PUXSUTAWNEY THIBODEAUX

PUXSUTAWNEY THIBODEAUX, the world's most famous nutria, emerged from chilly waters in the bayou, took a sniff of putrid air, walked a mile or two and then noticed not only his shadow, but all the hunters in the woods were wearing (not orange) but black and gold.

The meaning?

Obviously a Saints Super Bowl.

This is rare territory for all of us, you realize.

German tradition holds that if a hibernating animal casts a shadow on Feb. 2 — the Christian holiday of Candlemas — winter will last another six weeks. If no shadow is seen, legend says spring will come early.

Down here, if the nutria sees black and gold on hunters, it means, well, no one has ever seen it so we're still discussing what it might mean.

As I stood near the Superdome after the climatic NFC championship victory, two men walked by me. One said to the other, "I don't know how to act." That's the way we all feel down here. As winter began at The Times-Picayune, times were so bad that the company bought out more than 40 persons, including myself, before threatened layoffs could come. Now? Darn near everyone who has ever worked for the newspaper is in Miami, covering the Super Bowl. Heck, even a dead one, Buddy D, has been written about three times in the newspaper's coverage. I guess the threatened deadline of layoffs of Feb. 7 isn't such a threat any longer.

Every where you go, people are focused. Every where you look, people are black and gold. I spent last week buying Tee-shirts so I could remember this time, clearly anticipating it might take another 43 years to get back to this stage.

I know ultimately this means little. I know ultimately that if the Saints lose Sunday night, life will pick up on Monday and continue or even begin again. I know that my job in life is to make disciples for Christ, not to say Who Dat. But I'm delirious, and I suspect God understands.

We are in foreign lands. We don't know how to act. We don't know what to say. We who-dats are involved in the game that features all those new commercials. It's so new to us that I suspect the commercial time will be a refueling stop instead of what we watch to gain enjoyment.

In other words, the game finally means something to us, all of us, the so-called Who-Dat nation. By the way. That's a direct theft from the Red Sox nation. Seems we could have come up with something new. But then, I digress.

This day and this day alone I will leave scripture out of the mix. I love my Lord far more than I love my Saints for I'm smart enough to understand that my Saints do not save me and my Lord has. However, this week I love my Saints more than I love my Mannings, and I love me some Archie (always have.) He looks down from the wall above my office desk from the cover I have framed of the 1970 Sporting News. We go way back.

I loved Peyton all these years. I treasured Eli all these years. Heck, though I went to Mississippi State, I forgave all those who went to Ole Miss.

But this is about thick, Mississippi River water that is thicker than even blood. This is about all the have-nots getting a chance to be haves, the can'ts getting to be cans, the maybes getting to be the sures.

We are part and parcel of this thing and we might not get another chance. I had thought this was about getting to go to the party. We're there. We might as well win the dang thing, though the nation can't seem to understand that we have that possibility.

PUXSUTAWNEY THIBODEAUX has seen the shadow of the hunters of black and gold. Winter is going. Super Bowling is here.