Coming Back Stronger Part 9

Chapter Ten.

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 Sat.u.r.day 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 gra.s.s, which is thicker and more like real gra.s.s than what's used at most stadiums. Locker rooms, vending areas, bathrooms-everything sparkled and s.h.i.+ned. 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. n.o.body made a sound. Then music began, rumbling and reverberating off the empty seats. The JumboTron fired to life. Images flickered across the ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sion 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.

Wrong Turn.

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 pa.s.s.

"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 fl.u.s.tered 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, sc.r.a.ping 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 fl.u.s.tered 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.

Sellout.

That night we had a sellout crowd. More than seventy thousand people were there, and it was ESPN's most-watched broadcast to date.

The Falcons were favored to win. They had won the NFC South in 2004 and had been only one game away from making the Super Bowl after losing to Philadelphia in the NFC Champions.h.i.+p Game. They had plenty of talent too: Jim Mora, a former coach for New Orleans, was now head coach for Atlanta, and they also had offensive weapons like quarterback Michael Vick and running back Warrick Dunn.

That night, surrounded by seventy thousand screaming fans, my teammates and I realized that what Sean Payton had said was true. This was much more than just a game.

You have to understand this about the Saints fans: they are some of the most loyal fans in the world. Don't get me wrong-when I played in San Diego, the fans were great. They were loud and supportive, and there were plenty of Chargers faithful. But a lot of people who live in San Diego are transplants from other parts of the country. What that meant was that many fans would cheer for us most of the season but root for their home team when they came to town. At times in San Diego, it felt like there were more people cheering for the other team than for us.

Not so in New Orleans. On game day, the city shuts down. Everybody who can goes to the game, and those who don't have tickets close up shop to watch on TV. And everybody is wearing either a Saints jersey or some form of black and gold. After the game, everything opens up again, and it's a citywide party. So much of the culture around here is centered on the team, and people take a Saints win as a win for themselves. It was time to go out there and make our city proud.

We kicked off to Atlanta and stopped them on their first drive. On every play the crowd got louder. On the fourth play of the game, Michael Koenen of the Falcons went back to punt, but Steve Gleason looped straight up the middle and blocked it. The ball bounced into the end zone, and Curtis Deloatch landed on it for our first touchdown of the game. The crowd went nuts. It was the loudest one-time roar I have ever heard in a stadium. That moment served as a confirmation: this night belonged to New Orleans.

At the end of the first quarter we ran a double reverse, and Devery Henderson took the ball the final eleven yards into the end zone. John Carney added three field goals to the scoreboard. We played lights out that night on defense and managed the game extremely well on offense. Our defense put a ton of pressure on Michael Vick, sacking him five times. We shut down their running game as well.

We won the game 233, bringing our record to 30. Even better, we had taken control of the NFC South. The fans were wildly appreciative. We had gone from setting our sights on winning just one game to winning three in a row. Now the question was: could the streak continue?

Chapter Eleven.

One at a Time.

There's always a danger after the buildup and emotion of a Monday night game that a team can lose momentum and intensity by the time the next Sunday rolls around. That Monday night was no exception. Sean Payton didn't want that to happen to us, and he warned us of the danger as we got ready to face Carolina, another NFC South opponent. Sean's message to the team as we prepared for Carolina was this: "The media started out saying you wouldn't win three games all year. Now they're going to be telling you how great you are, and they're going to want you to look ahead and speculate about how far we'll go. They'll try to stuff you so full of cheese that you will lose your focus. Let's not forget what it has taken to get to this point. Remember that we need to continue to improve each day. Don't eat the cheese."

Disappointingly, we didn't heed Sean's message. We got behind early in the game but managed to start fighting our way back. We were not able to recover a late onside kick that could have given us a chance to tie or win the game, and the Panthers won 2118. But we learned a lesson that day: your emotions and intensity have to match your preparation. We just did not have it that day.

We couldn't afford to hang our heads over the loss because Tampa Bay was right around the corner-our second game at the Superdome. There wasn't as much media blitz this time, but the fans gave us just as much support and volume as they had at the previous game. They were ready for us to return home.

