Talking trash in Tampa Bay: My first Saints road game

In a matter of a couple hours I went from sweating profusely in the intense Florida heat (I guess I should be used to it, being a New Orleanian and all) to shivering, from a sudden downpour, which brought with it a 15 to 20 degree drop in the temperature.

“We’ll let the players have a five-minute warm-up, and then we’ll play some football,” announced a referee.

Relief. My discomfort was all worth it.

Three weeks ago, I bought a Saints tank top to wear to my first game outside the comforts of the Superdome. The attire seemed appropriate for bearing the heat of Sunday’s Saints-versus-Buccaneers game in Tampa Bay, but the afternoon rain storm and 69-minute game delay left me questioning my decision.

Everything from the game stoppage at only 4 1/2 minutes into the first quarter, to the atrocious hits on Drew Brees and Jimmy Graham, to the ludicrous number of fans ejected from the stands by security, made my first NFL away game eventful, to say the least.

I arrived in Tampa on Friday to spend the weekend with a friend and attend the Saints-Bucs game. I had managed to procure tickets to week one’s nail biter against the Falcons, making my second Saints game in a row even more special. After the revamped defense finished strong and secured our team’s victory last week, I thought surely the matchup against the Bucs would be a breeze, even on the road.

Unfortunately, the strongest Brees of the day was the one whipping in from the bay and rolling in the thunderstorm that sent shivers across my bare arms and interceptions into Buccaneers’ hands. Much like the weather, the Saints offense looked gloomy all afternoon and left this Black and Gold faithful fearing a depressing 7 AM flight home the next morning. So in the waning moments of the fourth quarter, in typical Saints fan fashion, all I could do was clasp my hands together and start praying that my team made it out of Tampa 2-0.

I first wore my Jonathan Vilma jersey during the Saints playoff loss to the Seattle Seahawks the year after we won the Superbowl. Since then, the Saints have lost every time I’ve worn my white No. 51 jersey; as much as I love Vilma, I no longer wear his jersey on game day. That first week, when the Saints beat the Falcons, I was wearing my new Saints tank top, so, of course, I was going to wear the exact same shirt for my trip to Tampa Bay. After all, I drank only Blue Moon for the entire 2009 season, and we all know how that season ended.

My being the visitor, the opponent, the enemy brought a whole new perspective to attending a Saints game. While mostly hospitable, some Buccaneers fans were berating anyone adorned in black and gold with negative quips about our beloved team. When it comes to the Saints’ success, I am extremely superstitious, so I refused to participate in the war of words with the home crowd. Fearing that a single, foul phrase against the Bucs or their fans would jinx my team, I ignored the trash talking that was occurring in Raymond James Stadium.

I am convinced that if you talk trash, you are putting bad gris-gris on the Black and Gold. My superstition was confirmed when a nearby Saints fan yelling at a Bucs fan behind me finished his spiel just in time to see Tampa Bay linebacker Mason Foster intercept a Drew Brees pass and return it for a touchdown. Thanks to the trash-talking karma, in a matter of seconds, the seemingly sure victory turned into a potential heartbreaking loss.

This couldn’t be happening. The Saints were supposed to win. The only thing keeping me optimistic was the hope that my Saints candle, reminiscent of one on a church altar and inscribed with the “Who Dat” version of the “Our Father,” was still lit. I texted my roommate in New Orleans for reassurance that the candle was still burning. Just as she confirmed that the candle still flickered, Garrett Hartley booted 3 points through the uprights, the clock hit 0:00, and suddenly the evening chill disappeared. The black clouds, along with the home crowd, slunk into the distance. All that was left was a scoreboard that read: Saints 16 – Buccaneers 14 and the warm sounds of “Who dat! Who dat! Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints!” echoing into the Tampa night.

I may not have been responsible for the Drew Brees-led last second drive to victory, but I certainly didn’t hinder the outcome by creating any negative energy. I kept my head down, mouth shut, and prayed for a Saints win just as my Granny had taught me 25 years ago.

Thankfully, the trash-talking Buccaneers fans were silenced, and for this road warrior at his first Saints away game, finally no sweeter words could be heard…

Who dat.