The damnedest thing I ever saw on a football field! I swapped flags for gold one shot into the back 9. This wasn't a kick-off, it was an event!
The only thing that could compare on a soccer pitch is if ever some fool takes a penalty with his head. What an injustice the head coach is ineligible for MVP.
The legend is of the redemption of a city on its knees, as if it were written, ordained even.
But spare a moment for old grandpa Tom Benson. Come his day of grace, he was due to supersede Jude as patron Saint (apt) of lost causes. Last in the world for 40 years! I remember those halcyon 80s days in the NFC West when I regularly looked forward to Big Joe picking off the Saints, like fleas off a dog's back.
So you couldn't see this coming.... ever! Not without some ruse, sleight of hand. So enter stage left, far-left, one Sean Payton, erstwhile veteran of those elephants' graveyards, the Budweiser League (UK) and Arena football. He too knew all about lost causes.
So, in truth, all the ingredients were there; all was needed was a chef. Enter the Almighty with a mischievous stirring spoon, a slippery blue helmet and a pile of New Orleans golden crunchies, at the bottom of which was a helping of Reiss, into which sank the errant pumpkin.
So we all sat down to the weirdest entree to a meal we could remember, except Peyton Manning, who was on the outsde for an hour looking in, uninvited, awaiting a second sitting that never came. He froze! New orleans were on fire!
Saints alive! Has that expression ever been more appropriate?
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of SocialCO Media, LLC or True NudistsThe only thing that could compare on a soccer pitch is if ever some fool takes a penalty with his head. What an injustice the head coach is ineligible for MVP.
The legend is of the redemption of a city on its knees, as if it were written, ordained even.
But spare a moment for old grandpa Tom Benson. Come his day of grace, he was due to supersede Jude as patron Saint (apt) of lost causes. Last in the world for 40 years! I remember those halcyon 80s days in the NFC West when I regularly looked forward to Big Joe picking off the Saints, like fleas off a dog's back.
So you couldn't see this coming.... ever! Not without some ruse, sleight of hand. So enter stage left, far-left, one Sean Payton, erstwhile veteran of those elephants' graveyards, the Budweiser League (UK) and Arena football. He too knew all about lost causes.
So, in truth, all the ingredients were there; all was needed was a chef. Enter the Almighty with a mischievous stirring spoon, a slippery blue helmet and a pile of New Orleans golden crunchies, at the bottom of which was a helping of Reiss, into which sank the errant pumpkin.
So we all sat down to the weirdest entree to a meal we could remember, except Peyton Manning, who was on the outsde for an hour looking in, uninvited, awaiting a second sitting that never came. He froze! New orleans were on fire!
Saints alive! Has that expression ever been more appropriate?
