Saints Win! Super Bowl Champions at last!
Feb. 8th, 2010 11:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nolawitch58The morning edition of the Times-Picayune has the Vince Lombardi trophy held triumphantly aloft after the Saints stunning win over the Colts 31-17. From the neighborhoods last evening, the mood was quiet and tense. The main thoroughfare on which I live was deserted during the game. The first half consisted of hard-won Saints field goals against a cocky Indianapolis team. Halftime gave us the Who, looking old and tired without much of the sizzle of their youth. Sean Payton's coaching and the team's skill blossomed in the second half. The Saints are masters at adjustments after half time. The onsides kick that began the third quarter was brilliant and set the tone for the gains that let up to the win. The game was a thing of beauty, even if they did it the hard way all the way.
As the TV cameras went from Peyton Manning's sour look to the joyous rapture on the faces of the Saints and the Who Dat Nation represented in Miama, the neighborhoods of Southeast Louisiana exploded in celebration. Every single firework that had been saved from New Year's Eve and that hadn't been expended on the NFC win two weeks ago was shot into the cold, inky sky last night. People came out onto the sidewalks and cheered. Traffic recommenced, and many vehicles randomly honked as their occupants hung out the windows and shouted exultations.
We had made our plans beforehand. After setting the DVR to time record the rest of the coverage, we hopped into the car and headed downtown. As poor of drivers as New Orleanians are on an average day, they were far worse last night. Part of the deterioration of their driving skills could be attributed to alcohol, but mostly their minds were already in party mode. The communal motorcade was bumper to bumper, exacerbated by people driving with their trunks and car doors open to blare music that bounced off the architectural wonders of the Central Business District. We were turned away from my usual parking garage on Gravier and rejoined the fray in search of a place to leave the car to wander the Quarter. Amid the sea of vehicles, ambulances threaded their way through what must have been an EMT's worst nightmare. A compact car and an incantation to the Goddess Asphalta make parking slightly easier. We found a spot on LaSalle next to City Hall, kitty corner from the Superdome.
Before the team left for Miami the other day, Sean Payton took them all to the Superdome for a team meeting. It gives me chills to even type this. On the big screens, he ran footage of the edifice after Hurricane Katrina, showing the players what they were playing for. The misery of the people stuck in that place while the shrieking monster of a storm howled outside had to be avenged, if avenged is the right word. From the hardship of that struggle for survival, victory needed to mitigate and overlay that struggle. The Saints knew they played for more than a trophy, more than bragging rights; they played to heal the soul of the city.
People from all walks of life and all ages streamed through the streets of the Crescent City last night. Bourbon Street was as full as on Mardi Gras, but the river of humanity flowed black and gold. All locals. Wall to wall. Unlike those just wandering, I had a destination and purpose. Having invoked our deities yesterday, I had to thank them. Dorothy Morrison mentioned on her Facebook page that Archbishop Hannan had blessed the team and prayed for their victory. All the witches I know were rooting for our team, so I added my own prayer. It couldn't hurt, and if the deities were kinder to me because of my position in the Wiccan community or if I was rooting for my adopted hometown against the land of my birth, they heard my request and granted it. My best communion with the gods occurs at the Moon Walk across from St. Louis Cathedral. Water lapped at the riverbank, and the wind was brisk. My effusive thank-yous were in English and French and took a while as I searched my mind for superlatives.
After thanking the deities, we stood for a while near the cannon across from Jackson Square, looking down on the crazy people standing on top of cars as they drove slowly up and down Decatur. That and other acts of drunken bravado probably accounted for the large numbers of ambulances. After midnight according to the clock on the cathedral, we rejoined the throngs of humanity on the streets. A small brass band had taken up a position on St. Peter near Royal. We all sang "When The Saints Go Marching In" together, punctuated by chants of "Who Dat" and cheering.
Aside from drunken derring-do, everyone in the city was showing everyone else massive love. My misanthropic heart beat with unfamiliar affection for humanity, or at least this little corner of humanity. I have never felt more connected to and love for my fellow man than last night. All those corny feel-good emotions swept over me, and all I could do was grin and sing along.
The walking and singing eventually ebbed, reminding me that I hadn't eaten because the game was so exciting. I was possessed of a desire for breakfast at Camellia Grill, a favorite place to go after a night of drinking in the Quarter. St. Charles Avenue was like a giant slalom toward Carrollton with construction detouring cars to the other side of the street. Carrollton too is a construction zone, with convenient port-a-potties for offloading consumed beverages. Camillia is no longer open at 2:00 am. Bummer. Where else? Shoneys? Dennys? Dots? No. Tiffin Inn. They were also closed. The blue-and-white glow of the IHOP sign had attracted my notice as we zoomed past it on the highway. Back onto the I-10, down the offramp, onto the service road and into the parking lot of International House of Pancakes we went.
The place was packed, but we were seated in five minutes because there were only two of us. All around us sat a sea of people, black and white, male and female, young and old and all wearing black and gold, our common uniter. The food was perfect, creamy grits, crispy bacon, firm eggs and a large glass of orange juice to honor Florida for hosting the game. Driving home, I saw the crescent moon hanging in the night sky over the Crescent City and once again my heart swelled with affection.
