When the Saints Go Marching In

by Jane Moneypenny

Who Dat

As everyone knows, I’m not a crier. I lost all ability to a few years after college somehow.

When Garett Hartley kicked that field goal in overtime of the NFC Championship game, I screamed. No tears. I could feel it in my throat, in my chest, in the outpouring of my emotion as I called friends and yelled and jumped and ran around. I’ve waited this for most of my life. Do you know how that feels? To finally witness something I never thought I would see in my lifetime. Just like Obama getting elected.

I watched that clip over and over again of that kick and each time, the emotional welled up and I felt it.

Last night, as Carrie Underwood sang the national anthem, I felt the emotion again. The Saints were down 10pts, but I held the faith because this was destiny. 43 years and I’ve only been alive for 26 years of it. And then that onside kick and that most beautiful amazing interception by Tracy Porter to win the game. I screamed and hugged my friends. Still no tears, but I felt it. I wished I was home to feel the ground shake.

I fielded 50 text messages (including some from asshole ex-boyfriends and previous hook-ups that popped out of nowhere), Facebook likes, disbelief, shock and still no tears. I can’t seem to cry and I want to! I want to burst out crying the outpour of emotion and love that I’ve had for this team since I was a kid. In the wee hours of 2am as the rest of the apartment asleep, I watched the highlights again and again. And now my beloved Drew Brees is on Letterman and he looks dashing and handsome as always.

Still no tears.

But when I go home next weekend for Mardi Gras and surround myself with the city that I grew up in, I know that’s when it’ll hit me and then, the tears will come.

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