Coming Back Stronger (16 page)

Winning One for the People

On paper, the week leading up to our first home game was just like any other game week. We spent the same amount of time preparing as we had for Green Bay. As usual, we showed up for practice, weight training, and team meetings. We watched film like we always did to prepare for the Falcons. But there was something different going on under the surface that week, and we felt it the moment we walked into the Dome.

On the Saturday before the Atlanta matchup, Coach Payton switched our practice venue from the Saints’ facility near the airport to the Superdome. This was our last practice to go over our game plan and fine-tune our attack for Monday night. He also changed the time of the practice to the evening so we could simulate the game experience. When we walked in under the lights, a kind of reverent hush fell over us all. Even under ordinary circumstances, the Superdome at night is a pretty impressive sight. There are seventy thousand empty seats, and the stadium is eerily quiet. And that night it held more drama than usual. Those walls held the echoes of what this city had come through already and where it hoped to end up.

I had never set foot in the Superdome, let alone played a game there. For returning team members, it was their first time in the Dome post-Katrina. Sean’s purpose for busing the whole team to the stadium was partly to let us try out the new turf that had been installed. But more important, he wanted us to experience the feel of the Dome before the game. He knew it would be better for any initial shock or awe to come now instead of on Monday night. It was going to be a big moment. Besides, he had something else up his sleeve for that practice under the lights.

Sean was right—we needed that trial run. It was emotional for all of us to walk onto the field and see how much work had been done to repair the Superdome. New seats had been installed for broken ones, all the video screens had been replaced, and new turf had been put in. They had used the latest type of artificial grass, which is thicker and more like real grass than what’s used at most stadiums. Locker rooms, vending areas, bathrooms—everything sparkled and shined. It looked and felt like a brand-new stadium.

Standing on that field going through our drills, we couldn’t help but think about what had happened here a year earlier. People had died at the Superdome, and in some ways the spot was like a refugee camp for a long time. I had seen pictures of water dripping from the ceiling and people huddled together under blankets. They were sleeping on cots scattered across the field where we now stood. Outside the Dome, thousands of people had searched for loved ones or scoured through the trash and debris for something to drink or eat. The fact that this was happening in the United States shocked everyone. With that history fresh in our minds, we felt an added sense of responsibility. Not only did we need to win Monday night, we needed to play the entire season for the people of New Orleans, who had lived through so much. The way I saw it, there was really no other choice. We had to win. And we had to keep winning because we knew what that would mean to our fans. In some small way, it was our contribution of hope.

Sean had prepared us well for what this game meant. He told us we were going to work hard that week, and just like in training camp, he was true to his word. But he emphasized that discipline was only half of the equation. There was more to this game than X’s and O’s. This game was about heart and desire.

We did our walk-throughs and drills and had a solid practice. We were about to head to the locker room when Sean called us up to the fifty yard line and told us to take a knee. He started off with some logistical things, like what time to arrive on Monday afternoon. He said there would be a lot of traffic and people coming for the pregame concert and that we should get there early. “Now I have something I want to show you guys,” Sean said.

Suddenly the lights went out in the Superdome. It was pitch-black. Nobody made a sound. Then music began, rumbling and reverberating off the empty seats. The JumboTron fired to life. Images flickered across the massive screen. Video and still pictures from the aftermath of Katrina flashed before us.

Helicopters hovered over people struggling in the floodwaters. A man and a dog sat stranded on the roof of a house, staring calmly ahead as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be sitting on top of a house with water up to the eaves. A tall man with water to his waist carried a tiny baby in his arms. Children walked through brown water, carrying all their remaining belongings in little pink backpacks.

Telephone poles tipped over like toothpicks in sand. Waves crashed into street signs. Cars sat upended in the streets, and some were strewn inside homes. A barge rested unceremoniously in the middle of a neighborhood in the Ninth Ward. Rubble covered every inch of the ground.

The video brought all of it back for my teammates and me. As difficult as it was to see the devastation to people’s property, the most unsettling part was watching the human suffering. People stepped through the debris around dead bodies. Someone in a wheelchair had died. Another person lay facedown on the concrete with a sheet over him. Young and old waded through brackish water with their few belongings over their heads, trying to keep them dry.

