Our town. Our team. Our house.
I have a dream.
Once again, a region in shambles, it's time for the New Orleans Saints – the most star-crossed team on the planet – to reach back down in that gris-gris bag and put a spell on this town, lift us up, dust us off, unite us.
Last time around, it was about release. Redemption. Renewal. Rebirth. Respect.
This time, it's about revenge.
Last time – THEY said – it was about targets and bounties for money.
This time – I say – it's about knocking the other guys senseless – simply for the love of the game.
I dream about it: Commissioner Roger Goodell stepping up to the microphone in front of the world's largest television audience and, pausing briefly, says:
"On behalf of the National Football League, I proudly present the Vince Lombardi Trophy to......"
How sweet the sound.
But I mean: What if we're that good this year? Start hot and stay hot?
Things could get a little weird around here.
For instance, you know how – from the Thursday before Mardi Gras until Ash Wednesday – nobody around here ever gets anything done and everyone rearranges their priorities and the whole place is just a fog of reverie?
Well, imagine if it were like that for the entirety of late fall and early winter, because that's what's gonna happen if these guys are good, crazy good.
It's almost too pleasurable to imagine, an unrelenting desire, an unquenchable thirst that makes me feel that loss of perspective and productivity already, like it's imminent, like it's about to take hold, say – around noon on Sunday.
Things are different this year. This isn't the NFL; this is the Hunger Games.
And I have a dream.
It's a months-long jubilee that enchants an entire region, ignites the culture, binds communities – from Gert Town to Laplace to Braithwaite to Slidell to Pass Christian to the Vieux Carre – with a shared ideal, a common goal, and a unified belief, all of which culminates a singularly fantastical state of affairs.
And that would be: