THAT'S LIFE

I've tried to organize my thoughts, and I've failed.

I know one can't possibly put into words what we've gone through. They can't, though many are employed to and do it so well. I must say I missed being one of those last night in some ways.

Mary and I watched the game in a large wonderful room in the French quarter, two blocks from the mecca of debauchary, Bourbon Street. Why? I'm not sure as morning turns to afternoon. I've never done that before, I've never thought of that before and I might never do that again.

We have a HD large screen tv, but we chose to watch it on a 27 inch or so whatever normal vision TV is.

Why? I keep asking myself that. The answer finally comes. We did it to be in that number. We wanted to be there when hell froze and the losers of the world, which WE USED TO BE, became winners.

Tracy Porter grabbed the interception that will never be forgotten in Saints history and I grabbed my coat and my shoes. We watched the subsequent drive (it was Peyton after all) and when the final pass of the son of my favorite Saints player of all time hit the ground and we watched the victory formation snap, we sprang like Butch and Sundance into the crowd of crazies.

We journeyed, we knew not where, finding ourselves on Bourbon Street for the second time since I moved to New Orleans 18 years ago and the first time since I found Jesus and lost myself 14 plus years ago. As one we moved, men and women, young and old, every smoker in New Orleans and even the homeless with a banjo playing When the Saints Go Marching In to roars and gays who apparently love football as well as everyone else (or at least like a party).

We popped out of the scrum at one point on a street corner and stood for a while, watching. Suddenly a second-line broke out and I found my feet doing something that might be called dancing. Twice as I pondered the way I do, I was asked by young people if I KNEW THE SAINTS HAD JUST WON THE SUPER BOWL. Apparently I wasn't giddy and stupid enough. They had no idea how long 43 years of losing is, don't remember the first game Archie played where he scored on a roll out just like he always did at Ole Miss and didn't think that was the beginning of something special. It wasn't. It never was. Always I was destined to be a loser. Always the city was just a party city that HOSTED Super Bowls, and were never invited.

We wound our ways to Cafe Du Monde and had coffee and beignets and watched humanity and time pass us by, screaming, dancing and losing clothes as the party went along.

We watched and participated in some deep meaning Who Dats and I simply reflected. Really. I didn't cry. Never did. Even while talking with my daughter, who sat there in the stands in Miami giving me updates, or my daughter across the river whose fiance is a great Saints fan and my son who is mostly.

We all bonded over this. Young and old, rich and poor, gay and straight apparently. We all felt that maybe just this once, We ARE WINNERS. We all won. We all changed.

I dislike the Who Dat nation stuff because it was stolen. I do cry every time Get Crunk plays because no one else has that. I've spent all day crying. I can't stop. I will, though, but it might be Friday.

Organized thoughts: No. None.

Thoughts of how much that meant? Too many. I have to hold on till the parade. After all, I've been waiting 43 years.