Every week, for over a decade, “The Boss” and I have “shared” the Sunday New York Times. Hmm, do you think he knows about this? I always look forward to seeing the address label on the newspaper wrapper in my post office box.

Let’s take a step back in time, to when thousands of Bruce Springsteen fans attended the E Street Band concerts at the Meadowlands Arena in East Rutherford, N.J.; for me, it will always have that name – not the Izod Center and not MetLife Stadium. My friend and I brought canned food to donate to a local food pantry, as requested by Springsteen, “The Boss,” as he has been known.

Somewhere during our meanderings along the walkways, we happened upon a vendor for The New York Times. Maybe we were an easy mark, maybe we were in chatty moods; definitely, as public school teachers, we were ready for freebies. “For the very low cost of . . . . ” Gotcha! That person reeled us in. I signed the white cardstock and ordered a Times. In the following weeks, a paper addressed to Springsteen and me appeared on my porch.

Eventually, the paper started landing in my mailbox, outside the door. But then, after many years, where was the Sunday New York Times? For a few weeks, there was no newspaper and then there was an email. Basically, due to delivery concerns, someone identifying herself as an employee of The New York Times reached out to me: The names on the address label were causing confusion; hmmm . . .  tell me it’s not so after all these years!

What to do? Reply to the email? Confirm its legitimacy? File for a change of name? With my mind buzzing, I took a few steps. First, I confirmed the........

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