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New Orleans Saints: The Night Dreams Came True


Perhaps you’ve read the popular poem, “Casey at Bat” which was written by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, I’ve adapted that poem to recount, for you, the story of that night in January when our dreams finally came true.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the New Orleans men that night;
The score stood tied, and a win nearly out of sight;
And then when Favre threw down the field and Peterson had a big gain;
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

Not a one could sit down to have even a rest;
They all clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Drew could but get a whack at that —
We’d put up even money now, but there on the bench, #9 sat”

But Favre moved down the field as led by Big Chilly;
the former slung the ball while the latter acted silly;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat; Because there, Drew still sat

But Favre let go a bullet to the wonderment of all,
And then our Tracy Porter caught the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Porter yelling and cheering and Chilly flippin’ the bird

Then from seventy thousand throats and more there rose a lusty cheer;
It rumbled through the Dome, while some just shed a tear;
It pounded on the rafters, the sound of “Who Dat!”
For there on the bench, the mighty Favre now sat;

There was ease in Drew’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in his bearing and a smile lit Brees’ face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt that Drew, he was DAT;

Seventy thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
All those tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then the purple defense was in place;
And a smile still lit his face;

And now Pierre Thomas came hurtling through the air,
And the ref stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Over the sturdy defensemen, the Flying Frenchman flew—
I knew he got the first down, I just knew

From the seats, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Who Dat” the crowd screamed, the loudest in the land;
And it’s likely they’d kept on had not Sean Payton raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Brees’ visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the center and once more the snap flew,
The Boys in Black and Gold, were doing all they could do;

The smile has fled from Brees’ lip, the teeth are clenched in prayer;
That Hartley will kick with with cruel violence and get the ball there;
And now the holder holds the ball, and Garrett has to go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Garrett Hartley’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And tonight in New Orleans, we feel just the same,
We are full of joy in Saints’ land —
For Garrett Hartley won the game.

Check out Keith Null’s weekly article about the Saints on by clicking here.

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