The Super Bowl Miracle

She knew New York would win, she said, it was the feast of St. Blaise', after all. Blaise was her brother who passed away more than twenty years ago, leaving a family of 12, and the oldest boy, also named Blaise, died too young not ten years past. In her mind, you somehow become the saint for whom you're named when you pass, like a giant continuum.

She left the TV on but didn't watch, only listened, as she cleaned out the refrigerator which had more years of filth than you care to know. Three hours it took, she said, cleaning and scrubbing, and in those three hours they won. So she knew...

It wasn't only the refrigerator, though. When I walked into the cramped apartment she grew up in, there were large, black trash bags stacked on the floor, a dozen or more, and I could see the kitchen table-top for the first time in all those years. The thick, gray dust was gone, clothes were hung up, boxes were packed. The dusty, sour smell was finally dissipating...

The patron saint of throat ailments and wild animals turned his attention to an underdog team and a poor old woman trying to reclaim her world. She listened to the plays, but never watched, not until the work was done.

She knew her brother and nephew would watch and wait for her.