The human toll represented on that screen made us want to turn our heads away. But the music and images drew us in. These were the people we were playing for now. These were the survivors, and they needed hope. They needed something good to happen.

The sheer numbers of the tragedy were devastating. But what made it most real for me was seeing those faces close-up. People hanging on to life by a thread as they were pulled out of flooded homes. A man carrying a sleeping daughter. Women hugging each other and crying. A man and his young son as they stood on an empty concrete slab, looking at what they’d lost. Children who couldn’t find their parents and held up signs with the names of their siblings. A boy in a life jacket as he clung to the top of a submerged car. You could almost taste the hurt and frustration and loss and anger.

In the flickering light of the screen, I looked at the guys on our team. There wasn’t a dry eye among us as we watched this explosion of pain and suffering. When we saw the images of the Superdome with cots spread across the field, we realized we were sitting in the same spot. It made football seem less important in a way, compared to all that these people had experienced. But at the same time, it made Monday’s game even more significant.

The movie ended. We sat there for a few moments as the lights came back on. We were all wiping away tears, feeling as if we’d just relived the past year in half an hour.

Sean turned to us. He had seen the video before, but he was just as moved as we were. Choking back the emotion, he said, “You want to make this night special? Then you go out and win this game for these people. They deserve it. But you need to win this game.”

Up to this point, we knew how much it meant to the organization to be back on our home turf. We knew how much it meant to the players to be playing home games in the Dome again instead of staying in hotels and flying all over the country. But that night was a reminder that this was about a lot more than football. We got a glimpse into the depth of the pain our city had experienced. And in that moment I thought, If playing this game with all the fire and passion in our hearts can give something to this city—and to the folks who are still stranded in Houston and other parts of the country—we are going to lay it all on the line. We will win this game. These people had seen enough nightmares from Katrina. They deserved our best.

The final piece of our game plan was in place now. We steeled our resolve not just to play the game better, but to live our lives better. We could not turn back the hands of time and take away any hurt our fans had experienced—that was impossible. But we knew how much our fans identified with the team. With that connection, we hoped they could latch on to some of our hope. We could lead them back to higher ground, where they could get a glimpse of a better future.

One picture that was taken inside the Superdome during those dark days of wind, rain, and oppressive heat is emblazoned in my mind as a symbol of hope. It was taken after part of the ceiling had torn off. The sun had peeked through the clouds above and sent a shaft of light onto the field. That huge square of sunlight hit at about the fifteen yard line. The photographer’s frame captured a young boy, maybe ten or twelve years old, sprinting along the field between the scattered cots and people. As much as sorrow and loss were represented in that stadium, there was also an innocence to the picture. That kid was doing what kids do on a football field—he was having fun. He was pretending he was Joe Horn or Deuce McAllister. Nothing about his situation had improved. He had still lost everything. But his heart made him want to run and play, to not give up believing.

That’s what we wanted to be to everyone who watched us. We wanted to run fast and play hard, as if we had nothing to lose. We couldn’t erase anything that had happened, but we could help people focus on what was ahead rather than on what was behind us. We wanted to be like that little boy.

The buildup to the Atlanta game was unlike anything I’d experienced before, and the story lines were rich. Two undefeated teams. Two rivals from the same division. The devastation of a year earlier and now the restored Superdome. The last time people had gathered inside, they were looking for shelter from a storm. Now we would gather to celebrate the rebirth of a city and the hope of restoration. There was a lot riding on that Monday night game, and we felt it.

I was ready to play in front of our fans for the first time and show them I was the quarterback who was going to lead the Saints into a new era. It was a big moment for the city and a big moment for me. The road to that game was difficult—and I’m not just speaking figuratively.

The game started at 7:30. Coach Payton told us to be at the stadium two hours prior to kickoff, at 5:30. I don’t like to cut things close, so I planned to get there by 4:30, three hours before the game. I like to take my time, study the game plan, get my shoulder stretched, make sure my pads are ready, and go through the whole routine the way I’m used to. I am a creature of habit.

The team stayed at a hotel next to the airport the night before every home game. I figured it would take only about twenty minutes to drive to the Dome, but I decided to leave earlier—a little before 4:00. My adrenaline was pumping already, and I was anxious to get to the stadium. Almost immediately I hit some traffic. By now I knew my way around New Orleans fairly well, so instead of staying on the interstate, I got off and jetted over to another street. I figured it had to be shorter than sitting in traffic.

