.
(god I’m sick)
You know, I almost went to that game. If I’d known that getting the bobblehead doll for her would have got me in Eve’s good graces, I would definitely have been there.
You just needed to say so! sob
Appropriately, Kerouac tried his hand at sports reporting once, covering a baseball game for a local paper.
Excerpt:
"…the game started late because of a rain delay, witnessed by men in knickers disgruntled by natural phenomena. When the rain stopped, and the charging restless mute unvoiced ground crew in a seizure of tarpaulin power uncovered the field, the first inning began. But we weren’t there yet. We were getting there, my friend Neal driving, fast, crazily, and me hollering at him to slow down or sure as hell I’d jump out and take my chances, and I was really going to do it, that is I might have, but then I remembered my sandwiches stowed in a hamper in the dark cemetary-cool trunk where I couldn’t get at them, and allowed my mind to change.
"When we got there, it was just another game on the road for our side, with the pompous hatted men and their silly hairsprayed wives and wised-up kids, who alone seemed to know that the point of it all was that there was no point, and ignored the scoreboard in favor of the nobler pastimes of chewing pink gritty gum and counting the cars in the lot behind the left field fence, and the whole shebang blanketed with the smell of toxic popcorn karma.
"Somebody was on first and somebody else was at bat, and that was all, until the guy on first started running and slid into second base safely – like everybody in America, he was a natural-born thief. The catcher had missed the ball, which came to rest comfortably just underneath his squatting ass, so when he stood up and looked around, he couldn’t find it, and the runner got up and ran to third, and the catcher still couldn’t see the object of his desire that was directly under him the whole time and so had nothing to offer anybody but his own confusion. Then he found it and immediately gave it to somebody else, and the game went on.
"A while later, another player hit the baseball high in the free ungoverned air and far from where it had originally been. The center-fielder, who somebody told me was named Sal something, began running after that high fly ball, hoping he could just live long enough to catch it, or maybe something else, something just as good, but probably the ball. That’s when we left.
"The eventual outcome was that somebody beat somebody else, and somebody got beat by somebody else, and it didn’t matter much who, Neal and I thought as we drove away hoping to find a couple of girls, or even just one of a generous nature, because sooner or later everybody’s beat, when they’re on the road.
. . . That’s not ‘writing,’ it’s ‘typing’ . . .
Damn you, Eve. Beaten to the punch yet again.
If I had a Jack Kerouac bobble-head, he would occupy a place of honor on my desk, right next to my wax bust of Lincoln and my dimestore ship-in-a-bottle.
And then my life would be complete. 
Jack Kerouac went to Columbia on a football scholarship. It suprised the heck out of me when I learned that. Lazy-style cite is here.