Okay, let me go slowly for those who aren't used to these ramblings.
The kick left the foot of Hero Hartley and as it lifted into the air, I sat down in my seat in the Superdome. Honestly, I thought of my father with whom I had a less than perfect relationship but with whom I shared a love of the New Orleans Saints. I thought of my dog who died last Wednesday. I thought of my wife, I thought of my kids who have lived with my obsession. I waited for the sound to surround me, and it did, and I knew the long, dark period of my love of the Saints had ended.
See, this was never about winning the Super Bowl, though that would be wonderful. This was always about belonging. The NFL was a little club that didn't allow us to belong. The Super Bowl was always about other teams and commercials. No passion. No worry.
But as the football went between the uprights, I knew that we belonged, I belonged and folks like Danny, my dear son-in-law who went to the championship game in 2006 and was pelted with snow balls in Chicago and who died in a tragic motorcycle wreck less than six months later, belonged and all of us in this city that nature tried to wipe out belonged.
We are going to the Super Bowl, and this morning I'm dripping in tears. Stupid? Probably.
Best story I heard: my good friend Keith Peneguy called home five minutes after the game. His 12-year-old daughter answered. Keith: Did you watch the game? Daughter: Yes. Did your mom watch the game? Daughter: Yes. Can I speak to her? Daughter: No, she's busy screaming.
A city still in pain is screaming this morning. But it's not the pain talking. It's the joy.
Who Dat indeed?
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