What dat has the sickness?

I am sick indeed.

I have been diagnosed by credible doctors after 11 weeks of the sickness.

It's not the swine flu, though strains of that pop up here and there around New Orleans. It's not the regular flu, pneumonia or even a cold, though my throat is raw and my head is ringing.

I've just risen at the late hour of 8 a.m. after some hefty tossing and turning from 5 a.m. till then.

But I have the diagnosis now, though the cure is not known at this time.

The doctors are calling it the 11-0, 16-0 flu, or as some have labeled it in the media, the WHO-DAT influenza. It has been nicknamed by pundits the Breesyflu.

It is a sneaky virus, coming on slowly. The symptons are these: You start to feel a little queazy because you're not sure this can be real. You can't shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen so you make sure you have the proper clothing on at the proper time. You get a fever burning sometimes around noon on Sundays, sometimes at 7:30 p.m. on Monday nights. You start to shout with incredible loudness that turns into a scream of uncontrolable joy at the slightest mention of a Monday night long ago when a punt was blocked and Atlanta was beaten. You tear up at the slightest thought of Feb. 7, 2010 and the colors black and gold make you unstable.

It's almost heart-stopping. You can feel the constrictions in your chest when those cancerous cells make the games close.

The only known treatment, which is not a cure mind you, is to out-score it, to keep it on the run, to not sit back and wait for good things to come but to continue to pound, pound, pound, throw (up), throw (up), throw (up).

You can't hope to stop it, you can only contain it in this city at this time.

I caught it in 1967 and it lay dormant all these years. It has appeared on my chest as little black marks in recent weeks.

It, I'm told, will work its way out of my system in February.