I was 12 the first time I saw the New York Giants play at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. I spent most of that game pondering why the Giants and the Jets played in Jersey instead of New York and the rest of it harassing my dad with questions after every play: “What’s a down?” “What’s forward progress?” My questions were really just a diversion from my indifference toward the game, a way to pass the time and subtly imply that I was a less-than-ideal sports companion. I guess it worked because my dad never took me to another pro game. And I never asked to go.
Until recently, football was the only sport I didn’t understand. But I always acted like I knew all the nuances of the game. It’s not hard to fake it. All that’s required is to get excited when everyone else cheers and yell any time you see a yellow flag: “That wasn’t a horse collar!” or “Better not be holding!” Works like a charm. Well, at least until you actually develop an interest in the sport.
These days, I’m enamored with football thanks to the New Orleans Saints and the thousands of “bleeding” black-and-gold hearts around here. I wonder how many other converts floating around the city used to loathe football but can now barely contain their urge to scream out “Who Dat?”
On my way to the game this past Sunday, I passed hundreds of fans who milled through the streets like anxious angels headed toward heaven. Most folks were already stumbling along with libations in hand, stammering staccato “Who Dats?” every 15 seconds. And despite the crowd’s diversity, everyone chanted in unison, with an air of congeniality and football-inspired fellowship. I wish CNN had been there to film such positive sights.
A few blocks from the Superdome, some random guy — who pretty much fit the description of a Tangipahoa justice of the peace — approached me and insisted that I accept a strand of black-and-gold beads. Baffled, I accepted them, smiled and shouted “Who Dat?” instead of “Thank you.” It was a strange exchange, one that I’m certain would not have occurred had we not been en route to the game.
I’ve discovered that this is the beauty of football season in New Orleans. People come together, join hands, pray, hope for the best, eat, drink and be merry. Granted, not everyone’s interested in whether the Saints will remain undefeated, but my guess is those folks feign indifference because it’s too scary to embrace the beefed-up bruise fest for what it really symbolizes.
I’ve been in enough cities to know that football symbolizes something different in each city. In some places, it’s just a pastime, in others, a way of life. Here in New Orleans, football serves as a metaphor for hope, revitalization and unification. But then again, what do I know? I used to hate football.
What do you think?
