Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

I was on my knees behind the couch, while my wife calmly watched as the Niners drove down the field during the later stages of a wild and weird Super Bowl. I had seen this story before, though. Throughout their history, the Niners had been down, only to inexplicably, pull something out of their collective asses and win the game. But this time, this Super Bowl, with the mega-star coach, the crazy-good defensive end, and the budding wunderkind of an athlete at quarterback, they failed.

I was crushed.

A year later, in Seattle, the same coach, same quarterback, largely same team, failed again. This time in an even more agonizing fashion as the heart of the defense, NaVorro Bowman shred his knee and likely his hall of fame resume on a critical stop.

We were crushed.

It started with a trickle that turned into a gushing flood of failure, injuries, retirements, divisive protesting (regardless if you were for it or against it—lines were drawn) and mass exoduses of talent. New saviors brought in, a guy that openly farted during a press conference, and abject failure set in.

They were crushed.

Fast forward to last year, a year with a great deal of promise but familiar disappointment as our young, brutally handsome and talented quarterback, tore up his knee and missed the season. Questions were raised about a grizzled and dreadlocks sporting former enemy, a man so loathed by Niner fans that they actually defended the play of Michael Crabtree against his blistering rebuttal of him—oh, wait, that was me. Did we have the right coach—a coach's son—and general manager—a man that played for the dad of our offensively-gifted coach? Were the York's cursed? And if so, what would we have to sacrifice to erase the stench of disgust and disappointment that we have earned over this past decade or so.

I, you, we, and others who believed in the magic of this organization had lost hope. And its place came skepticism, snark, and righteous condemnation of every decision, from as small as the uniform's stripes to who we signed and did not sign.

Years ago, long before Joe Montana picked up a football and threw it in a fashion that mesmerized a generation, including that of a young boy named Tommy Brady, a young girl wondered if the impossible was in fact, possible. Her name was Virginia O'Hanlon. And she wanted to know, simply and unequivocally, if Santa Claus was real or not.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?"
VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.

The response came from a veteran journalist at The Sun, Francis Pharcellus Church. His response has become the stuff of legend as it was about nothing more than hope:

"VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished."

Friends, I am not an X and O guy or for that matter a Jimmy or Joe guy. I am your average and humble peddler of words, phrases, and emotions. I have ridden out and written about every emotion, positive, negative, inspired and bitter as hell when it comes to this organization and its players. I, therefore, cannot promise where we will go or for how long we will be there. But today, I feel confident enough to say, that, yes, indeed, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he delivered a special present to the city by the bay and its fan base that spans the globe: hope.

I am Fropwns