We needed home field advantage that game, especially in the fourth quarter. We were down 2117. We had just held Tampa Bay on third down, and they were punting to Reggie Bush, our rookie running back. As Reggie got ready to receive the ball, he started motioning to the fans to make more noise. The roar inside the Dome crescendoed until it sounded like a freight train. By the time the ball was snapped, I thought it couldn't get any louder, but as Reggie took the ball on our thirty-five yard line and began his return, the noise level rose even higher. Reggie pa.s.sed midfield, and you could have sworn a jet was taking off from the stadium. When he pa.s.sed the goal line after running sixty-five yards and scoring his first NFL touchdown, the entire place went berserk. That touchdown was the final score of the game-we won 2421.

At 41 we were among the top teams in the NFC. But we couldn't relax now-with each game of the season, the stakes kept getting higher. We had to get ready for the next challenge: Philadelphia was coming to town. Philly was widely regarded as a strong Super Bowl favorite that season. The team was a perennial contender, and they had been to the Super Bowl two years earlier. Two of the NFC's best were going head-to-head.

At that point we weren't thinking or talking about the playoffs. Our mind-set was still "one game at a time." We had survived training camp that way. We had won four out of five that way. Each day we tried to concentrate on doing what we were supposed to do, doing it the right way, and not looking too far ahead. The media and the fans were talking about how important it was to clinch the first-round bye as the first or second seed, but for now we were taking things one step at a time.

Prior to being head coach in New Orleans, Sean Payton had coached in the NFC East for nine years, most of that time as an offensive coordinator for the Giants and the Cowboys. On many occasions he had battled wits with Philly's defensive coordinator Jim Johnson, one of the greatest defensive coaches of all time, and Sean had a pretty stellar record against him. We respected Philly, but we felt like we had an edge with Sean, and that gave us confidence.

We jumped out to an early lead against Philly, and at halftime we were up 173. The Eagles came back and scored three straight touchdowns, which gave them a 2417 lead at the start of the fourth quarter. We knew we needed a spark. We hadn't done anything well offensively the entire second half, and we needed to score in a big way.

As important as the communication is from coaches about which plays to run, there's also interaction that takes place between players on the sidelines throughout the course of a game. The offensive line is constantly communicating with me about what they're seeing and how we will handle protections. I also gather my receivers together and say, "Hey, I like this matchup, so let's attack this particular corner or safety. Be alert for me to give you a signal that adjusts the route." The signal might be a nod or a wink-something simple to trigger a change in our offense.

As the fourth quarter began, we saw an opportunity to make a game-changing play. We called a play at the line of scrimmage, and as the defense was hurriedly getting set, we identified the matchup we had been waiting for. I met Joe Horn's eyes and gave him a nod, and he winked back to acknowledge that he had picked up on my signal. What was supposed to be a fifteen-yard stop route now turned into a stutter and go, right past strong safety Michael Lewis.

The ball was like a hot potato in my hands-I couldn't get rid of it fast enough. Joe ran down the field so fast the secondary might as well have been standing still. He caught the ball on the run and waltzed into the end zone to tie the game 2424.

There was still some time left, about thirteen minutes. Philadelphia got the ball and sustained their drive for a few plays, but our defense stopped them. They were forced to punt.

We had about eight and a half minutes to play and were starting on our own fifteen yard line. We began a methodical march down the field that chewed up the clock. It was one third down after another-third and short, third and long, third and five. And then with three seconds left on the clock, John Carney lined up for a thirty-one-yard field goal. We had just run sixteen plays and chewed up the final eight and a half minutes of the game. The clock ran out as the ball sailed through the uprights, and we won, 2724.

It was a huge win for us, and it also communicated a lot to the fans. It's one thing to explode and score lots of points and win going away. It's another to hit some snags and keep plugging away and eventually scrabble out a win. Our fans had been beaten down for so long and had gotten their hearts broken by so many tough losses. They'd also been knocked down by Katrina and its aftermath, and many were still struggling to rebuild their homes and restore their communities. On every side it felt like the system was against them. Then our team came along and started winning. Suddenly it felt like the tune in New Orleans was changing a little. In some ways, the struggles the city faced were akin to the hole in the top of the Dome during the storm. It let the water in, but later, when the skies cleared, it also let in the rays of suns.h.i.+ne.

Life can be like that. I've learned over and over that closed doors mean G.o.d will open something else. A window, maybe, or a back door. Sometimes you just have to look hard for that opening.

Walking Up the Down Escalator.

