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Okay, so I stole that title from a long-suffering Boston fan named Bill Simmons who wrote a book by that name after the Red Sox broke an 86-year drought and won the World Series in 2004.
Simmons is also the author of a column named “Growing Queasy in the Big Easy” when the New England Patriots won the Super Bowl in 2002.
There was an early Mardi Gras that year also and the native New Englander was somewhat taken aback at the spectacle he described in the above-mentioned column…
“Perverts packed the balconies of every bar, screaming at women to pull up their shirts and hurling bead necklaces at them when they obliged. Drunken idiots wandering around like they’ve just been shot. Transvestites, strippers, hookers and drag queens intermittently wandering around without anyone batting an eyelash. And everybody’s holding some sort of drink. It defies description.”
Well, Bill, we Saints fans didn’t wait quite as long as you and your Sox supporters did for your championship-only 43 years. But then we didn’t trade Babe Ruth either, did we?
But on one glorious February weekend, the Bless You Boys erased the curses of Russell Erxleben, of a stadium built on the site of a Poydras Street cemetery and of a football helmet with a flower on the side...all in one fell swoop.
And Bill, you shoulda been here for Lombardi Gras. Nobody seemed to know where the Saints party ended and Mardi Gras began. And you know what-nobody cared.
Anyway, here are some of my incoherent, rambling notes soaked in Hurricane punch on four days that changed a city…
Thursday, Feb. 4—My next door neighbor Commander Cody and his travelling band just pulled out of the driveway in a motor home bound for Miami. “There are only seven of us in here and this thing sleeps eight,” he shouted at me. “Room for one more if you want to pile in.”
Now that was a tempting offer. Even without a ticket-Cody and crew had paid a couple of grand for theirs - I wanted badly to be in that number when the Saints marched in to their first
Super Bowl.
In my younger days there wouldn’t have been a moment’s hesitation. But now, instead of being a child of the 60’s, I happen to be an old man in my 60’s whose idea of roughing it is a Days Inn without remote control.
So I politely declined, promised to live vicariously through their adventures and headed off to Southpaw’s to drown my sorrows and get my numbers on the Super Bowl board.
A lively crowd and a decent draw-I got Indy with a 7 and the Saints with a 3-not to mention a little help from the Miller Lite girls and their choice Pilsner product had lifted my spirits considerably when my phone rang around 11 o’clock.
A familiar voice on the other endsaid, “Bill, I know you said you’d probably be home before midnight. But I just called to tell you not to come home. Stay at Southpaw’s for at least another hour.”
My initial reaction was, “Who are you, you body-snatching alien and what have you done with my wife?”
In 37 years of marriage my wife has called me many times in a plethora of places to check on my condition-and most times with good reason. But she has never suggested that I remain in a bar for an extended period of time.
Pam explained, “A truck missed the White Road curve and knocked down at least one utility pole. The entire road’s blocked off by the police, fire trucks, Entergy vehicles and ambulances. There’s no power anywhere and lines are down everywhere. You’re much better off just to stay where you are.”
All right, Honey-if you insist.
That call right there-something that hadn’t happened in 37 years-should have been an omen of good things to come.
Friday, Feb. 5—On my way to school-to inform them not to even think about calling me to substitute on Monday-I listened to some predictably entertaining shows on a pair of New Orleans radio stations.
One announcer was quoting from a “Dear Miami” letter from Mark Lorando
of the Times-Picayune trying to warn Dade County residents what to expect from the fiercely loyal and slightly discombobulated Saints fans.
“First things first: You need more beer,” he began. “And whenwe ask for a go cup, be nice to us. We don’t even know what ‘open container law’ means. Is that anything like ‘last call’?”
“And when the dude in the ‘Who Dat’ T-shirt asks you if you want to suck da head and pinch da tail, resist the urge to punch him. He’s not propositioning you. He’s inviting you to a crawfish dinner.”
Great stuff and so typical of our culture. Another station was running some classic clips from the late Buddy Diliberto’s infamous post-game show-“Buddy D’s Point After”.
One segment was recorded after still another gut-wrenching loss by a “Hail Mary” pass and Buddy was inviting his audience to recommend changes to improve the Saints.
To his surprise, the next caller was another local celebrity-WWL’s Saturday night horror show host Morgus the Magnificent.
After Morgus suggested moving out of the Superdome because of the aforementioned cemetery legend {“Didn’t anybody see Poltergeist?”}, getting the fleur de lis off the helmet {“The Buccaneers won the Super Bowl after they replaced that gay caballero with a skull and crossbones.”}, the Channel 4 legend dropped a bigger bombshell.
