[StBernard] A loss? Not to Saints fans in New Orleans

[Westley Annis]

	A loss? Not to Saints fans in New Orleans 
	By Wright Thompson 
	ESPN.com 
	
	
	NEW ORLEANS -- When it was finally over, a woman walked down Hillary
Street and she cried. Her makeup was gone. Her eyes were red and puffy. A
few blocks away, a lifelong Saints fan named Stan Gelpi looked up from his
empty glass of beer at a stunned Uptown bar. An hour earlier, he'd been
plotting a trip to the Super Bowl. Now, he was lost. 
	
	
	Then it hit him, like it hit thousands around this heartbroken town.

	
	
	
	Saints fans found plenty to celebrate late Sunday night at Louis
Armstrong International Airport, despite the loss."I'm going to the
airport," he announced. "They brought hope to this city when nobody else
could. The mayor sucks. The governor sucks. The legislature sucks. The
president sucks. The only thing that doesn't suck is that team. They brought
hope to this city, and I'm going to the airport." 
	
	
	Men, women and children poured out of bars and houses, from Uptown
to the Quarter, from New Orleans East to Metairie, and they piled into their
cars. Only this time they weren't evacuating. They were going to meet their
team. Some stopped at drugstores and made signs. They wrote "Thanks for an
awesome season" and "We Believe" and, simply, "Bless you boys." 
	
	So much in professional sports is canned, and this was something
real, something spontaneous and pure. Through a neighborhood they drove,
down a winding, dark road to a private terminal where the team's charter
would land. Cars parked, one after another, the headlights looking like that
scene from "Field of Dreams." Fans brought coolers and bottles of wine,
standing in the pouring rain, giving something back to the team that gave
them so much. 
	
	"Two miles, 'til the end of the road, it's bumper to bumper," said
Saints fan Colin Ross, pointing at the people lining up near the runway.
"There's little kids down there yelling 'Who Dat?' on the hoods of cars." 
	
	
	
	Drew Brees got nothing but love from the throng at the airport early
Monday morning.The people who stayed all night will never forget it. Some
arrived as early as 7. Others trickled in over the next few hours as word
began to spread: Ice had delayed the charter flight. The team was still in
Chicago. 
	
	
	In New Orleans, they had a little time to think about the year. Some
cried. Karen Porche wiped a tear away and laughed a bit at herself. Most
know it's crazy to care so much for a team. You had to be there, on the side
of the road in a rainstorm, to understand. 
	
	"They brought us a lot of hope," she said. 
	
	"We had six feet of water in our house," her husband, Charlie, said,
"and they helped." 
	
	"You can't be mad at these guys for losing this game," Karen said. 
	
	As people waited, the craziest thing happened. What started as a
funeral turned into a celebration -- a celebration not just of a team, but
of themselves. The beers they raised were toasts to their own resiliency.
Fans screamed. They chanted. They sang that U2 song "The Saints are Coming."

	
	"I feel like we won," Ross said. 
	
	
	When a cop turned on his loudspeaker at 10:40 and announced, "The
plane has left Chicago," the party went to another level. Size estimates
vary. There were about 500 or so right at the gate; but with cars lined up
for miles, the number was surely higher. 
	
	
	A young man named Michael Mulé began running up and down the street,
leading the wave. The crowd responded, people raising their arms as he
sprinted, finally falling to his knees in the pouring rain, the loudest damn
screaming you've ever heard embracing him, his hands raised toward the sky,
feeling the drops land on his face. He pulled out his asthma inhaler and
took a deep breath. 
	
	"I think the momentum and the hope that they've given us," he said,
"is going to carry over into the whole rebuilding process. Everybody's
counting us out, but we still have that hope. It sounds so corny. It sounds
so cliché, but they're getting us going." 
	
	Eleven o'clock turned into midnight; 1 a.m. inched closer until
someone spotted an airplane. The trombone started playing again. 
	
	"There they are!" a woman yelled. 
	
	"We believe," another screamed. 
	
	Players and coaches cranked their cars. To get out, they had to
drive down a street lined with people. The fans took pictures of the Saints.
The Saints took pictures of the fans. A man chased after Drew Brees' car
with a black and gold flag. One drunken fan bummed a light from a member of
the caravan. Head coach Sean Payton rolled down his window to soak up the
scene. One after another, fans told him, "Thank you." He looked out at the
screaming, frothing mass of people. 
	
	"Unbelievable," he said. 
	
	
	"It makes me proud," Gleason said. "It makes me proud to be a part
of this city." 
	
	So many things in New Orleans are still wrong; but on this night,
one thing was right. More than right. It was perfect. 
	
	All things end, of course. Even Mardi Gras has a morning after. When
the last Saint pulled away, the crowd dispersed. Some of them were going
back to FEMA trailers. Many still haven't rebuilt their homes. Most have
family members spread from coast to coast. The city remains battered and
beaten, entire swaths of it empty. It's half the size it was before the
storm. 
	
	Three young men walked through the rain toward their car. One
carried a Saints flag. Another looked around and sighed. 
	
	"Now," he said, "back to reality."