Boxborough, Ma.

I wanted to go see Bill Rodgers, because when I was a kid growing up in Massachusetts, Bill Rodgers was what I thought of when I thought of the Boston Marathon, not that acrid wickedness still under lockdown on Boylston Street. The hours since the bombings had been traumatic for the city, and in the aftermath there had been unimaginable grief. A joyous day, so meaningful to New England, had been devastated by cowardice. That's why I wanted to see Bill Rodgers, the floppy-haired flier from Connecticut, who'd...