The shortcut was backed up as well, so I turned off on another street. But that one was backed up even more than the ones I’d been on before. After making several more turns, I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was. I looked at my watch. Almost 5:00. I decided I needed to cut my losses and try to work my way back to the interstate.

Almost an hour and a half after leaving the hotel, I was nearing the off-ramp exit of I-10 at Poydras, which goes right down to the stadium. It was 5:25, and I still wasn’t at the Dome. I should have been there an hour ago, but there I was, sitting in a sea of Saints fans with banners and gold and black makeup. Little did they know their team’s quarterback was in the car beside them, trying to get to work. I was stuck, and there was no way out of it. I was sweating, all the time thinking, How could this happen? Especially for something so important! I’d had nightmares about showing up late to a game before, but this time it was really happening. And it couldn’t have been at a more inopportune time.

I finally got down the ramp and headed toward the stadium. It was 5:29. I was supposed to be in the locker room in one minute. I was driving a 1997 Land Rover Defender—one of those boxy-looking off-roaders with a safari roof rack on top. I pulled up to the gate and gave the attendant my parking pass.

“I don’t think you’re going to make it in there,” she said, looking at my carrier.

“No, I’m fine.” I looked at the concrete overhang and saw I had a couple of inches to spare. No problem. What was really getting me flustered at that moment wasn’t my car or the parking garage. It was the fact that this was such an important moment, and I was going to show up in the locker room late.

The attendant could tell I wasn’t going to be deterred, so she gave me a look and waved me on. “Okay, you can try.”

“Don’t worry; it’s going to fit.”

I drove forward pretty fast and made it under the concrete overhang. But what I failed to notice was a metal pipe that ran along the bottom edge of the overhang. Sparks flew everywhere, and there was the most terrible sound of crunching metal I’ve ever heard. The car stopped, and immediately I looked at my watch because I couldn’t bear to look at my roof. How is this happening?

I backed out, scraping the top of the car on the pipe again. I exited the garage, trying not to look at the woman who had given me fair warning. I pulled up on the curb next to the garage and called our director of security, Geoff Santini.

“Santini, I need help. I’m late, and my car won’t fit in the parking garage. Is there anything you can do?”

“All right, there’s a security guy out there. I’ll call him, and he’ll come get you.”

Fans walked by the car, eyeing the mangled roof rack and then looking in the window. “Hey, it’s Drew Brees! Aren’t you supposed to be inside getting ready for the game?”

I waved and smiled, scanning for the security guard. The second he came out, I grabbed my stuff, jumped out of the car, and tossed my keys in the air to him.

“I have to get to the locker room.”

He made the catch. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” It was my first completion of the night.

I sprinted to the locker room. Everyone else was there already. I was sweating, and my heart was racing. The last thing I wanted was to have my teammates see me stroll in late and think, This guy’s not taking it seriously. He doesn’t understand the gravity of this game.

“Where have you been?” Sean Payton asked.

I was out of breath. “Coach, long story. I’ll have to explain later. I need to get ready.”

Before every game I have a fairly strict routine I follow to help me get ready, mentally and physically. I always stretch and go over the game plan. Then I head onto the field to throw routes to the receivers with time to spare before the pregame festivities. That day I couldn’t do any of the things I normally did. About all I had time to do was change into my gear. I was flustered and frustrated with myself, and I was getting worked up into a bad frame of mind.

Mickey Loomis, our general manager, came up to me on the field and put his hand on my shoulder. “I heard you had a little trouble getting to the stadium today.”

“Yeah, I kind of got stuck in traffic and tried to take a shortcut and got lost.”

He smiled at me. “Just relax, Drew. Everything’s fine. You’re here, and you’re ready to play.”

A calm came over me. Mickey’s words put me at ease, and I was able to get my head together again. I went back to the locker room to get ready to play. It was a good lesson for me about focusing on the challenge ahead instead of being paralyzed by my mistakes or worrying about what others were thinking about me. I had to relax and put my energy into the important game ahead. I owed that to myself, my teammates, and this city.