I never believed in miracles. I do, however, believe the human spirit has no boundaries. It is remarkably resilient and because of that resilience we often find hope in dire circumstances.
So when I read that the perpetually hapless Colorado Rockies were suddenly a 'miracle team' because they had won an unheard of 21 of their last 22 games to unexpectedly catapult them from also-rans all the way to the World Series, I was certainly impressed.
But if you look at the way they did it, you could see that it was all about great pitching and clutch hitting. These are the two foundation blocks to a protracted win streak and the Rockies were merely the most glaring example of this. Their streak had nothing whatsoever to do with miracles, a fact that became more pronounced when the Boston Red Sox destroyed the Rockies in four straight games in the World Series.
There was no longer any talk of miracles, just the simple reality that the better team prevailed. It was a victory for the pragmatists and a considerable blow for those who believe in miracles.
And yet someone, either inside or outside the sporting world, desperately needed to witness an act of great hope to bail out the true believers. Against all logic, that someone became me.
A little more than four weeks ago, my wife suffered a massive stroke. We rushed her to the hospital and after emergency surgery I was told by the attending doctor the damage was so severe she would not survive for more than one or two days. Calls went out to her family in Japan and her friends in far reaching locales to get to Hong Kong as soon as possible to say goodbye to Yumi.
My wife is a remarkably generous person. She has always found much more joy in giving than taking and has done so unconditionally. She is also unfailingly optimistic, which made us a perfect match: she always saw the best in people, while I often saw the worst.