The last day of the conference I stood in the hospitality suite on the 29th floor of the Sheraton Hotel and, since this was a conference on narrative nonfiction, I told the remaining speakers a story.
The view of Fenway Park had reminded me of a scene from Fay Vincent's book The Last Commissioner: A Baseball Valentine.
Often in the 70s, when the Red Sox were playing in another city, owner Tom Yawkey would take his wife Jean to Fenway and have a man pitch batting practice to him.
As the first inning approached, the Yawkey's would walk to center field, spread out on a blanket, and listen to the game on a transistor radio.
I can't look at Fenway now without picturing the couple sitting on a blanket in the outfield, the small voice of an announcer the only sound in the empty stadium.
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