As the final seconds on the stadium clock tick down after every home game, thousands of people pour from the bleachers and take off in a great race. While some rush to the parking lots or dinner reservations in town, others scurry toward the Basilica for the Saturday evening Mass.

That Mass is always popular with visitors and it's hard to get a seat as the faithful fill the pews and spill into the aisles, grabbing every inch of floor space along the altar and off to the sides. On a recent autumn evening, I joined the chaos with two visiting friends. Decked out in our Irish gear and exhausted from a long day of Notre Dame football, we claimed a tiny square of carpeting near the pew reserved for the handicapped.

Two men in wheelchairs were behind us that evening: one who seemed perfectly healthy despite his useless legs, and another whose body appeared ravaged by years of disease. This man struggled to sit upright as his arms flailed about, and his cloudy eyes never focused on those around him. His head bobbed almost uncontrollably, calmed only by the soothing hand of a friend accompanying him.

When the Mass began, the first man fully participated. He spoke clearly at all the right times and sang along with the Women's Liturgical Choir in the loft far above. The second man, however, labored to join in. His moist lips and tongue never formed the right words and his responses were little more than groans.

During the sign of peace, the first man warmly greeted those around him with a firm grip. The second man struggled to shape his uncooperative fingers into a handshake, and required assistance to connect those fingers with anyone else. His attempts at "Peace be with you" were barely coherent.

At those post-game Masses, receiving Communion is quite a production. The aisles are blocked by extra people who have no pews to sit in and the Eucharistic ministers on the sides of the altar are often squeezed into tiny nooks with lines flowing around them in all directions. The process is time-consuming, allowing the idle to irreverently stare at their neighbors. I watched as a Eucharist minister squeezed through the crowd toward the men in the wheelchairs. Although some dictate from my 14 years of Catholic education told me that I should be using that time to pray, I couldn't take my eyes of the man behind me as the minister neared him.

"The Body of Christ," the minister said.

I listened closely, wondering if the minister would even be able to hear a response. Seconds passed, and awkward fingers slowly, gently, came together. Then one flailing hand softened and folded into the other, forming a cup for Christ. The bobbing head straightened and the cloudy eyes cleared for the first time that evening, staring straight ahead.

"Amen."

The response was so articulate and unmistakable that the tears soon followed, not from the eyes accepting the body of Christ but from the irreverent eyes watching him. Within seconds my cheeks were wet and when I reached the front of the line, it was I who struggled to say "Amen." For in that simple exchange between a man and his God, I witnessed a miracle.

The views expressed in the Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

• Amen