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It was supposed to be the perfect night. It was to be the perfect cherry atop the perfect season in the perfect place. New Orleans, the city hammered by Katrina and then pummeled by FEMA, would show the world their indomitable spirit and their unique ability to party their way through any sort of disaster and come out the other end, drink in hand, shouting ôI dare yaö in the DevilÆs face. It was the perfect stage: They had the national spotlight all to themselves. It was the perfect opponent: that hated team with the silver pants, the shiny new silverûandûglass stadium, all those silver Lombardi trophiesàand that infuriating silver spoon stuck in their smug gobs. The have-nots would finally deal the haves their come-uppance. It would be glorious ...

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Article written by Gene Strother