2025-11-18 09:00
The rain was coming down in sheets as I ducked into Finn McCool's Irish Pub on Banks Street, that familiar scent of stale beer and polished wood welcoming me like an old friend. Through the fogged-up windows, I could just make out the vague shapes of cars splashing through flooded streets - a typical Tuesday afternoon in New Orleans during hurricane season. I settled into my usual corner booth, the vinyl squeaking in protest, and watched as the regulars began gathering around the television. They were tuning in not for weather updates, but for a replay of last night's Saints game, their black and gold jerseys creating a makeshift tapestry of devotion against the dark paneled walls. It struck me then how football here isn't just a sport - it's the rhythm we move to, the shared heartbeat of a city that knows both tremendous joy and profound loss.
I remember leaning toward the screen, watching the clock tick down during that crucial fourth quarter. The encounter lasted just an hour and seven minutes, with Eala displaying steady form and finishing with zero double faults - wait, no, that's not right at all. My mind must be mixing up my tennis notes with football memories again. What actually happened was Drew Brees moving with that surgical precision we came to depend on, the game wrapping up in just over two hours of flawless execution that left opponents stumbling. You see, that's the thing about New Orleans football - it gets in your blood, mixes with all your other memories until everything becomes tinted black and gold.
My own love affair with New Orleans football began in the most unlikely of places - my grandmother's kitchen in the Ninth Ward, where the radio always seemed to be tuned to whatever game was playing. She'd be stirring a pot of gumbo while narrating the action, her wooden spoon conducting an invisible orchestra of plays and strategies. "That's Archie Manning dropping back, child - watch him now!" she'd say, though I was miles from the actual stadium. Those voices coming through the static-filled radio created the foundation for what would become my lifelong fascination with this city's complicated relationship with the game of football.
When people think of New Orleans football, the Saints naturally dominate the conversation, and for good reason. Founded in 1967, they've given us some of the most electric moments in sports history - the reopening of the Superdome after Katrina, Steve Gleason's blocked punt that seemed to signal the city's rebirth, that magical Super Bowl run in 2009 that had strangers hugging in the streets. But there's another layer to this story, one that often gets overlooked in the bright lights of the Mercedes-Benz Superdome. Before the Saints became the darlings of the NFL, we had the Pelicans - no, not the basketball team, but New Orleans' first professional football franchise that played way back in 1887. They only lasted two seasons, but they planted the seed for what was to come.
Then there were the short-lived but memorable teams like the New Orleans Night of the Arena Football League in the early 90s, and who could forget the VooDoo? I actually had season tickets to their games back in 2004, sitting in that same Superdome watching arena football on summer nights when the air conditioning couldn't quite combat the Louisiana heat. They drew respectable crowds too - I'd estimate around 12,000 fans on average, all of us screaming ourselves hoarse as the ball zipped across that shortened field. The team folded and resurrected more times than I can count, which somehow feels appropriate for a city that knows a thing or two about resurrection.
What fascinates me most isn't just the history of these teams, but how they reflect the city itself. The Saints didn't win a playoff game until their 34th season - talk about perseverance through disappointment. Yet we kept showing up, kept wearing our paper bags as the 'Aints,' kept believing that better days were coming. That's the New Orleans way, isn't it? We know how to celebrate even when there's not much to celebrate, how to find the rhythm in the struggle. I've often thought that if someone really wanted to understand this city, they wouldn't start with our food or music - though God knows they're magnificent - but with our relationship with football. The way a Saints loss can darken an entire Monday, or how a single victory can erase weeks of frustration.
I remember during that incredible 2009 season, I was watching the NFC Championship game with my neighbor Mr. Landry, who'd been a season ticket holder since '67. When Tracy Porter intercepted Brett Favre in the final minutes of regulation, the old man actually teared up, gripping my arm so tight I thought it might bruise. "We're going to the Super Bowl," he kept whispering, as if saying it too loud might break the spell. That moment, frozen in time among the empty beer bottles and scattered popcorn, encapsulated what these teams mean to us - they're not just entertainment, but chapters in our personal histories.
As I finish my drink and prepare to brave the weather outside, I glance back at the television where highlights from Sunday's game are still playing. The bar has filled up now, the energy palpable as strangers debate play calls and player stats with the familiarity of old friends. This is what a complete guide to New Orleans football teams and their history can never fully capture in print - the living, breathing connection between a city and its teams, the way football here transcends sport to become something closer to family. The Saints will play again next Sunday, and we'll be here, in this bar or our living rooms or maybe lucky enough to be in the Dome itself, continuing the story that began decades ago and shows no signs of ending. Because in New Orleans, football isn't just what we watch - it's who we are.
