From the WSJ: the headline says Saints flatten Payton and Colts.
Wait—does the entire country get the day off, or is it just New Orleans? It's everyone, right?
.C'mon! It should be. With Sunday night's epic and joyous 31-17 Super Bowl victory over the Indianapolis Colts in Miami, the New Orleans Saints bandwagon will now stop and pick up the rest of America. Mardi Gras is now a permanent state, and you're all expected on Bourbon Street within the next 72 hours, or you're fired. The Winter Olympics just announced they'd like to delay until June, and they'd like to hold speed skating at the Superdome.
Did you really believe? Are you Faux Geaux, or Who Dat from the womb? Did you ever own a grocery bag that spelled "Saints" with a missing S? Can you correctly pronounce "Bobby Hebert"?
Does it matter? Absolutely not. Once tragically late to New Orleans, a nation wants to move in and establish residency. The Saints are unquestionably America's team. Stand down, Jerry Jones.
"We just believed in ourselves," said Saints quarterback Drew Brees, who finished with 288 yards passing and two touchdown throws and won the game's MVP award. "We knew we had an entire city and maybe an entire country behind us."
What surely makes this first Super Bowl championship sweet for the Saints is that they knocked out a heavyweight. The Colts were unquestionably the favorite headed into Super Bowl XLIV. Indianapolis had a 16-2 record, a league-MVP quarterback in Peyton Manning, and a ruthless mean streak. They weren't swayed by New Orleans' sentimental story. They were out to win, maybe big.
For a moment, that looked possible. The Colts screamed to a 10-0 lead before most of Who Dat Nation had even gotten its black and gold beads on. We began to worry for New Orleans. It had been a joyous fortnight for the revitalized city, and a shredding by the Colts would have hurt worse than the nastiest Fat Tuesday hangover.
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.But the Saints responded forcefully. A pair of field goals narrowed the score to 10-6 at halftime. After The Who played a spirited medley of ancient druid songs at halftime, Saints head coach Sean Payton gambled with an onside kick to open the second half. The Saints recovered, then marched to a touchdown and a 13-10 lead.
The Colts jabbed right back. It was textbook Indy—as if Mr. Manning had seen the Saints fans dancing in their chairs and snarled, "What part of 'My name is Peyton Manning' did you guys not hear?" He shuttled the Colts downfield for a score and a 17-13 lead.
A third field goal by Garrett Hartley of the Saints cut the margin to 17-16. At this point, the defenses of both teams were looking like they may have snuck into Saturday night's Playboy Party on South Beach to see the Black Eyed Peas. Mr. Brees piloted the Saints back down the field, tossing a two-yard touchdown pass to Jeremy Shockey with 5:42 left in the fourth quarter. A two-point conversion made it 24-17.
At this point, we half expected to look over on the sideline and see Mr. Manning coolly smoking a cigarette. Fourth-quarter comebacks are his speciality, of course, and on the wall of his home are the heads of NFL head coaches who left him too much time on the clock to mercilessly operate.
But there would be no Manning magic on this night. The Colt mounted a promising drive, but with 3:12 left, a New Orleans cornerback named Tracy Porter—born in Port Allen, La.—leapt in front of a pass from Mr. Manning and skipped 74 yards for a touchdown. Game over. Not even Mr. Manning was going to stop the party.
You know who really stole this year's Super Bowl? Fans. Pro football's extravagant curtain-closer gets flak for being a plutocrat-stuffed, expense-account corporate-fest. But this year, thanks to Who Dat Nation—and yes, Colts Nation—the proceedings throughout South Florida had a populist flair.
And you know what's the craziest part of all? It's Monday after the Super Bowl, and we still have no idea who it is that said they were going to beat those Saints.
Or something like that. Like you, we need to get back down to New Orleans and learn how to say it properly.
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