Though the Saints season wasn't a perfect 16-0 like Miami in the '70s, the ending of it was perfect for the team, the fans and the city. New Orleans shined through the darkness of its past. We will all remember that night for the rest of our lives and recall the contentment of it. Thank you, Saints, and thank you, New Orleans, for the magic.
As the TV cameras went from Peyton Manning's sour look to the joyous rapture on the faces of the Saints and the Who Dat Nation represented in Miama, the neighborhoods of Southeast Louisiana exploded in celebration. Every single firework that had been saved from New Year's Eve and that hadn't been expended on the NFC win two weeks ago was shot into the cold, inky sky last night. People came out onto the sidewalks and cheered. Traffic recommenced, and many vehicles randomly honked as their occupants hung out the windows and shouted exultations.
We had made our plans beforehand. After setting the DVR to time record the rest of the coverage, we hopped into the car and headed downtown. As poor of drivers as New Orleanians are on an average day, they were far worse last night. Part of the deterioration of their driving skills could be attributed to alcohol, but mostly their minds were already in party mode. The communal motorcade was bumper to bumper, exacerbated by people driving with their trunks and car doors open to blare music that bounced off the architectural wonders of the Central Business District. We were turned away from my usual parking garage on Gravier and rejoined the fray in search of a place to leave the car to wander the Quarter. Amid the sea of vehicles, ambulances threaded their way through what must have been an EMT's worst nightmare. A compact car and an incantation to the Goddess Asphalta make parking slightly easier. We found a spot on LaSalle next to City Hall, kitty corner from the Superdome.
Before the team left for Miami the other day, Sean Payton took them all to the Superdome for a team meeting. It gives me chills to even type this. On the big screens, he ran footage of the edifice after Hurricane Katrina, showing the players what they were playing for. The misery of the people stuck in that place while the shrieking monster of a storm howled outside had to be avenged, if avenged is the right word. From the hardship of that struggle for survival, victory needed to mitigate and overlay that struggle. The Saints knew they played for more than a trophy, more than bragging rights; they played to heal the soul of the city.
People from all walks of life and all ages streamed through the streets of the Crescent City last night. Bourbon Street was as full as on Mardi Gras, but the river of humanity flowed black and gold. All locals. Wall to wall. Unlike those just wandering, I had a destination and purpose. Having invoked our deities yesterday, I had to thank them. Dorothy Morrison mentioned on her Facebook page that Archbishop Hannan had blessed the team and prayed for their victory. All the witches I know were rooting for our team, so I added my own prayer. It couldn't hurt, and if the deities were kinder to me because of my position in the Wiccan community or if I was rooting for my adopted hometown against the land of my birth, they heard my request and granted it. My best communion with the gods occurs at the Moon Walk across from St. Louis Cathedral. Water lapped at the riverbank, and the wind was brisk. My effusive thank-yous were in English and French and took a while as I searched my mind for superlatives.
After thanking the deities, we stood for a while near the cannon across from Jackson Square, looking down on the crazy people standing on top of cars as they drove slowly up and down Decatur. That and other acts of drunken bravado probably accounted for the large numbers of ambulances. After midnight according to the clock on the cathedral, we rejoined the throngs of humanity on the streets. A small brass band had taken up a position on St. Peter near Royal. We all sang "When The Saints Go Marching In" together, punctuated by chants of "Who Dat" and cheering.
Aside from drunken derring-do, everyone in the city was showing everyone else massive love. My misanthropic heart beat with unfamiliar affection for humanity, or at least this little corner of humanity. I have never felt more connected to and love for my fellow man than last night. All those corny feel-good emotions swept over me, and all I could do was grin and sing along.
The walking and singing eventually ebbed, reminding me that I hadn't eaten because the game was so exciting. I was possessed of a desire for breakfast at Camellia Grill, a favorite place to go after a night of drinking in the Quarter. St. Charles Avenue was like a giant slalom toward Carrollton with construction detouring cars to the other side of the street. Carrollton too is a construction zone, with convenient port-a-potties for offloading consumed beverages. Camillia is no longer open at 2:00 am. Bummer. Where else? Shoneys? Dennys? Dots? No. Tiffin Inn. They were also closed. The blue-and-white glow of the IHOP sign had attracted my notice as we zoomed past it on the highway. Back onto the I-10, down the offramp, onto the service road and into the parking lot of International House of Pancakes we went.
The place was packed, but we were seated in five minutes because there were only two of us. All around us sat a sea of people, black and white, male and female, young and old and all wearing black and gold, our common uniter. The food was perfect, creamy grits, crispy bacon, firm eggs and a large glass of orange juice to honor Florida for hosting the game. Driving home, I saw the crescent moon hanging in the night sky over the Crescent City and once again my heart swelled with affection.
Though the Saints season wasn't a perfect 16-0 like Miami in the '70s, the ending of it was perfect for the team, the fans and the city. New Orleans shined through the darkness of its past. We will all remember that night for the rest of our lives and recall the contentment of it. Thank you, Saints, and thank you, New Orleans, for the magic.
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no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 06:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 10:06 pm (UTC)Much love and many hugs!
Dorothy...
no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 09:59 am (UTC)SAINTS ARE AWESOME!!!
no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 05:12 pm (UTC)Cheers
no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-11 12:36 pm (UTC)