Over this past weekend, there was an astonishing shift of power in New Orleans, in the South, in America. A tectonic shift in attitude and results.
A world leader – a king – was brought to his knees, embarrassed, pounded, maybe even disgraced. Humbled, to be sure.
The tectonic shift is inexorable, the numbers show. Nothing will ever be the same. The landscape is forever changed.
Oh, and there was also a Presidential election.
But who cares about that? The New Orleans Saints stuffed, muddled, confused and spanked Tom Brady and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in unimaginable fashion Sunday night. And no matter your politics, that had to feel good. (Well, that is, if you’re from here, not there.)
What we are left with, apparently, is the same scenario we have witnessed now for three years in a row. A mad and true dash for a Super Bowl title (to be played in Tampa Bay this season, by the way). But a cautionary note: Any member of the Who Dat nation knows, it’s like living in one of those old Peanuts cartoons where Lucy Van Pelt (did you know that was her last name?) holds the ball for Charlie (the “Blockhead”) Brown as he runs up to kick it and she pulls it away and he flies up in the air and falls on his butt. For many more than three seasons.
Sound familiar? (For you folks under 40, Google it.)
But, man, that was a peep show and crematorium of a football game. Brady scored the lowest statistics of his career in just about every statistic there is – except frowning. His former coach in New England, Bill Belichick, holds that record, which will surely stand for the ages.
By my understanding, the Bucs five (count them, five) total rushes during the game set an all time low for a team in an NFL game. Was that respect for our defensive line? Or just crappy play-calling by the Bucs? Who cares? We cleaned them out like a Purell wipe. Hell, Brady got hit so many times in the pocket Sunday night that – with wounds sustained – he’s now probably going to have to retire before he’s 50. A shame, that.
So, what does it all mean? Well, apparently* we have a new President, first of all. (Note: *Apparently.) But more importantly, are the Bless You Boys going to the Super Bowl? Finally and again? The past three seasons of muffed calls, missed tackles and mad dashes tells us that – maybe we should leave that decision to the Supreme Court.
Because it seems like that’s our only chance any more.
The final words of both my dad – and my partner’s – favorite book (they would have LOVED each other, had they met) – “The Count of Monte Cristo,” by Alexandre Dumas – are these:
“Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—’Wait and hope.”
So buckle up for a hard ride New Orleans. (And America.) We’ve waited – and hoped – for a long time. It’s our vibe, juju and mojo. A way of life around here, actually.
If our now defunct U.S. Mint in the French Quarter still printed currency, those words would be stamped on the coins. Wait and hope. It’s what we do. From the bank to the DMV to voting lines to Mardi Gras parades to Crawfish Monica at Jazz Fest to the Parkway Bakery on any afternoon. We wait and we hope.
Words to live by.