This is the column I can’t write. I’m not even close to talented or eloquent or thoughtful enough to write about what happened in the Louisiana Superdome last night. Maybe somewhere else there is a man who can poetically express what occurred on the field and in the hearts of thousands last night. But it’s not me.
 
Besides, what do you say when everything has been said already? The Saints defense said much of it last night with their relentless pursuit and torture of Michael Vick. The offense said a lot of it with their efficient, error-proof brand of football that they put on display. Special Teams also had a great deal to say with a blocked punt returned for a touchdown and blocked field goal. They didn’t leave anything for me to say.
 
Maybe it’s better this way, though. After all, the previous era in Saints football left everyone with too much to say. From Aaron Brooks sloppy play, to Jim Haslett’s inconsistency, to Donte’ Stallworth’s hands (or lack thereof), to Rick Venturi’s “defense,” the Saints always left us with something to talk about. Something to complain about. Something to criticize.
 
Not anymore. Nope, those days are long gone. These are not your father’s Saints. Loveable losers, no more. Loveable, yes. Losers, not yet.
 
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that the Saints are there yet. They’re not. But they seem to at least know where there is, which is more than the recent teams could say. Where and what is there, you ask? There is where every team strives to get. There is a reverse, sprung by a quarterback’s key block, that scores a touchdown. There is coming up big on third downs, on both sides of the ball. There is the exact opposite of Aaron Brooks throwing the ball backwards. We are not there yet, but we are heading there. And maybe faster than anyone expected.

And all that just deals with things that happened on the field. I haven’t even attempted to touch what happened in the hearts of thousands of Who-Dat faithful last night.

But how could I even do it justice? Either you get it, or you don’t. Either you suffered a slight seizure when they blocked the punt, or you didn’t. There’s no gray area.

Before the game, I tried to think of an amount someone would have to pay me in order for me not to attend the game. I came up with a figure around a thousand dollars. One “Beautiful Day” performance by U2 later, my figure had more than tripled. By the time the clock hit 0:00 on the scoreboard, there was no figure. I wouldn’t trade being at that game for anything. Like I said, either you bleed Black and Gold, or you don’t.

I remember the very moment that the Saints entered my life, second in importance to my family and slightly more important than breathing. It was on a Monday night in 1990, when the Saints beat the Rams 20-17 on New Year’s eve to clinch a playoff birth. Morten Andersen kicked a field goal as time expired and The Dome erupted. I remember seeing people dancing in the streets, strangers hugging each other, fans getting out of their cars to celebrate at red lights. Some fans even got out and celebrated a green lights. I was instantly hooked. The Saints would be my partner for life. At times our marriage has been rocky, but we have persevered.

I thought about that moment last night as I sat, teary-eyed, watching the final seconds tick off of the scoreboard clock. My faith in my marriage renewed. Our bond stronger than ever. Nothing but greener pastur -- um, greener field turf -- for as far as the eye can see.

I’d love to tell you more about it, but I simply am not the man for the job. Maybe  no one is. Maybe you just have to understand. Like I said, either you get it, or you don’t. If you do, then you don’t need someone to write a column about it or put it into words. You already know exactly what I’ve been trying to say all along.