Y'all don't even know

There was a little football game yesterday. I had no plans to actually attend this game, but a ticket miracle was masterminded the night before, and I happily embraced the opportunity to road trip down there with my little brother for a day of frolicking and merriment in the big city.

Before the game, we lucked into a table at a restaurant owned by a family our older brother is very close to, who actually were among the wedding guests (their goodness was demonstrated by the fact that they missed the game the weekend before to attend the wedding -- that is true friendship right there) and we basically fell down and died over the deliciousness of the house specialty rum drink and the shrimp and redfish with crabmeat and onion rings and Irish coffee and bread pudding in whiskey sauce. Honestly, that meal alone made the entire trip worth it, as crazy as that might sound.

Soon enough we found ourselves swept up in the masses walking to the dome, drinking champagne from the bottle on our way in the warm afternoon sunlight, and I thought I had experienced the height of my lifetime's game hysteria at a couple of other big games, but this was an entirely different level.

This crowd -- well. Young and old, rich and regular, black and white -- all decked out in black and gold and all screaming at the top of their lungs for so many hours that I think I suffered permanent hearing loss. It was just so much fun.

It was intense, though. Like, you could see the weight of the closeness of the game starting to take its toll as people would quiet down for a few minutes, clenching their hands over their mouths and just staring at the field as if willing it to happen: "Finish strong, boys." The few Viking fans around us obviously loved their team, too, and weren't afraid to scream and ring their cowbell. One of them behind me splashed a large portion of his drink all over my head. But it was all good. We laughed about it. I mean, I don't see any reason to be hateful to other fans. I have nothing against the people of Minnesota. They traveled a long way to be there, and they cared about the outcome just as much and love their team just as much.

But they were certainly outnumbered by our diehard fans. There was bonding in the seats by strangers and friends, and it wasn't long before we were embracing everyone around us at various points in the game. I swear when it was all over and all had avoided stroking out or having heart attacks, some random guy almost kissed my brother on the mouth as they jumped up and down in each others arms. There was just that kind of love in the air. It was truly dizzying. The guy next to me sat down and quietly put his face in his hands and said, "I never thought I'd live to see this." He was, like 20 years old. It just seemed so impossible to hope for, and yet, here it was. Actually happening. In a classy display of good sportsmanship, two men on our row in opposing jerseys hugged it out at game's end.

In the ladies room after the game, all was chaos. In the stall next to me, a woman cried out in savage glee, "Bitches, y'all don't even KNOW!" But we all knew.

As we drove home, my brother and I listened to talk radio, where the commentators, members of the crowd, and callers alike lost their collective minds, slurring with overwhelmed emotion and probably lots and lots of beer. We laughed so hard and so hoarsely with barely any voices left with which to guffaw, just delirious from the day and everyone's spastic radio comments. The sentiments expressed were so emotional and clumsy but so obviously heartfelt and true. People called in from all over the country -- even from other countries, like Panama, shouting their sometimes garbled cries of elation as members, far and wide, of the Who Dat Nation. And I can only imagine what was going on throughout the city ... we got out of town pretty quickly as work awaited this morning, but there are reports of fireworks in the northern parts of the state, and my neighbor said our street had a party rolling down it of people hollering who dat. It's just so huge, so enormous, this excitement and joy.

I can't really explain what it felt like to be in that crowd. I am certainly the least among sports fans in my family, and it's not like I know squat about professional football, so I'm not saying this while pretending to be something I'm not. And it might not be my city in that I was not born there, and I don't pretend to claim it as such. But as anyone who's from around here knows, it really is our city, all of ours, and it's our team, and I think it's okay to feel that way. And unless you're from here or have lived here a while, you probably can't understand, and that's okay. Just like we don't understand what it means to be from where you're from. We know that. It's all okay. But see, our people, our parents and our grandparents, have been waiting for this. And it is something in the blood of my family, these families, all of our families, no matter where we're from in this state. Of course for those from New Orleans it means the most. But to all of us, it means a whole hell of a lot.

So, please. Don't belittle this team as if it's just a part of a poetic narrative that makes good newspaper copy. Don't try to take away the win by blaming it on this or that. Don't try to cheapen or slap in the face or knife through the chest something that we've been waiting for, well, forever. Have a heart. Read this article, one of the best things I've ever read in my life. Watch this video and try not to cry. And then if you don't understand just a little bit better, and you still want to hate on the Saints, then I don't even know what to tell you.

I'm so happy we got to be there. I will never forget it.