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?
Saintsational's days of working hard and partying hard have caught up with him, and so he is now taking a step back and has appointed me the new head writer here at Canal Street Chronicles. He'll still be contributing every now and then, but on a much more limited basis. But this is good news, friends. No longer will you have to read posts exclusively by someone who faked every exclamation point. No longer will you suffer, alone, the brutal oppression of a man who drank cooking sherry out of a Reebok sneaker every night before writing his posts. Finally, you will be able to celebrate the Super Bowl victory with a man who actually wears pants once in a while.
Here's what I solemnly pledge, now that I have officially joined your ranks:
- Always to remain faithful to the Saints, and to flog myself regularly with a Drew Brees jersey in penance for my 20 years spent as a Falcons "fan."
- Pierre Thomas is my savior, and I shall have no other.
- Reggie Bush is not my savior, but I will lack the ability to think critically about his possible shortcomings and will simply say "Woo!" whenever his name is spoken.
- In the interest of making my new found teamuality clear to all, I will dye my hair and goatee black and gold, and get a fleur-de-lis tattoo on my forehead.
- Like the rest of you, I will taunt fans of other teams as though our Super Bowl victory had cleanly erased the 40 years of futility that came before it. I will also complain about how boring this off-season is, as though we had not just won said Super Bowl two months ago.
- Forevermore, I will obey the gospel according to Sean Payton, and will give the stink-eye to any reporter I come across. As I am a journalist myself, this will force me to glare at myself every time I catch my reflection, but no transition in life is free of sacrifice.
- On Sundays, I will make outlandish bets with my fellow backwater Saints fans, win them, and then discharge firearms into their nice new televisions, teaching everyone involved clear lessons about.....something.
- Only names of current or past Saints players will be considered when my wife cranks out a couple of little Dave the Sainteners. My first born shall be Hebert Manning Colston IV.
- Living as a Saints fan cannot be enough. I will spread the gospel of New Orleans wherever I go, whether it be business meetings, family outings or funerals. I will react with hostility to any suggestion that the Saints are not the best thing since Gandhi.
- Sunrise to sunset, I will scream "Who Dat?" until my friends abandon me, my English professors take their own lives and my larynx bleeds the carbonated blood of Saints fans.
I sincerely hope that you will take my offerings and accept me as one of your own, though the weight of my past sins hangs heavier around my neck than Carl Nicks. Somewhere in your Cajun-clogged hearts, I hope you can find forgiveness. After all, did Sean Payton not teach us to turn the other cheek while stealing wine from Jerry Jones? I believe he did.
Yours in Breesus,