When the Saints Go Marching In

Am I dreaming? Or maybe I’m still so bloated from holiday consumption that my mind has ventured into a candy-coated alternate reality? I ask because according to any source I check, the New Orleans Saints earned themselves a first-round bye in the NFC playoffs and are now only two victories away from their first-ever appearance in a Super Bowl. Will we all soon be watching the plumed drum major of the Southern University Marching Band prancing his way onto the field at Dolphins Stadium? Is it suddenly not at all that far-fetched to foresee a television commercial sporting Donald Duck shouting a surly “Who Dat?” from the overly-manicured grounds of Disney World?

Without intentionally trying to put the cart before the horse, I’m going to go ahead and begin to prepare my celebration now. Problem is, getting blitzed and screaming at the top of my lungs just isn’t going to do the trick this time. In fact, there is no precedent for this type of grandiose possibility. For the past couple of decades, I have proudly informed even the most remote and temporary of my sports buddies that by a long shot the most prominent aspiration of mine as a sports fan is to see the Saints win themselves a Lombardi Trophy. Just one within what I hope to be a span of 80-plus years doesn’t seem like much to ask. But sure enough these past 35 have been about as fruitless as an NRA rally. From Archie Manning to the Dome Patrol to Aaron Brooks, a certain cloud of irrefutable doubt continues to linger even as I put the six-pack of canned Dixie that I’ve been saving for this particular big moment in my refrigerator for a most holy month of anticipatory cooling.

If the Saints actually win this year’s Super Bowl, I expect it to thoroughly transform the inner fabric of my being. When my alma mater Texas beat USC last January, my unbridled drunken howling was followed by me turning into an incorrigible and disgustingly smug braggart. By no fault of his own, Vince Young ultimately served as a detriment to what for years had been a steady progression of personal growth. In hopeful contrast, a World Champion Saints team deserves oh so much more than that from a somewhat-sensible, yet die-hard fan such as my self. And by the way that my toes begin to tingle whenever I attempt to envision Reggie Bush sprinting down the sideline for a Super Bowl-winning touchdown, holding my fortune over the head of the next man doesn’t feel right being any part of a world once and for all exorcised of the Ain’ts tag.

Surely, I will at first get stupid drunk, just like any given sports fan idiot graced with even the slightest reason to maintain a beaming smile beyond half-priced Happy Hour chicken wings. But then I just might have to quit my dastardly cubicle grind and take my family on an endless tour of the world, like a modern day Johnny Appleseed with enough Crunk Juice in stock to keep this entire planet spinning at peak levels of buzzing satisfaction. Or maybe just like I have been known to do in past dreams, I will gain the ability to fly effortlessly through the golden skies, like a winged premonition spreading magic dust about the countryside. Whatever redemption is supposed to look and feel like, I will trump it with ambrosia spilling from my every orifice.

Yes, this is somewhat about getting over Katrina, but really no more than having to get over any given day since Bienville founded the city of New Orleans in 1718. Those of us who know exactly what it feels like to miss the ever-trying Crescent City are long since weary of the incessant negativity that continually surrounds us like an unwanted birthright. Every last one of us has earned a fair share of glory, and while our best dishes and music may at times fool us into thinking that we’ve found it, the endless symbolism wrapped up in the Saints’ albeit still-slim chance for a Super Bowl triumph may well be the very trumpet to free us from our worst inner burdens.