Hey, Dad. It's been a while, I know, but something happened last night
that you're not going to believe. The Saints won the NFC championship
and we're going to the Superbowl!
It was unreal, Dad. You've been gone for almost ten years now, and you wouldn't recognize this team. I remember, when I was young, you'd take me to the games. I remember walking into the dome, holding your hand so as not to get lost among the throngs, and marveling at the immensity of it all. The booming voice on the loudspeaker. The deafening roar of the crowds. Just you and me, rejoicing in the wins (few and far between), and suffering the losses. The Saints were a motley crew of cast-offs and has-beens and never will be's. Nobody ever gave us much of a chance. But you'd always make the best of it.
"There's always next year, son." you'd always say. "You gotta believe".
I started playing park ball shortly afterward. You came to every game. I remember, we were playing for the championship one year, and I was pretty worried. The other team was bigger, faster, and hell, their uniforms even looked better. Nobody really gave us much of a chance.
You told me, "On any given day, son, anyone can be beaten." you said. "But you gotta believe."
And you were right, because we won.
This whole season has been amazing, Dad. we'd have had a lot of fun talking about it. I can remember, a few years after those early Saints games, when I had outgrown park ball and discovered beer and cigarettes, when I became a teenager with a bad attitude, we talked less and less. But when we did talk, we always had the Saints. What the chances were. How they were going to do it this year. Always hopeful, but always ending in a disappointment. Nobody ever gave us much of a chance.
And you told me, "Son, you gotta believe."
Well last night it happened. I tell you it was magical. It was close all the way. Tie score for most of the game. I'm not going to lie, it was looking pretty grim there at the end. Favre had it and was driving, getting close to field goal range. The announcers were already talking about how great it would be to see Favre in the Super Bowl. Nobody really gave us much of a chance.
But then I heard your voice say, "You gotta believe."
Then the interception. Oh, my, how the Dome exploded! Then overtime, the drive and the breathless anticipation of the kick. Just for a moment there, time seemed to stretch out in all directions, to infinity and back again, and you were there with me, just for the moment, and the ball went through the uprights and thousands, no - millions of people, black and white, young and old, mothers, daughters, and yes, fathers and sons screamed with one voice. Then it was over except for the crying, the confetti, the exuberent celebration where an entire city that should have been wiped off the map screamed with one voice - "We believe".
I feel weird telling you about all this, because it seems like maybe you were there, somehow? It sure felt like it to me.
Anyway, you've missed a lot since you've been gone. The twin towers fell. LSU won a couple of national titles. Your grand-kids are growing from the toddlers you knew into fine young adults. Hurricane Katrina came and tried to wipe us off the map. A senator even remarked that maybe it would be best not rebuild New Orleans. How we were too uneducated, too poor, too damn stupid to know we were living in a place that was below sea level and we should just abandon the area. Nobody really gave us much of a chance.
But we believed, Dad.
Well, I guess that's about it. Oh, and Dad. One more thing. I read the paper today and they're talking about how great the Colts are. How Peyton Manning is the best QB ever. How the Colts defense is too powerful. How their offense is unstoppable. Nobody's giving us much of a chance.
But you know what?
I believe.
It was unreal, Dad. You've been gone for almost ten years now, and you wouldn't recognize this team. I remember, when I was young, you'd take me to the games. I remember walking into the dome, holding your hand so as not to get lost among the throngs, and marveling at the immensity of it all. The booming voice on the loudspeaker. The deafening roar of the crowds. Just you and me, rejoicing in the wins (few and far between), and suffering the losses. The Saints were a motley crew of cast-offs and has-beens and never will be's. Nobody ever gave us much of a chance. But you'd always make the best of it.
"There's always next year, son." you'd always say. "You gotta believe".
I started playing park ball shortly afterward. You came to every game. I remember, we were playing for the championship one year, and I was pretty worried. The other team was bigger, faster, and hell, their uniforms even looked better. Nobody really gave us much of a chance.
You told me, "On any given day, son, anyone can be beaten." you said. "But you gotta believe."
And you were right, because we won.
This whole season has been amazing, Dad. we'd have had a lot of fun talking about it. I can remember, a few years after those early Saints games, when I had outgrown park ball and discovered beer and cigarettes, when I became a teenager with a bad attitude, we talked less and less. But when we did talk, we always had the Saints. What the chances were. How they were going to do it this year. Always hopeful, but always ending in a disappointment. Nobody ever gave us much of a chance.
And you told me, "Son, you gotta believe."
Well last night it happened. I tell you it was magical. It was close all the way. Tie score for most of the game. I'm not going to lie, it was looking pretty grim there at the end. Favre had it and was driving, getting close to field goal range. The announcers were already talking about how great it would be to see Favre in the Super Bowl. Nobody really gave us much of a chance.
But then I heard your voice say, "You gotta believe."
Then the interception. Oh, my, how the Dome exploded! Then overtime, the drive and the breathless anticipation of the kick. Just for a moment there, time seemed to stretch out in all directions, to infinity and back again, and you were there with me, just for the moment, and the ball went through the uprights and thousands, no - millions of people, black and white, young and old, mothers, daughters, and yes, fathers and sons screamed with one voice. Then it was over except for the crying, the confetti, the exuberent celebration where an entire city that should have been wiped off the map screamed with one voice - "We believe".
I feel weird telling you about all this, because it seems like maybe you were there, somehow? It sure felt like it to me.
Anyway, you've missed a lot since you've been gone. The twin towers fell. LSU won a couple of national titles. Your grand-kids are growing from the toddlers you knew into fine young adults. Hurricane Katrina came and tried to wipe us off the map. A senator even remarked that maybe it would be best not rebuild New Orleans. How we were too uneducated, too poor, too damn stupid to know we were living in a place that was below sea level and we should just abandon the area. Nobody really gave us much of a chance.
But we believed, Dad.
Well, I guess that's about it. Oh, and Dad. One more thing. I read the paper today and they're talking about how great the Colts are. How Peyton Manning is the best QB ever. How the Colts defense is too powerful. How their offense is unstoppable. Nobody's giving us much of a chance.
But you know what?
I believe.
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