At some point during each season you know you're going to face a situation where everything seems to be working against you and you have to fight through the adversity with all you've got. You don't play as well as you had wanted to or you get a bad break or have an off day. Those moments are guaranteed to come, so when they happen, you can't let them shock you or take you by surprise. Always expect the unexpected. When it feels like you're walking up the down escalator, you'd better be ready with a good solution.

After the Philadelphia game, we sat at 51 going into a bye week, and we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. We then proceeded to lose three out of the next four games. We were definitely in a slump. We hadn't been blown out, but we certainly hadn't played like we knew we could, and now we were sitting at 64. Next up was a trip to Atlanta. This was our time to show we had some solutions.

We had beaten the Falcons at home on opening night, but the vibe from Atlanta was You only beat us because it was the first game back at the Dome, and you were riding the emotions of your fans. There's no way you're going to come into our house and beat us again. There was a real sense of urgency for our team. We had just lost two in a row, and we knew we had to get back on track quickly.

The Georgia Dome was rocking when the game began. The first play from scrimmage we ran and got stuffed. The second play from scrimmage we ran and got stuffed. We had moved a total of three yards so far, and now we were stuck at our own twenty-four yard line. The place was going wild.

During that week of game planning, we had noticed a big play opportunity for us against their defense. The Falcons were used to seeing our two receivers run up and run double in. The safety would squat on the inside receiver, and the cornerback would a.s.sume it was a double in and try to jump underneath the outside receiver. That's the play they antic.i.p.ated now on third down and seven. However, on the first third down and long of the game, our plan was to change it up.

We still sent the inside receiver on an in route, but this time the outside receiver ran a deep post over the top. With the safety and corner antic.i.p.ating the double in like they had seen on film, Devery Henderson ran right past both of them, and seventy-six yards later he was standing in the end zone for a touchdown. Better yet, we had made an immediate statement about our readiness to play this game. And we had taken the crowd out of the game right from the start.

Atlanta hung tight with us all through the first half. At the end of the second quarter, we were up 146 and driving with just over a minute left. We were on the Falcons' forty-eight yard line when I put up a Hail Mary as the clock was running out. Usually those pa.s.ses get intercepted or batted down in the end zone, and the half is over. Still, it was worth a shot. I bought time, stepped up into the clean pocket, then launched it. The ball slipped past a ring of Falcons defenders and landed in Terrance Copper's hands for a touchdown. Saints lead, 216.

It was an emotional high to walk into that locker room at the half. We were back. We had prepared well for the game, preaching that week about getting back to the fundamentals and understanding the philosophy of what wins and loses football games: striving for ball security on offense, making big plays, having great third-down efficiency, and playing situational football. Besides that, we knew why we were playing. Not just for a win, but for the people of New Orleans. We won 3113.

The next week we beat the 49ers, and then it was on the road to Texas Stadium to play the Cowboys. All of America was talking about Dallas at the time. Tony Romo had taken over as quarterback. They were on a roll, and the consensus was that they were the strongest team in the NFC. After the tough stretch we'd been through, the early buzz about our team had died down. But both teams were 84, and both of us had offenses and defenses in the top five in the league. Also, with Chicago sitting at 102 and in position for the number one seed in the NFC, the winner of this game would likely claim the number two seed. This was a huge game.

Coach Payton emphasized to us the importance of a win against Dallas. We needed it to garner a first-round bye and home field advantage for the playoffs. But it was also a big game for Sean personally. He had been with Dallas before going to New Orleans, and this was his chance to go up against his former team, coached by Bill Parcells, one of his mentors. It was obvious that Bill had a big influence on Sean, especially that first year when Sean was establis.h.i.+ng his ident.i.ty as a head coach in the NFL. I continue to hear plenty of Bill Parcells stories and quotes from Sean, and I even possess a copy of the "Bill Parcells Ten Commandments of a Starting Quarterback." Sean wouldn't show it, but you could tell how much this game meant to him.

Texas Stadium held some connections for me, too. It was where I had won the 5A state champions.h.i.+p my senior year of high school, back in 1996. That place held some good memories, and I was hoping we'd add another. As a team we tried to look at this game just like any other on the schedule and not get distracted by all the story lines, but it was tough. There was a lot of emotion and history on the line.

We were originally scheduled to play at noon. But we were into the flex schedule part of the season, and our game was important enough to move to Sunday night. John Madden and Al Michaels would call it on a national stage. The game kept getting bigger while we fought to keep it in perspective.