By Mark Lassiter

New Orleans radio announcer, Bernard “Buddy D” Dilberto, fueled a grass roots, populist movement in 1980. He implored frustrated football fans to attend games with brown paper grocery bags on their heads to protest the performance of the 0-14 hometown Saints. Buddy also said, “When you go to Heaven after you die, tell St. Peter you’re a Saints fan. He’ll say c’mon in, I don’t care what else you done, you suffered enough.”

In 1982, I watched the Saints in person, in (Atlanta’s) Fulton County Stadium, and I learned why New Orleanians have always been described as creative and unsinkable. One fan was dressed as Moses, complete with a long white beard, flowing robe and long staff. Get it? Leading his team to the promised land. Most of the remaining Saints fans appeared at the Atlanta game with brown paper bags on their heads. The self-proclaimed “Ain’ts” refused to be recognized in public, nor could they not resist the urge to follow their beloved team anywhere. The team’s pitiful output did not dampen their enthusiasm to spend 20 hours riding a bus roundtrip to Atlanta. The Ain’ts walked single file to their seats in the lower bowl of the stadium, all wearing bags. About two minutes into the final quarter, they all stood and walked out in unison, single file. The final was Falcons 35, Saints 0.

After the game, I heard a riotous noise rising from the stadium, about a quarter mile away from where I stood in the parking lot. Curious, I walked back to the stadium outer concourse to determine the source of the noise. As I arrived back at the stadium, the sounds became more rhythmic and the crowd seemed to dance in unison around the circular stadium. The Saints fans, led by two brass bands, were second-lining around the stadium. I thought, “If they act like this when they lose, what happens when they win?”

My first visit to The Big Easy was for the legendary New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival in 1985. Sherman, Michael and I waited patiently at the landing on the Mississippi River for the jazz fest midnight riverboat cruise while Leon Thomas yodeled at dockside under a full moon about The Creator having a master plan. It was a magnificently perfect scene for a perfect night. I sampled barbecue shrimp on the third deck of the boat while The Neville Brothers rocked downstairs.

By the Spring of 1995, I had a new baby daughter and Jazz Fess was right around the corner. Mom was exhausted, so we loaded all the infant gear and took our first Daddy-daughter road trip. She was nine months old. All dialogue reported verbatim. (overheard at the front desk of The Holiday Inn Superdome, on Loyola Avenue) “You down here with that bebe by yo’self?”

“Yes, ma’am”

“Hmpf, THAT’S the kind of man I want!”

Daddyhood has it privileges. We checked in to an upgraded room about two hours early. I backpacked my daughter to the other side of the French Quarter to Acme Oyster for some take out. By the time she turned seven, she had seen BB King, The Wild Magnolias, The Dirty Dozen, Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas, George Clinton and The Staple Singers in The Gospel Tent. That same year, she was questioned by an unsuspecting Jazz Fest fan on the shuttle bus from The Fairgrounds. “Little girl, is this your first Jazz Festival?”

Unimpressed, she replied, “No, this is my fifth.”

Turning 50 is traumatic enough. It is more difficult when you are unhappy and unemployed in a strange city with no friends other than your labrador retriever. I decided to spend my birthday in New Orleans alone and went to the Superdome for my first Saints game against the Denver Broncos. I sat next to a bitter and surly Saints fan who reminded me of my dad, frustrated with his beloved Washington Redskins. He lived with every first down, punctuated with the post-Mardi Gras, inebriated tone of public address announcer Jerry Romig, who has performed his labor of love for 41 years.

My neighboring fan died with every Saints mistake. The Saints, of course, lost. I listened to a fortune teller near Jackson Square and walked the streets looking for answers. But I was hooked. Despite, or because of, the anguish I felt—this would be my adopted football team. It was time for some gumbo at Dooky Chase to soothe my sorrows. The ClearVue Barbershop on Rampart Street is gone now, but not forgotten. I had my hair cut by a brother named Hollywood. Hollywood.

Katrina made landfall on my daughter’s 10th birthday. I remembered the echoes that bounced off the steel undercarriage of the stadium during the game when the news coverage flashed images of the stranded residents who were starved for three days. I wept as I watched the landmarks from numerous visits, including ClearVue and Circle Market, underwater. The swollen body of a black man floated under I-10 near the highway entrance I knew so well.

