By Matt Moscona
Somewhere Sunday amid Alvin Kamara gashing Dallas for four touchdowns and thousands of Saints fans second lining through Jerry World, I had a revelation.
This is the first time I’ve had fun watching the New Orleans Saints since 2018.
Let me level with you for a moment. One of the worst parts of being in the media is having to suspend your fandom. It’s the only way to do the job effectively. For me, that means taking off my Demario Davis “Man of God” headband and reacting objectively to what I see.
Deep down at my core, though, I am the kid who was born at Lakeside Hospital and lived in Lake Carmel in New Orleans East. Sundays were church, Shoney’s breakfast buffet and the Saints. My favorite Christmas gift as a kid was my Dalton Hilliard jersey. I made the walk too many times with my grandparents from St. Joseph Catholic Church to The Dome. I was there for the Domecoming. My wife and I delayed our honeymoon by a day in January 2012 so I could watch the Divisional Playoff game against the 49ers. After Vernon Davis broke our hearts, she asked me through tears if this was going to ruin our honeymoon.
I love the New Orleans Saints.
I was also in The Dome for the 2018 NFC Championship Game—the infamous “NOLA No-Call.” That was the last day I had fun watching the Saints. That is, until Sunday.
The 2018 season was supposed to be a beautiful crescendo of the Payton-Brees Era. After back-to-back-to-back 7-9 seasons and questions if the greatest era in franchise history was done, the Saints re-announced themselves in 2017. Losing on the Minneapolis Miracle was gutting, but there was also a feeling that with the young core, the Saints would get another swing.
And 2018 was a euphoric ride. The 13 wins tied a franchise record and included a 10-game winning streak. The road to the Super Bowl was paved in Black and Gold. A date with the Patriots in Atlanta seemed assured.
And then, it happened.
The Saints made the Playoffs in 2019 and 2020, but there was no joy watching those teams. It was nothing but angst. They were chasing the ghost of what was stolen against the Rams all while watching the sand pour through the hourglass of Brees’s career. It was a helpless race against time.
Then Drew was gone. Sean followed. We haven’t seen a playoff game since Jared Cook fumbled (I’ll never forgive him). Jameis was a fun fling, but not sustainable. Andy Dalton was a dud. Trevor Siemian and Ian Book? Ugh. Oh, Taysom, too.
There was no real reason for hope with Derek Carr, either. A decade is a large enough sample size to know what a player is. And Carr is an average starting quarterback. Not bad. But not great.
And then, Sunday happened. Actually, the last two Sundays happened.
Fifteen offensive possessions and 15 scoring drives. Defenses look as helpless against this group as they did against Brees in his prime. Kamara looks rejuvenated. Hell, Trevor Penning looks like a competent starting offensive lineman—a football miracle fitting for a team with its holy moniker.
I don’t know if the Saints can keep up this pace. I don’t know if they’ll win the division, make the playoffs or contend in the NFC. And it doesn’t really matter. What I do know is that for the first time since the greatest screw-job in sports history, I love watching my team again.
I wonder if they still make Dalton Hilliard jerseys.
