Not Just a Game

I took this photo earlier today. What you see is what remains of the IGA supermarket in Buras, Louisiana. There were two supermarkets in Buras, but Hurricane Katrina took them away. The folks down here in Buras, Boothville, and Venice still don't have a supermarket in the community. Instead, they must drive a half-hour north to Port Sulphur.

There are many vivid reminders of the devastation brought by Katrina to these people and their homes. They see them every day.

The Saints made it to the Super Bowl for the first time in their forty-two year history. The Aints ain't Aints anymore. That's one reason why, for folks in south Louisiana, the Super Bowl was much more than a game. But it wasn't the only reason, and I think it wasn't the most important reason.

I think for so many folks down here, the Super Bowl means that it's okay to hope again. God bless them.

A Tip of the Hat to Archie Manning

For the first time in nineteen years, I'm genuinely interested in the outcome of the upcoming Super Bowl. If memory serves, the last time I watched a Super Bowl from beginning to end was in 1991. I was with my dad. Dad died later that year, in August.

I'd always found individual sports more compelling anyway. Track and field, tennis, ping pong, boxing, whatever. But watching games with Dad was always fun, and I always looked forward to them, whether as a kid, or later, as an alleged adult.

I grew up in southern California, but my favorite football team during my high school years and into my twenties? The New Orleans Saints. I'd evidently inherited my dad's trait of rooting for the underdog, and boy, were the Saints ever the perennial underdog.

The Saints were founded in 1967, and it would be twenty years before they had a winning season.

And then there was Archie Manning. Archie was an outstanding quarterback, but he just didn't have much of a team around him, and that was most evident with the Saints porous offensive line. Archie didn't have it much better in college, at Ole Miss. In 1969, he set an SEC record for total offense: 436 yards passing, 104 yard rushing. Archie's effort is still tied for the record today, and guess what? Ole Miss lost that game to Alabama.

Archie played for the Saints for ten seasons. Losing seasons. L.A. Rams defensive lineman Jack Youngblood felt bad for Archie, because Archie's offensive line left so often left him a sitting duck for players of Youngblood's caliber. Archie said, "I've got to say that Youngblood was nice enough to pick me up every time he knocked my butt off."

So now, for the first time in forty-two years, the New Orleans Saints are going to the Super Bowl. Archie's son Peyton will lead the Indianapolis Colts against the Saints. Something tells me that Archie will be pulling for Peyton. But if the Saints win, I suspect Archie will spare a smile or two.

I'll be traveling on Super Bowl Sunday. I'm not sure I'll catch the game. But I'll be thinking about Archie, and thinking about my dad.

Let's Get Out of Here Before They Call the Police

So Dylan and I are walking through the indoor mall. He says something clever and smart-alecky at my expense. I'm proud of him, but of course he has to pay, so I get him in a headlock. I give him a noogie and a light kick to the butt.

He responds with a straight right to my side. Oomph. I've always let him hit me full force in the body when we spar, but sheesh, I'm wondering how much longer that can go on. I deliver a vicious combination to his head with my fingertips, and he counters with a looping left to the body.

We pause. We drift back together, still walking, and we hug.

I hear laughter behind us. An older lady is walking behind us, watching.

"Men," she says.

My Wild New Year's Eve

One day my buddy Mick the Mad Irishman and I were flying together. We landed in Morgan City just before a line of rain moved over the heliport, and we sat in the helicopter waiting it out. We chatted about this and that when Mick asked a question.

"How often do you and Rhonda get a babysitter and go out to dinner or a movie?"

"Never," I answered.

"WHAT?"

"Never," I answered again.

Mick looked a little stricken. "You've never left him with a babysitter and gone out, not once?"

"Nope."

He looked dumbfounded, and said nothing for a moment.

Finally, he said, "That's f***ed up."

I merely chuckled at first. Mick has never, since I've known him, had any trouble offering his opinion on something he thinks is "f***ed up." In a few moments, though, I was laughing so hard I was in tears.

Mick offered, "It's not bloody funny, it's f***ing tragic, mate." That really got me going.

Now, Mick and his wife were and are devoted parents to their two daughters. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a more devoted dad than Mick. But, Mick and his wife were in their early thirties when their first daughter arrived. They needed to get out now and then.

I explained to Mick that there's a been there done that thing with older parents, and that we didn't feel we were making any real sacrifice in forgoing "dates," since we'd had plenty of time to indulge in dinners and movies before Dylan's arrival.

Mick didn't buy it. "That's f***ed up," he said, summarizing his feelings on the matter.

Last night, I had a plan to have my cake and eat it too, with Rhonda's encouragement. I planned to dash into town and catch the early set of the Jim Dyar Band, and make it home to see in the new year with Rhonda and Dylan. Jim is a friend of a friend, and I've been wanting to catch him and his band for a good while now.

I never left home, though. Part of it was that I have a cold and it was rainy last night. The other part is that I'm away from the two people I love most too much anyway. I love live music, but I just couldn't find the motivation to go away for a couple of hours.

We told Dylan that he could stay up until midnight. But, Rhonda was asleep by 10:30, and Dylan fell asleep at 11:00, leaning against my shoulder as we watched the Twilight Zone marathon on SyFy.

When the new year arrived, I kissed his hairy little head and whispered, "Happy New Year, Punkin'." (He's now demanding that I desist calling him "Punkin" in public.) I carried him to bed, and looked at him for a few minutes, wondering how nine and a half years went by so fast.

I had a wonderful New Year's Eve. I hope yours was wonderful too.