BOSTON — My good friend of 30 years has amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Not much that he can do about this, beyond hoping for some major medical breakthrough, and nothing, really, that I can do. So let’s go to a ballgame.
I meet my friend, Bill Malinowski, at his home in Rhode Island. He will drive his Acura wagon the hour to Fenway Park for a night game of no importance. I will drive back, because having A.L.S. is exhausting. These days, he’s usually asleep by 9.
The diagnosis this spring only confirmed what he suspected. A superior athlete — marathoner, swimmer, biker — who chronicled his every mile in the chase after fitness, he knew his body.