It was November of 1970 when then Saints kicker Tom Dempsey hit a 63 yard field goal in Tulane Stadium. It did not mean that much to me at the time. I was not a great follower of football or of any sport back then. When other folks were glued to their TV sets and radios on Saturdays and Sundays I was conspiring to become a rock star, devoting my time to listening to my favorite bands and learning the licks of the guitar idols of the day. I am not by nature a competitive person but more to the point, I was never interested in learning player stats and franchise histories and keeping up with the constant trading of players from one team to another. I suppose I could have done both but it is my habit of concentrating on one thing at a time and music was my passion. I suppose it pained my father to watch me turn into an anti-sports fan. Let's face it, some of us were never cut out for athletics and to cheer for people who can make more money on a Sunday afternoon sitting on a bench than I make all year doesn't make sense to me. But let's talk about what does make sense to me...chasing women. To make a long story short , its how I finally got interested in Saints football. I don't know why I never got into high school football and the whole "my school's better than your school" but I didn't. I went to Slidell High and our mascot was a tiger and our crosstown rivals were the Salmen Spartans. We took great delight in perverting their name and calling them the Fish...get it, Salmen, salmon, fish? But I digress. They called us the Pussies...(do I have to explain that?) The whole thing was fun but pointless since I was dating a girl from Salmen at the time and did not hate their school for that reason. That was in 1970. My time at LSU was no different. I went to maybe half a dozen games in Tiger Stadium with a date but my only real memory of football at LSU was living in the dorm right next to the stadium and hearing the crowds at the home games from my dorm room. I also remember being chased down by campus police on one particular night when I lost my ticket for the student section.
In 1979 I met a girl that would change my attitude about sports at least as far as the Saints were concerned. Two words...season tickets. Her family let me tag a long to a Saints home game in the dome and I got hooked thereafter. The energy from the game and the fans enthusiasm
was intoxicating ( or it may have been the alcohol, not sure.) And there it was and there it began...my cycle of joy and anguish over the accomplishments of complete strangers who didn't know me from Adam. I had become a loyal fan whose happiness was now dependent on the Saints ability to post a W instead of an L. My Sunday ritual was well established...sitting two inches from the TV screen and agonizing over every play. You didn't want to be in the room when things didn't go their (my) way. It was a weekly test of my blood pressure and emotional stability. It went that way for 12 years. I still wonder how I lasted that long.
In 1991 the Saints with Bobby Hebert at the helm lost to Atlanta in a playoff game that succeeded in pushing me over the edge to the point where I resorted to a kind of self-mutilation...in total frustration I shaved off my beard. A beard I had grown and cared for since 1976 (my bicentennial beard.) The names and faces of past Saints flew by in my mind in rapid montage...owners, investors, players, coaches...god, how many had there been and how many more would there be before The Saints proved there worth? John Mecom, Tom Benson, Bum Phillips, Jim Finks, Jim Mora, Jim Hazlett, Mike Ditka (...yes Mike Ditka)...Kenny Stabler,Archie Manning, Morten Andersen, Rickey Jackson, Pat Swilling, Dalton Hilliard...on and on.
The team that you cheered for in the beginning at Tulane Stadium was an ever changing animal. The only thing that remained the same was the franchise name and to me that was like rooting for a corporation and not a specific roster of beloved players. The thing about football fans that gets me is that in the final analysis they support the idea of a constant team that is never really constant. Coaches and players switch team jerseys in the blink of an eye with no sense of loyalty to the fans who live and die by the success of "their" team ( I'm talking to you Hebert, and Manning) and yet the fans forgive them... but honestly... it made me feel like a fool.
I stopped watching football that year and even now when the Saints appear to be finally on their way to validation I will not watch them. They lost me, but they probably don't care. Bottom line...everybody needs a hero...someone to believe in. If any city ever needed one it is the city of New Orleans. And I will concede that. Bobby Hebert went from Saint to Falcon then back again to the leader of the Who Dat Nation cheering on the likes of Drew Brees, Reggie Bush, Sean Payton and some guy named Garrett Hartley. As I understand it , he is a kicker and a game saver. I wonder if he could make it from 63 yards out.
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