Hope in the gumbo

This time of year at my house, Sunday’s are for football.
Polimom and Dear Husband (DH) don’t have any of those stereotypical spousal disagreements about the remote control, or armchair quarterbacking v. lawncare; I’m every bit as engaged as he is… and everybody’s in the den these days when the Saints play.
There was quite an uproar when money was spent to repair the Superdome; many felt that $144 million should have been spent on housing or city infrastructure instead of a frivolity like a professional football team. The more cynical sneered that it was all about money for the NFL, or the advertisers, or big business; just add it to the piling evidence that nobody really cares about the lost city and its struggling residents.
Maybe they were right, but for a city that faces bad news every single day — that has less than half its residents home, needs 30,000 low-income housing units, sees its violent crime raging out of control, is losing its biggest commercial insurance underwriter — there’s a desperate need for what the Saints stand for these days.
The brashness of a double-reverse or a Hail Mary pass. The euphoria of a win in the face of confusing red-tape, inept leadership, and unpredictable city services. The incredible boost that comes from trying… and succeeding. The in-your-face satisfaction of triumph.
For forty years, the Saints have been part of the rich gumbo of New Orleans’ soul — one of many crucial elements that, when mixed together, created an utterly unique culture. They’re neither the only ingredient nor the oldest, but they’re the team we loved in spite of its flaws — just like the city itself.
Repairing the Superdome was a gamble; that symbol of desperation could easily have become home to another season of failure (there have been many), and compounded the sadness and anger — but it didn’t. Yes, there’s crass commercialism and big money involved, but some things can’t be measured in dollars.
You can’t put a price tag on hope.