I leave work, walking towards the Garden. A man stuck in traffic honks
his horn at pedestrians who, like him, are wearing Bruins jerseys, on
their way to Game 7. I trudge up Beacon hill, passing tourists who
snap pictures of themselves doing the same. Rounding the state house,
I nearly run into a woman who has her nose in a Dennis Lehane novel.
In Boston Common, the trees are shedding the last of their spring
blooms; the dead petals sprinkle down on those of us cutting through