Monday, January 15, 2007
Warning! Bandwagon Nearing Maximum Occupancy!
Check your pulse. Pigs are on the runway. Hell is approaching 32 degrees. And the New Orleans Saints are one win away from the Super Bowl. Yes, I was in the Louisiana Superdome along with 70,001 raucous Saints fans Saturday night witnessing history, but the evening was a bit bittersweet for me. I will explain, but first the elation!
I have been attending Saints games in the Dome for a long time. I mean a looong time. And the fact that they have been so putrid for so long makes long seem like watching "A Thin Red Line" eight times in succession (worst movie EVER). So, when Deuce McAllister plunged for five yards on a third-and-1 icing the game and a trip to the NFC title game, it's hard to find the words to describe the feeling in that moment. All I really remember is bearhugging my dad and almost falling on the cement floor. But, no one cared. The Saints had just become the first team in NFL history to make the conference title game after losing 13 games the previous season. And what a trying season it was even for the most diehard Saints fans. "Home" games in San Antonio, Baton Rouge and New York were all a joke, which makes this season even more spectacular. I'm not a crier, but I cried Saturday night because a city still hurting needed that win. Because long-suffering Saints fans needed that win. Because I needed that win.
I mentioned that the win was bittersweet. Let me explain. I was not in Tulane Stadium when John Gilliam ran back the opening kickoff in Saints history for a touchdown in 1967. I didn't see Dempsey's kick in '70. I didn't even come around until 1982. But, that doesn't make me any less of a fan. I was born in New Orleans. My dad's parents have had season tickets since '67. My mom's parents have had them since '79. My earliest football recollections were going to the Dome on Sunday mornings with my dad and brother after eating breakfast at Shoney's. Names like Brett Maxie, Stan Brock, Reuben Mayes and Dalton Hilliard all mean something to me. I remember "Dome Patrol". I remember the late Sam Mills stuffing rookie Rams running back Jerome Bettis at the line, ripping the ball out of his hands and running 20 years the other way for the score. I remember Steve Walsh and Jim Everett, Morten Andersen and Pat Swilling. Hell, I even remember arguing with my dad over John Fourcade and Bobby Hebert (I liked Fourcade, even though he was an Ole Miss guy).
Even more, I remember the losses. And there were plenty of them. Too many. There was a man who sat in front of us for years in Section 113, Row 22 who was the biggest pessimist I have ever known. He would chant phrases like, "I'm never renewing my tickets!" and "Same old sorry ass Saints!" and, more recently, "FIRE HASLETT!". But, he came. Year after year. Game after game. Quarter after miserable quarter. And when the Saints did happen to pull out a victory, it was like God had granted the city another Mardi Gras.
You see, like it or not, the Saints have been the lifeblood of New Orleans for a long time. People who never lived in New Orleans or were never Saints fans don't understand that. You can't. The point I promised to make at the beginning of this rant is that it was somewhat bittersweet because when the game ended, Tom F---ing Benson's nasty mug popped up on the brand new JumboTron in the Dome doing his "Benson Boogie" celebrating the win as a hero for "bringing the Saints home."
Well, need I remind you that this is the same asshole who 15 months ago, when the city I love was still under water, was negotiating with the mayor of San Antonio to move the team forever? This is the same money-grubbing jackass who shoved a cameraman and got in a fight with a fan after a game in Tiger Stadium last year. This is the same egotistical dollar whore who tried to hold the state hostage before Katrina in a effort to get more money or move to LA. If Benson had his way then Saturday would have never happened.
Mr. Benson, the Saints aren't your team. You may sign the paychecks. You may sit in the luxury owner's suite in the Dome, but the Saints are most certainly not your team. The Saints are my team. The Saints belong to my grandparents who have scrapped and saved to afford season tickets for 40 years to watch crappy football just because they felt the Saints were theirs. And you tried to take them away. Damn you, Tom Benson! The Saints belong to New Orleans. And this is our victory.
And it's not only Tom Benson. To every single radio host or caller-in, or anyone who mumbled under your breath two years ago to "let the Saints go" (even though you wouldn't dare admit it now) this win was not for you either. It is despite people like you, not because of you, that the Saints are a game away from the Super Bowl. And you may call talk radio shows this week and use words like "we" and "us" and "our" when referring to the Black and Gold, but know this: if Katrina had never happened and this rebirth and magical season never was, you would still be wishing the Saints would just go away.
