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We were there when Barry Bonds hit number 754 Friday night . Well not really. We were in a restaurant two blocks from the stadium and, despite the uproarious celebration when he knocked one over the wall, we couldn’t have cared less. We were celebrating with a real hero and a marvelous athlete.
Almost three years ago our son was beaten and robbed on a fraternity outing to San Francisco. His severe spinal chord injury and fractured pelvis kept this former soccer star hospitalized for almost two months and in a wheelchair for two years. He left San Francisco in an ambulance and we followed behind, relieved to be leaving forever a city we had come to hate.
When none of the doctors were willing to say he had a chance of ever walking again, only one person believed he would, our son himself. He has endured five surgeries, unimaginable pain and a grueling rehabilitation regimen. He was determined to return to school and to walk again. Thanks to many prayers, some brilliant doctors and therapists and his own dogged determination, he was back in school that same year and is now walking again. He still needs crutches for the longer distances, like the two blocks he walked from the train station to the restaurant to help celebrate the birthday of my cousin’s husband.
What made this celebration so special is that we had never met my cousin’s husband until that chaotic night that we arrived in San Francisco while he was undergoing his first critical surgery. He and his wife opened their home to us and became the glue that held my wife and I together while the surgeons did what they could to put our son back together. They consoled us, counseled us and took their turns at his bedside. In spite of the bonds we had formed, the thought of returning a city that had been so cruel to our son was very intimidating. Only our son’s insistence that he didn’t want to miss the party gave us the determination to face our own private hell.
I don’t care if Bonds hits 1,000 home runs. Nothing will top our triumphal return to the City by the Bay. Some things really matter and too many of the events that our popular culture wants us to live and breathe mean absolutely nothing at all.
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