“And change the team’s name to the meanest, toughest living thing there is in the
city-the Nutrias. Anything that can survive living in New Orleans water and outsmart Harry Lee’s trigger-happy deputies deserves to be a better nickname than the Saints.”
I don’t know, Morgus. I realize those were hard times but “Who Dat talkin’ bout beatin’ dem Nutrias…” just doesn’t have a good ring to it.
Saturday, Feb. 6-Some of my favorite gimmick bets on the Super Bowl are the props that cross over different sports or involve some of the hoopla that surrounds but may not include that actual game itself.
For example, I once took the Packers with a younger Brett Favre against the NBA’s Michael Jordan in a total points’ battle in the ‘90’s and got nipped 36-35 by MJ.
I also dropped a close one a couple of years back when Joseph Addai’s rushing yardage {77} beat Tiger Woods’s {Remember him?} final round total of 71.
Based on a hot tip from a beer man, I wagered one year that one of the popular frogs-Bud, Wise or Er-would croak in a Super Bowl ad. The information was good but the damn ferret blew the assassination attempt and electrocuted himself.
This year there were only two props that caught my eye. One was the Kardashian girls’ prop that pitted Kim’s boyfriend Reggie Bush {total rushing and receiving touches} against Khloe’s husband, Laker Lamar Odom {total points in Saturday’s game}.
The other was the number of the winning car in the NASCAR Budweiser Shootout in Daytona against the total points by both teams in the first half of the Super Bowl.
I figured 28 would be the number of points before intermission in the game so I took the car number. When number 99 bolted to an early lead, I instantly became a huge Carl Edwards fan.
But halfway through the race, I got a call from my pessimistic buddy Conspiracy Charlie-the one who thinks everything from sports to politics is all fixed.
“That’ll never hold up,” he said when I told him of my good fortune. “Vegas will make sure the winning car is not too high or too low. They’ll fix it so it’s closer to their football total of 28.”
I got back to the race just in time to see number 29 Kevin Harvick cross the finish line-and under a yellow caution flag too.
By the way Lamar Odomscored 10 points in Saturday’s game and Reggie Bush had five rushes and five receptions on Sunday. You do the math.
And I’m trying to beat these people!
Sunday, Feb.7—My favorite Super Sunday daytime party was at the home of Pat and Tommy Douglas who cleverly combined the spirit of the Super Bowl with the costuming of Mardi Gras.
Pat donned a toga, a laurel wreath and sandals while strumming on a small harp. She was, of course, Saints safety Roman Harper. There was also a “Shockey” armed with a lightning bolt and a “Fujita” complete with lettuce, tomato and meat fillings to honor Saints tight end Jeremy and linebacker Scott respectively.
But the grand entrance belonged to the host Tommy who masked in black and gold wrestling tights and declared himself Super Saint. Escorted by his lovely daughter Emily {I think he paid her to be part of the show.}, Super Saint strutted his stuff a la Rick Flair-only his golden belt proclaimed the Saints as World Champions.
My favorite nighttime party was, of course, at my house where family and friend gathered to see if there would be a “Miracle on White Road”. The raucous crowd cheered wildly as a quarterback who’s been told all his life that he’s “too small”, an undrafted running back, and a maligned kicker who had to earn his job back after a suspension combined to give the Saints an improbable fourth quarter lead.
Then with Peyton Manning poised to tie the game, a defensive back from Port Allen who ironically had to go to Indiana to play college ball put Indianapolis to sleep with an interception return for the ages.
One day I’ll blow up that team picture I have and put it on the wall next to
the Beatles and Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash. And I’ll bore the grandkids with stories about the exploits of St. Drew and St. Pierre and St. Garrett and St. Tracy.
And when they get restless, I’ll always end the tale the same way before they run out to play. I’ll point to that poster and say, “Boys, that’s the 2010 Super Bowl Champion New Orleans Saints. That’s the team that changed everything.”
Monday, Feb. 8—What do we do now? I don’t get into college basketball until March Madness. The NBA plays four more months just so they can eliminate the Nets and the Clippers from the playoffs so that’s not an option.
Hey! Wait a minute. Don’t pitchers and catchers report to spring training in
two weeks?
I believe I’ll go make a small wager on the Chicago Cubs to win it all this year.
After all-stranger things have happened.
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