As long as there have been sports, there have been bandwagon fans -- that I understand. Now, maybe with this win, you might understand why people like me fought so hard to change public opinion to keep the Saints where they belong: at home in the Dome.
I have been attending Saints games in the Dome for a long time. I mean a looong time. And the fact that they have been so putrid for so long makes long seem like watching "A Thin Red Line" eight times in succession (worst movie EVER). So, when Deuce McAllister plunged for five yards on a third-and-1 icing the game and a trip to the NFC title game, it's hard to find the words to describe the feeling in that moment. All I really remember is bearhugging my dad and almost falling on the cement floor. But, no one cared. The Saints had just become the first team in NFL history to make the conference title game after losing 13 games the previous season. And what a trying season it was even for the most diehard Saints fans. "Home" games in San Antonio, Baton Rouge and New York were all a joke, which makes this season even more spectacular. I'm not a crier, but I cried Saturday night because a city still hurting needed that win. Because long-suffering Saints fans needed that win. Because I needed that win.
I mentioned that the win was bittersweet. Let me explain. I was not in Tulane Stadium when John Gilliam ran back the opening kickoff in Saints history for a touchdown in 1967. I didn't see Dempsey's kick in '70. I didn't even come around until 1982. But, that doesn't make me any less of a fan. I was born in New Orleans. My dad's parents have had season tickets since '67. My mom's parents have had them since '79. My earliest football recollections were going to the Dome on Sunday mornings with my dad and brother after eating breakfast at Shoney's. Names like Brett Maxie, Stan Brock, Reuben Mayes and Dalton Hilliard all mean something to me. I remember "Dome Patrol". I remember the late Sam Mills stuffing rookie Rams running back Jerome Bettis at the line, ripping the ball out of his hands and running 20 years the other way for the score. I remember Steve Walsh and Jim Everett, Morten Andersen and Pat Swilling. Hell, I even remember arguing with my dad over John Fourcade and Bobby Hebert (I liked Fourcade, even though he was an Ole Miss guy).
Even more, I remember the losses. And there were plenty of them. Too many. There was a man who sat in front of us for years in Section 113, Row 22 who was the biggest pessimist I have ever known. He would chant phrases like, "I'm never renewing my tickets!" and "Same old sorry ass Saints!" and, more recently, "FIRE HASLETT!". But, he came. Year after year. Game after game. Quarter after miserable quarter. And when the Saints did happen to pull out a victory, it was like God had granted the city another Mardi Gras.
You see, like it or not, the Saints have been the lifeblood of New Orleans for a long time. People who never lived in New Orleans or were never Saints fans don't understand that. You can't. The point I promised to make at the beginning of this rant is that it was somewhat bittersweet because when the game ended, Tom F---ing Benson's nasty mug popped up on the brand new JumboTron in the Dome doing his "Benson Boogie" celebrating the win as a hero for "bringing the Saints home."
Well, need I remind you that this is the same asshole who 15 months ago, when the city I love was still under water, was negotiating with the mayor of San Antonio to move the team forever? This is the same money-grubbing jackass who shoved a cameraman and got in a fight with a fan after a game in Tiger Stadium last year. This is the same egotistical dollar whore who tried to hold the state hostage before Katrina in a effort to get more money or move to LA. If Benson had his way then Saturday would have never happened.
Mr. Benson, the Saints aren't your team. You may sign the paychecks. You may sit in the luxury owner's suite in the Dome, but the Saints are most certainly not your team. The Saints are my team. The Saints belong to my grandparents who have scrapped and saved to afford season tickets for 40 years to watch crappy football just because they felt the Saints were theirs. And you tried to take them away. Damn you, Tom Benson! The Saints belong to New Orleans. And this is our victory.
And it's not only Tom Benson. To every single radio host or caller-in, or anyone who mumbled under your breath two years ago to "let the Saints go" (even though you wouldn't dare admit it now) this win was not for you either. It is despite people like you, not because of you, that the Saints are a game away from the Super Bowl. And you may call talk radio shows this week and use words like "we" and "us" and "our" when referring to the Black and Gold, but know this: if Katrina had never happened and this rebirth and magical season never was, you would still be wishing the Saints would just go away.
As long as there have been sports, there have been bandwagon fans -- that I understand. Now, maybe with this win, you might understand why people like me fought so hard to change public opinion to keep the Saints where they belong: at home in the Dome.
# posted by Matt Moscona @ 6:24 AM 
