In an Old Timer's Game. Neal competes as if his life depends on this game, as if he is at war. Minutes before the third game of the World Series between the Giants and Athletics, I call Neal. When a woman answers, I hope it is a wrong number. I hope it is Eleanor Roosevelt.
Some woman's on the phone.
I think, I am some woman. Five miles from Cleveland Stadium, in my mortgaged three-bedroom colonial with Burlington carpeting and leaded glass windows and my illustrations matted in wooden frames, as I sit in my overstuffed corduroy rocker, holding my breath, I hear, nothing. Copyright Boston Review , 1993-2000. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.