What does it mean to miss New Orleans? Not being a native, I cannot say. All I know is that some Lassiter ancestors must have arrived via that port city, as the sinking feeling is palpable every departure date. The mufaletta sandwich from Central Grocery helps to ease the pain. The Saints learned how much they missed it in 2005, when they played their home opener in New York and split the remainder of their home schedule between San Antonio and Baton Rouge. They became accustomed to moving their entire operation—including phones and video—within a week.

Today, as the Saints head to the Super Bowl in Miami, there is a friendly debate over where and when the Saints “Who Dat” chant originated. Some claim it began with Southern University in the late sixties, when proud Jaguar fans challenged, “Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Jags!”

In October 2009, after covering the festive Southern University homecoming, Charles and I drove the long way to Atlanta from Baton Rouge. We listened to Bobby Hebert on the radio pre-game show for the Giants – Saints game and made it to The French Quarter in time for the kickoff. Walking down Decatur Street to a familiar French Market restaurant, a Salvation Army worker holding a donations bucket, simply asked each and every passer-by, “What’s the score?” Former Saints quarterback, Bobby Hebert, the self-proclaimed mayor of the Who Dat Nation, makes no attempt to hide his passion while working as an announcer on WWL. Hebert, known as the “Cajun Cannon,, was born in Cut Off, Louisiana. You can’t make this stuff up. He played for seven seasons, and led New Orleans to its first playoff game in franchise history.

During the October 4 game against the New York Jets, someone caught Bobby breaking with broadcast decorum, pumping his fist and screaming with joy as New Orleans scored.

Bobby Hebert took over Buddy D’s show and inherited his often-repeated promise that if the Saints ever made it to The Super Bowl, he would wear a dress down Bourbon Street. In 2006, Hebert said, “I will be twitchin’ in high heels down Bourbon Street.” This past Saturday, Hebert, along with thousands of “Buddy’s Broads,” remembered radio man Buddy D by wearing dresses and parading from the dome to the French Quarter.

Instead of using his Super Bowl press credentials, the founding father of the Who Dat Nation, Hebert will leave Miami before the game and return to New Orleans where he

will broadcast his pre-game radio show from his traditional spot at Deanie’s in The Quarter.

The theme line about rebuilding a city is well known. In reality, the story of New Orleans is about rebuilding lives, one by one. Can you, in good conscience, cheer against this city and against this team composed of cast-offs, undrafted free agents and low rated question marks? The quarterback, Drew Brees and his bum shoulder, was discarded by the San

Diego Chargers. He adopted the team rebuilding effort as his personal cause, and has provided a beacon for post-Katrina philanthropy via his foundation.

As a child, Saints defensive tackle Anthony Hargrove, spent three years between homeless shelters and foster care. His mother died of AIDS when he was 9. He never knew his father. The resulting anger and depression led to drug abuse. Five years before being signed by New Orleans, he was a baggage handler at (Atlanta’s) Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport for 7 months. Hargrove has rebuilt his life, including nine months in a North Miami beach facility less than 10 miles from site of The Super Bowl. Hargrove said, “I sit at home sometimes in the dark and think how’d I get so lucky? … honestly, out

of all the ways my life could’ve gone, to end up here, at this time, with these people? I don’t know about anyone else, but I do believe there is something magical going on here.”

Win or lose, after 42 years of heartbreak, there will be a cathartic parade this Tuesday in New Orleans. In the remote possibility the Saints lose, there will be a traditional, deliberately mournful march played on the way to the NFL cemetery. Jazzman Kermit

Ruffins, fleur de lis tatooed on his chest, will be somewhere in the slow procession, blowing crisp notes through his horn, alternately facing the pavement and heaven. There will be sadness. A brief ceremony will lay any tragic Super Bowl results to rest at The Superdome.

Immediately after, the uptempo joyful noise of The Dirty Dozen, Pin Stripe, Little Rascals, Young Fellas and Rebirth brass bands will lead a huge mob of second-liners back down Poydras Avenue and hang a left on Loyola Avenue. In the event that hell

is still frozen over, and the Saints somehow manage to defeat the favored Indianapolis Colts, there will not be much restraint of raw and unbridled emotion on Royal, Magazine or Frenchmen Streets.

Anthony Hargrove sums it up best, “It’s amazing how this city has really come alive… I hate to try to get too forward, but what if we make… a Super Bowl run? This city might

dislocate from the rest of the United States of America and float off into the ocean.”

Mark Lassiter changed the diaper of his 9 month-old daughter at Da Fess, on a hot sunny afternoon, in the shadow of the Jazz Tent.