It's Tuesday, and most New Orleans Saints fans are well on the road to recovery. What happened, you ask? Well, we made it to the NFC championships, though we shed blood, sweat, and tears to get there. And O.K., the players had something to do with it too.
Get a Who Dat Nation update after the loss in Chicago
The Who Dat Nation:
In the South, we are used to having a nation within a nation, although we have more or less gotten over that little issue a while back we call the War of Northern Aggression. But I digress. The Who Dat Nation is comprised of New Orleans Saints Fans, all of whom are famous for the chant "Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints? Who dat? Who dat?" All right. Admittedly, for 40 years it has been a rhetorical question. The answer has usually been, "just about anybody." And maybe "Who dat?" lacks the elegance of George Washington rallying the troops, but this mantra has become the Pledge of Allegiance of the Who Dat Nation. CAUTION-- WHO DATS ARE EVERYWHERE! Maybe even in your home town--Katrina caused some emigration, but Who Dats never surrender their citizenship. And thanks to the Saints success this year, we don't have to belong to the Underground anymore.
New Orleans Versus Philadelphia:
You may recall the memorable game on September 25 last year, when the Saints beat Atlanta in the Monday Night Game. On that evening, our National Anthem was born, belted out by Green Day and U-2---"The Saints are coming!" The atmosphere then was incredible, the electricity palpable. Whatever the outcome, the Who Dats were happy to be home.
The Philadelphia game was different. The Saints had earned a bye, making this the furthest they had ever advanced in the playoffs. After last year, this was way beyond anyone's craziest expectations. By the time we entered the Superdome on Saturday night, we had the sense of walking in a dream. This feeling was no doubt enhanced by the fact that the 70,001 fans who packed the arena had been spending most of Saturday medicating ourselves with our traditional remedies of hot food and cold beer (or wine, martinis, take your pick). Patricia wore a headpiece of black feathers and flowers anchored by a gold fleur-de-lis, declaring myself Who Dat Queen of the West(west side of the stadium). I, with my gold and black feathered headband, was even more extravagant. I was Queen of the East. Who Dat women are fashionably flashy.
Acting the Part:
A Who Dat is constitutionally unable to stay seated for more than 15 seconds at a time. We are required to be fierce. When Philadelphia had the ball, we had to yell, jump, and otherwise disrupt their concentration by roaring like insane howler monkeys. When the Saints had the ball, you had to concentrate as though you were watching brain surgery while sending up incessant prayers to the powers that be. My seat was basically a place to park my rear-end during half-time. I became worried about some of the people around me, who began to exhibit symptoms of unhealthy detachment, such as sitting down and keeping their mouths shut. (And these were not Philadelphia fans, who were by and large a lot of fun even when they were winning.) I think these were Who Dat's who were coming down with a bad case of deja vu. They go glassy eyed when the Saints fumbled near the end of the game. No need to worry--the Superdome has extra crash carts available at all home games just for moments like these. But the past would not repeat itself, since we went on to win the game. We had been cleansed, we had risen from ashes, we had been saved! We had witnessed a miracle. And it almost killed us. By the way, Who Dats are subversive. There are scattered reports that by the end of the game, some Philadelphia fans, apparently concerned for our well-being, said even they wanted the Saints to win.
Recognizing The Real Who Dat:
Who Dats entered the alternate universe at a little before 10:30 p.m. on Saturday night, and we're not coming back. Ever. Physically, we have hoarse throats, heartburn, indigestion, and insomnia, along with these ridiculous permanent smiles. Mine is in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. On Sunday Morning, real Who Dats were swilling antacids like they were bottles of Jack Daniels and checking our EKG's. Psychologically, we have, for a moment, leaned back from the edge of despair and gazed into the light. In our world, everything is going to be all right. With apologies to St. Francis, Who Dats have found that where there is despair, the Saints have sowed hope; where there was doubt, faith; where there was darkness, light, and so on.
To those who think we are ridiculous for letting a game be so important, try to think kindly of us. Every day, we arise to face the monumental task of trying to rebuild a great American city, of striving to garner hope from the wreckage of our lives. Nobody who enters the Superdome does so without the memory of, and grief for, the suffering that our brothers and sisters endured there. Being a Who Dat is a state of mind. "Who Dat say they gonna be no more New Orleans?
Who Dat?
Postscript:
If the Saints win the NFC title and go to the Superbowl, former Saint Bobby Hebert, the Cajun Cannon, will get in touch with his feminine side and dress up in a red dress, complete with heels and a matching handbag. He will walk along Poydras Street, near the Superdome, in honor of the late great sportscaster Buddy Diliberto who vowed for years to wear a red dress if the Saints ever won the Superbowl. Bobby, you need a tiara and some red lipstick, because the Saints Are Comin', and you will be the Empress of the Who Dat Nation.
