It's a touching moment, increasingly familiar to fans watching the E Street Band make its entrance: As the audience howls in anticipation and the rest of the band stands at the ready, Bruce Springsteen gently and lovingly helps Clarence Clemons walk to his saxophone at the front of the stage.

"Take your time," Scooter says reassuringly as they inch forward. "Don't rush. You've got time."

Time is on the minds of many as E Street nears the finale of back-to-back tours that have kept the band globe-trotting for the better part of two years.

Death has touched a band that had remained unchanged for decades. And Clemons _ the Big Man _ is showing his 67 years. Rife with painful ailments, he moves gingerly, a huge contrast to Springsteen's explosive and unflagging energy. Both knees have been replaced; he spent a long time in a wheelchair.

Then, in February, the band appeared at the Super Bowl, before a U.S. television audience estimated at almost 100 million. And Clemons stood.

Since then, he's logged thousands of miles with E Street. Amid doctors and physical therapy, he's wedged in book-signings for "Big Man: Real Life & Tall Tales," released in October. And he's started a second book with friend and Hollywood producer Don Reo.

If sheer willpower is all it takes, the Big Man will never be down for the count.

"I always said in my life that when it doesn't feel joyous any more, then it will be time to quit," he said in a recent interview. "But the joy is getting better and better."

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Clemons got his first horn at age 9. He was awed by the sax sounds of King Curtis, Junior Walker, Sil Austin and Boots Randolph _ and by the voice of Aretha Franklin, with whom he later recorded.

In his youth, he sloughed off racism. He had trouble forming attachments in his segregated, black high school, because it was outside the white community where his family lived.

For years, he seemed destined for football. After a car wreck ruined his Cleveland Browns tryout, he decided "God wanted me to do something else."

He refuses to dwell on the negative. Ask about the glory days, though _ the band's gritty, camaraderie-fueled beginnings in the 1970s _ and his eyes light up.

His book details the rags-to-riches adventures. As legend has it, a gale blew the door off an Asbury Park, N.J., club as Clemons _ horn always at the ready _ entered and asked to sit in with the Boss-to-be.

It was, he says, "beyond male bonding."

He shared a house with keyboardist Danny Federici, drummer Vini "Mad Dog" Lopez _ and three boa constrictors.

The old ties still bind E Street. But Springsteen has remained his No. 1 bro-mance. Once, Clemons' jealous girlfriend asked if they were lovers.