The slip of paper is no longer white or crisp, instead it picked up a yellow tinge as time passed. The blue ink is a bit smeared, and there are multiple stains scattered about. A coffee ring outlines the explanation of what to do if shrimp is added, and some orange concoction at some point splattered all over the part about the vegetables.
It’s wrinkled and bent at the edges, but it still works. It’s readable, though the directions are committed to memory. It’s survived multiple moves out of happenstance and sentimentality.
The jambalaya recipe is simple and makes a solid meal for a family dinner or a football get-together. The latter was its purpose, but it fulfilled the former in the process.
The Drew Brees era in New Orleans began 15 seasons ago, sparking life into the franchise and likely saving the Saints from relocation and irrelevance on the heels of Hurricane Katrina.
It was also that season a gathering began (or at least my inclusion into it). A group of friends came together each Sunday or Monday for Saints games, bringing pizza or Popeye’s Chicken if in a rush or jambalaya or gumbo or red beans and rice if we put more time into the menu. “Matt’s mom’s brownies” were a consistent star — fudge squares with powdered sugar and a half inch of chocolate icing to guarantee goodness.
The size and makeup of the participants changed over time, and included fans of other teams on occasions, but we marked time by those weeks, a Sunday supper occasion to catch up and pause life for a shared interest. That first season ended in inconsolable fashion after the Saints faltered in the snow in Chicago. A Yankee-turned Southerner Lions fan made a Cajun dish too hot to eat the night the Saints beat the Vikings to advance to their lone Super Bowl.
Life eventually happened and between family obligations and people moving away from Oxford, the parties dissipated, turning into some group texts and then not much at all. The last time never seems like the last time in the moment.
Sensing the Brees era potentially ending in a matter of hours, or at least in its final weeks if magic reappeared for one more run, I sent a text during pregame yesterday to some of that group from years ago. My communication with the participants had ranged from hardly ever, regretfully, to my daughter’s godfather with whom I text daily.
It was a bright spot to a pretty sour evening, as the Saints struggled to do much in the second half and went out with a whimper one step from the NFC Championship Game. We reminisced and loosely threw out options to get together again hopefully soon or when the pandemic ends. We discussed the last 15 years of mostly winning football that also brought along some catastrophic playoff exits and missed opportunities, unaware at the time that one was playing out in a matter of hours.
The rhythms and friendships came back instantly.
This is my experience, but this isn’t really about the Saints or people I’ve met along the way. This is about fandom and the memories and rituals we pick up because of sports. Many of you have them with Ole Miss, the routines and superstitions and things you hold close to your heart, whether it’s watching certain games with relatives or friends or a tailgate group that became family. Time is marked by coaches and players moving on, the eras stacking on top of one another.
Nuke LaLoosh, of Bull Durham fame, once eloquently said, “I love winning… it’s, like, better than losing” and truer words and all. He’s right, and winning is certainly more fun. And it’s the goal. But none of us have control over that. The emotion around fandom is more about the periphery. The actual game is the place setter. You remember the wins and losses, but you most remember where you were for the wins and losses. What you felt and how you reacted.
I watched the fourth quarter last night aware of how it was ending. It wasn’t stunning or heartbreaking like other recent playoff failures. It was turnover-prone football mixed with Father Time showing his dominance. Brees walked off to a mostly-empty Superdome after the worst playoff performance of his career. — an unfitting end considering what he means to the franchise and region.
An hour or so later, he met Tom Brady on the field for a conversation while Brady threw a football with Brees’ kids. The last play of the night involved the headphone-wearing baby Brees carried on the Super Bowl trophy stage more than a decade ago. A tangible signal of the time that’s gone.
But we all move into new eras, new seasons. That’s how life works. The memories and stained pieces of paper and get-togethers turned into group texts carry on, as we hope for more occasions to cheer and cuss and let sports be the bond that connects moments we want to remember.
