I was at the agency again, in the cafeteria.  It was after the lunch hour, and I wasn't sure that they would serve me, or that they had anything left.  Also, there were few people in there, and I looked in vain for someone I knew to eat with.  I chose the special, which was a sort of stew or goulash, and they must have been almost out all right, because it was a few tiny lumps of hamburger, a couple of mushy pieces of cooked carrot, and a little spaetzle.  I complained to the servers about how little I was getting for 89 cents or whatever the price was, and they took my dish back to give me more.  Jim Plummer was there, and he had set four places at the table.  I commented to his wife on how helpful he was and sat down to eat.  He had already eaten and was waiting for the first baseball exhibition game to come on TV.  I eagerly waited with him.  It was supposed to be the Red Sox vs. the Reds, but when we turned on the TV, it was Mohammad Ali vs. some other guy in a boxing ring.  We were disappointed and couldn't figure out how it could have gotten mixed up like that.  Round One had just begun, and Ali came out slugging.  He pummeled the other guy a few times, and the guy staggered backwards to his corner, holding his arms up, conceding the fight.  He was a much older, thinner man, and his eyes were wide with terror, his mouth wide open and his teeth glistening.  The people in his corner tried to get him to go back out, but he refused, and then he toppled through the ropes and fell out of the ring.  A ringside doctor pronounced him dead.