For two seasons running, you all have accused me of being a closet Saints fan. If only you had known how right you were, how I yearned to tell you the truth after each uneasy laugh and glib reply. Did you really know, even then? Sometimes I wonder.

Today, I'm coming out of the black and gold closet with the Drew Brees poster on it. Today, I can no longer pretend that my heart is with a team that can't win anything. This confession has been a long time coming, so I hope you'll forgive me if I break down occasionally and cry into my gumbo. I'm only a man, after all. A man who yearns to be free.

Every time I looked into Pierre Thomas' soulful eyes, I feared my friends and family would hear the pitter-patter of my lonely heart. Every time I confused Michael Turner with Norv Turner, I could see the doubt in the faces of my "fellow" Falcon fans. I was leading a double life that I couldn't sustain, sipping my Falcohol while reading Jeff Duncan's articles well into the daylight hours. This feels like a great weight off my chest.

So what does this mean for you, my fellow Saints fans?

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