A terrible thing happened to me last night.
Since I’m located outside of the New Orleans television market (and since I don’t have NFL Network), I was forced to watch the game in a bar. Which is fine, I can sit stoically at a bar by myself for three hours being judged by everyone else.
I’ve accepted that my Saints fandom seems excessive to most people. I’ve accepted that, since I started wearing jerseys in 2009, I’m sort of stuck wearing them until the end of the era. I’ve even accepted how stupid I must look alone in my #9.
I found my local bar, The Ugly Mug, settled into a pretty comfy bar stool around 20 minutes before kickoff (it even had a back and a cushion!) and prepared for being emotionally fragile in a public place. But again, I’ve accepted this.
Then, 30 minutes into the first quarter, the bar I was in changed the game on me with two simple, terrifying, painful, indescribably awful words: