An Open Letter to the New Orleans Saints

Guys, this was THE perfect game. Forty years of Saints football condensed into sixty minutes. More mood swings than a menopausal diva: from elation, to shock, to outrage, disgust, hope, and finally crushing misery. This is what it means to be a Saints fan since 1967. Bottle this one and let it age.

Okay, here's where the clichés come in: put it behind you. Or here's another one: take whatever positives you can out of this game. For instance, your defense played magnificently except for one egregiously bad play (unfortunately, it cost you the game). Your passing game, despite drops and sacks and turnovers, was still the most prolific in the league. You can't fix Hochuli, but he won't be there next week. And Reggie Bush was superb. I don't blame him for his rushing average, since the only way our line can spring him is to tackle the defenders. I also don't blame him for his fumble--I would have let go of the ball too if my head was being ripped off. No, what was superb was how he grabbed the game by the scruff of the neck, and by sheer force of will and athletic brilliance forced it to go in the direction of his choosing. Bravo, Reggie; you grew up last night. Now, if you could just play safety.

Going into the sixth game of the season, this Saints team is an enigma: we don't yet know just what kind of team you are. I'm sure you don't either. A few things we do know with certainty: for instance, it's still possible for this team to wind up 13-3. You're that good. After all, change three plays and the Saints are 5-0.

Yet three crucially bad plays were all it took to lose three games. You can't live on that edge and expect success. For that reason, it's also a certainty that you could wind up 2-14. You can be that bad.

One more certainty: New Orleans will forgive you. Next week, they'll crowd the Dome, cheering and stomping and drinking and wondering WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?! You'll probably win, unless you manage once again to find that one play that turns all your athletic excellence into ashes. And if so, we'll forgive you again. And again. And again. Rinse and repeat.

But I implore you, in all seriousness: between now and then, straighten yourselves out. Reflect on the fact that you get paid princely sums to "work" playing a kids' game in a city that loves you unconditionally. But we don't love you like a child: we love you like a parent, so along with the privilege of loving you comes the right, and the responsibility, to tell you things like: get your heads out of your asses.