"Where were you?"


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That was the question you’d hear the day after you saw The Kick. Now, you could ask that about every other moment this season, and all the moments in-between.

Sunday night, at 1 a.m., I'm eating a burrito on the corner of Decatur and St. Louis and I'm hearing "Halftime" for the millionth time. In a row.

I started the day celebrating dogs named Barques Colston and Great Danes in Shockey-sized Shockey jerseys with fleur-de-lis stencils on their bellies. I ended it listening to Bobby Hebert make an impossibly long-winded analogy through tears. Callers-in were breathless, exhausted, humbled.

Somewhere in the middle — before the thousands of cars honked at once for hours, before high-fiving and hugging strangers became involuntary and way before cops stopped giving any sizable shit about ghost riding whips down a major thoroughfare — I was standing at the river holding a loaf of French bread and drinking a daiquiri, just hours before I was left speechless from Tracy Porter's interception and subsequent 70-plus yard touchdown, waiting to count down the final seconds of the game and see the words "Saints" "win" and "Super Bowl" appear together on the screen for the first time ever.

And this was just the beginning.

Last night I sat in traffic, walked from the Marigny to the neutral ground at Canal and Decatur to stand among older fans celebrating with younger fans — 800,000 of them watching the Lombardi trophy make its way through the streets of New Orleans in 33 degree weather.

This time last year I was looking back at an 8-8 season, hoping, again, for a “maybe next year” playoff spot, or at least a winning record. I watched the first game of this season surrounded by friends. I ended it surrounded by new friends and hundreds of total strangers.

So, where were you?


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