That's the only thing running through my head this morning. The Saints powered their way to a spot in the NFC Championship game last night with a hard-fought win against the Eagles in a deafening Superdome filled with 70,001 people, whose spot I would have given anything to be in last night.
Don't get me wrong, though -- I had an absolute BLAST. Here in Fort Worth, I donned a black "2007 NFC South Champions" shirt, my lucky hat (to which I attribute at least a small part of the Saints success this year), and, though they weren't visible to the outside world, my New Orleans boxers. Angela and I headed over to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the game and down some beers in the usual fashion. Right off the bat, I felt a little bit of home intruding into the metroplex when we walked in the doors and were greeted by a guy about my age wearing a #26 Deuce McAllister jersey. Soon after we sat down, his friend in a #25 Reggie Bush jersey came in and sat down with him. Looking around, I noticed several other similarly-attired patrons who, like me, wore that tell-tale expression of a true Saints fan. It was that unmistakeable mix of "I know I've been this excited about the Saints being in the playoffs before, but I'm going to try to not get my hopes up because I also remember what the feeling was about three hours after that." Then, as the Saints emerged from the tunnel on the big screen, my cheer rose up and was enthusiastically joined by all of the other fleur-de-lis-adorned beer-swillers in attendance. In that moment, I was no longer in Buffalo Wild Wings on Highway 377 in Keller, Texas -- I was engulfed back into the community of New Orleans, no longer bounded by political lines on a map, but bounded only by the spirit of those who at one time or another called the Crescent City their home.
Yet, the euphoria didn't stop there. As the cheer went up, I heard a familiar tone among them, one that didn't quite resonate with the deep testosterone-laden chorus, but was infinitely sweeter while still retaining the same sense of elation and excitement. I looked over at my wife Angela, a beaufiful red-headed Texas girl, born and raised in Houston, and there she was, clad in black, welcoming the Boys in Black and Gold, beer in hand, vocal chords ringing in the same exultation of thousands of New Orleanians both right next to her and hundreds of miles away. It was a moment that will forever be etched in my mind. Texans are a proud bunch, just as New Orleanians are. However, this woman has not only accepted my heritage as a Big Easy native, but has openly embraced all that I cling to as dear from my hometown -- in part, because of the charm and uniqueness of the city that she's come to know through me, but in a bigger way because she cares about me so deeply that she wants to share and be part of all that makes me happy, enough to set aside her birthright as a Texan for three hours on a Saturday night and be another insane Saints fan yelling at the screen next to me. She's my dream girl, plain and simple.
From that point on, we all followed the highs and lows of the game, whose outcome wasn't decided until inside the final two minutes. We grimmaced as Reggie Bush was leveled on a flare in the right flat early in the first quarter. We groaned as an all-too-familiar Donte Stallworth reeled in a 75-yard touchdown pass in the second. We screamed as Reggie came back with a vengeance to sprint around the right side and knick the pylon for the Saints first TD of the game. We hung our heads as Brian Westbrook gashed through the line and broke free for a 62-yard touchdown run in the third. We chanted "Deuuuuuuce!" as Number 26 pounded, hammered, and pummelled the Eagles defense into submission, carrying what seemed like the entire Eagles bench on his back as he steam-rolled his way into the endzone. We held our collective breaths as Reggie fumbled away the ball and Terrance Copper miraculously covered it up, then gasped as Brees' pitch went over his head and gave the Eagles a winning shot late in the fourth.
But the only emotion that lasts is the one you're wearing when the game-clock hits zero. And as we stood up to salute the Saints defense holding the final Eagles drive to three-and-out, then crooned "Deuuuuuuuce!" as Deuce ground out the last bit of hope from a bruised and battered visiting defense, it sunk in that this was it. Out of instinct, I started chanting "Who dat! Who dat! Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints!" and the rest of the Saints faithful at a Texas wing joint stood up and joined in. My dad back in New Orleans called my cell phone right at that moment. So I answered it and just held it up to let him know that even five hundred and fifty miles away, his son was bringing a bit of New Orleans to Fort Worth.
After all the chanting, hand-slapping, and "Can you believe it?" was done, Angela and I headed out to my black Subaru WRX, whom I dubbed "Deuce" midway through the season. She turned to me and with a grin and a giggle, asked me "Are you happy, Baby?" All I could answer with was a sigh and a response of "Beyond happy." And before I opened the car door, I let out one more cheer for my New Orleans Saints, and for the city and the people they represent.
And I think back about wanting to trade places with those 70,001 fans in the Dome that night. You know, it would have been unbelievably amazing to have been there, but on second thought, this'll do just fine.