Jeff Weaver, who-in-God’s name would ever have thunk it?

Yes, after last night, I do believe in miracles!Indeed, I now believe that anything is possible. Suddenly, I wouldn’t be shocked if George W. Bush became a great president, if Paris Hilton morphed into a plump nun, if we dramatically won the war in Iraq, if Reading somehow was transformed into Beverly Hills and if my hairline stopped its rapid retreat and grew bangs!Why all this gushy, pinch-me-I’m-dreaming, cockeyed optimism? Why do I now believe that it’s a piece of cake to drop the im from improbable and get probable?Because my boy Jeff Weaver is an honest-to-goodness, genuine, bona fide, who-would-have-believed-it? World Series hero.The flaky California surfer dude pitched heroically and magnificently last night as St. Louis beat Detroit 4-2 to win the Series. In so doing, he became the starting pitcher with the worst regular-season ERA (5.76) to win a clincher in the World Series.Weaver allowed only two runs (one earned) and four hits in eight brilliant innings, striking out nine. I guess this miracle was in, ahem!, the Cards.For some unknown reason that defies logic, I’ve followed Weaver for years since his burgeoning years of promise with the Tigers.Then he wound up with the New York Yankees and melted down in the Big Apple media fishbowl. He rebounded with two solid seasons with the Los Angeles Dodgers before melting down again this season with the Los Angeles/Anaheim Angels. I’m the only nut on the East Coast who used to stay up late to watch him pitch in West Coast games and wonder where my sanity had gone.But I couldn’t help myself.Weaver is fascinating to watch pitch. He has electric movement on his fastball and his breaking balls. And he has an arm like a rubber band. He eats up innings like they were Goobers. But his emotions always have gotten the best of him on the mound. He can be fabulous and horrible, all in the same inning.He serves up nasty pitches and fat pitches, which is why he usually leaves guys either flailing or taking one downtown. He surrenders gopher balls in bunches. He can throw five shutout innings and then get torched for a seven-run sixth.Compounding matters, he wears his emotions on his sleeve and on his face, which undergoes more contortions than a Chinese acrobat. And in times of despair he waves his arms more frequently than an orchestra conductor. His pitching career seemed destined for the glue factory this summer when his younger brother Jered aced him out of the Angels’ rotation and he was traded to St. Louis. But his train wreck of a season, one that saw him go 3-10 with a 6.29 ERA for the Angels, got back on the tracks when Cards pitching coach Dave Duncan reassembled Weaver’s mechanics.He was an effective pitcher in September, and then really got in a surreal zone in the postseason with a 3-2 record and 2.43 ERA.I’m still stunned by all this. I feared Weaver would be destroyed in the biggest game of his life. I dreaded he would suffer such an inferno-like meltdown that it really would shift global warming into third gear. I prayed for the polar caps as he took the mound.But my boy came through. Big time! And now I believe, baby!Put a moose in tails and a top hat and I believe he could light up Broadway as a hoofer.And speaking of neon, Jeff Weaver’s name will be forever flashing on the marquee of incredible World Series performances. Now who’s crazy for being a Jeff Weaver fan! After all those nightmares, the guy is a real Dream Weaver.