How do I form the phrase into something other than a punchline? It still doesn’t sound right. I clear my throat and let the words ricochet off my teeth. The Saints won the Superbowl. I quickly consult a geology website and confirm the temperature at which iron (Fe) remains molten and review current conditions outside my office window for any obvious signs of immanent apocalypse. No clouds of locusts or rivers of blood here.
Saints faithful from Venice to Shreveport have been telling that same ragged joke in various incarnations for 40 years. Now we can happily put the happy little West Banker dancing among the snows of hell to bed once and for all. There was a time when the Saints and their gridiron accomplishments were measured in how many times they appeared on NFL Films blooper reels, not in consistent pushes to a playoff berth. Now they are NFL Champions.
I can assure you with confidence that at kickoff, Saints fans from Banks Street Bar to the wilds of Jefferson Parish were firmly ensconced with their cold Abita expecting the worst, knowing deep down in their long suffering hearts that the ghosts of so many seasons of humiliation past were lurking somewhere near the surface, resistant to any permanent form of exorcism. The Saints were going to lose and lose big in all probability. But love of the team and their wonderful city would buoy 42 years of crestfallen spirit in the face of certain defeat. In the twisted frame of reference of a true Who Dat, the gift of a Conference Championship was a bounty fatter than any Saint Joseph’s day altar. Why tempt the football gods and hope for more? It is, after all, the New Orleans Saints we are talking about, right? Remember 1980? Remember Bum Phillips? Remember when The Cajun Cannon, Bobby Hebert, signed with the Falcons? Surely the Lord giveth; just ask Lynn Swann and Joe Namath. But he has always seen fit to taketh away from the lowly Saints.
I’m not much of a professional sports fan. I generally think it quite vulgar that men earn such sinful amounts of money for participation in a game. But I’ve always followed the Saints. Call me a hypocrite if you must. Being a Saints fan was not high on my list of objectives while a denizen of The Big Easy. It’s what you do when living in New Orleans. You join in bemoaning the losing ways of the franchise because you have no choice. Loyalty to one of the worst teams historically in football climbs upon you and clings like Spanish Moss in the cypress trees at Crown Point. Loving the hapless, luckless Saints was a scarlet letter each resident of the Crescent City bore with morbid pride. When I moved to the city to go to college, a paragraph or two on losing with grace was scribbled on the back of a Schwegmann’s shopping bag and included in my orientation packet. It had dotted lines on the other side to serve as a guide for cutting eye holes. I took my place in the long black and gold line and became accustomed after a demoralizing season or two to praying for just one more regular season win before volleys of crushing defeats marked the midseason return of business as usual at the Superdome.
And now that the Saints of old have been banished permanently to those scratchy reels of blooper film and yellowing stat sheets, I find myself strangely stoic and somewhat guarded, still waiting for the missed field goal or penalty or gang of rabid defensive backs or other specter-like spoiler that will stop this story book ending. Is it really true? Can the tortured soul of Buddy D finally rest in peace?
Indeed. Put away your bags, boys. Can you believe it? I can hardly bring myself to enjoy the thought for fear of retribution. Not only did New Orleans mercifully, gracefully, finally make it to the big game, but they hauled off and won the damn thing. Bless you, boys. Now you better go holler over by ya mama an’ dem, ya heard? The Saints won the Super Bowl.
on 
