I never thought this would happen in my lifetime—until about three weeks ago, I didn’t think it was even possible, that the forces in the universe would ever all work together to make it happen, and yet, somehow, the New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl. Which still, even as I watch SportsCenter’s recap of the game, seems impossible. I’ve suffered and anguished and been laughed at and taken all kinds of verbal abuse (especially at my upper-middle-class private high school where everybody was a Titans or Colts fan and those teams were dominant then) for being a fan of this football team, and I have kept rooting for them and kept rooting for them time and time again, even as my hopes were dashed year after year—sometimes two or three weeks into the season. After Katrina, I remember the serious discussion of whether or not the Saints would stay in New Orleans—the N.F.L. has been needing a Los Angeles franchise ever since the Raiders and Rams left town, and here they had a team whose stadium had literally been ruined—and I remember thinking that if this team gives up on itself and leaves town, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to watch an N.F.L. game again.
Well, they didn’t leave town. After going 3-13 that year (and playing in New Jersey and Baton Rouge and San Antonio and everywhere else they could find a field) they’ve been on a monumental tear, and the team whose fans literally wore bags on their heads at home games to hide their shame in how awful the team was, whose fans (even as they held a 14 point lead with 40 seconds left in the Super Bowl) never allow themselves to expect the Saints to win until the game is over, have won a championship, and the whole thing still seems impossible.
So. You know what? I don’t care if they never have another winning season. God knows I’ve cheered for them for year after punishing year of losing. I love my Saints, and I always will.
