The Miracle

by Tom Swift

Forty years later, the moment still gives you chills.

You have been bottled up this week — literally (tension in your back and shoulder) and figuratively (lack of writing, irritability) — and you have for some weeks now felt pervasive despair over the state of our country. We are at that point in winter, even a winter as mild as the one we’ve had, when the body needs unfolding. Malaise. That is the word that corks to mind.

But you can, as you have done in anticipation of today, forty years today, pull up the video. You can watch Eruzione find the puck on his stick in the high slot, watch the captain, our captain, flick his wrist, you can watch him bury that thing, can watch him tippy-toe dance along the boards, absorbed into the arms of his brothers, and still you cry.

The exuberance with they celebrated — the whole team — our team — came onto the ice — the love — the love — the moment — what they were doing — what they were about to do — the moment is a touchstone: you can always go back. To childhood. To hope. To goodness. To the belief that hard work works. You can believe again that, no matter the long odds, good will triumph in the end.

No matter how constricted you feel, no matter how dispirited you become, you can always go back to that moment and release it all.

If only for a moment, you can.