Mr. October

Just in the nick of time, major dividend No. 1 darted for 65 yards and a game-winning touchdown against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. The number of new friends Reggie Bush made in New Orleans Saints country Sunday afternoon with that oh-so-timely punt return puts census workers to swamp boots and pirough oars. It was indeed a murky win, with seemingly secure leads fed to visitors like tables piled with miles of crawfish. Was it some sort of gentlemanly gesture for Sean Payton’s offense to cease ramming Deuce McAllister down the throats of the baby-soft Bucs defense? No. 26 had a whopping 117 yards by halftime, yet only carried the ball six times for six yards in the second half. Drew Brees looked like his already usual steady self, engineering a somewhat loaded offense without a single turnover to spare. Yes, even stone-hands Ernie Conwell managed to embrace a share of victory with a third-quarter touchdown reception.

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The defense sure likes to lag in the second half of ballgames. When the unfrozen caveman Mike Alstott punctuated a 74-yard, late-third-quarter drive with a one-yard plunge into the end zone, it certainly felt like that same-old noontime Saints buzz fading quickly into a 2 o’clock grumpy drunk. And this particular Sunday I wasn’t actually drinking anything but virgin lemonade. Tack on a touchdown pass thrown by a rookie replacement that I still feel like I’ve never heard of and it was time to call on a faith that in all fairness can hardly be called faith at all. It’s more like the insistence of an eternal fool. But thanks to a team at least temporarily more stupid than the Saints - and when I say more stupid, I mean exponentially more stupid – Reggie Bush was available at the number-two position in this year’s draft. And for once in their existence, the Saints were wise enough to pray in the direction of a savior fit for fourth-quarter heroics. We’re now 4-1 and have yet to lose a game at home. Whether we can even hang with the mighty Philadelphia Eagles next weekend is yet to be seen. But right this second, know for sure that until then, it’s sweet cha-ching for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

There’s probably quite a bit I could say about the Texas Longhorns wiping out the Oklahoma Boomer Sooners for the second straight time Saturday afternoon. But I prefer to savor the win in a Buddha monk meditation of self-imposed silence. As visions of Jamaal Charles following pulling guards around the farthest reaches of the right hash-mark soothe my exercise of peaceful breathing, bone-crunching hits made by Longhorn defensive backs spark neurons in my brain to conceive the exact dimensions of football-induced nirvana. Forget that LSU fell to Florida with Les Miles and JaMarcus Russell looking like Louisiana’s updated version of Jim Haslett and Aaron Brooks. Ignore that the Reagan Raiders games that occur a mere pleasant walk from my home only seem to last as long as two quarters of real competition. It’s not about that. At least for the moment, it’s about the positive. In fact, it’s about the positive in a way that only a Colt McCoy – or for that matter, Peter Gardere – could understand. I’m just sitting here watching the wheels, hoping that even just a glimmer of that glorious winning sunshine could fall upon my bearded burden.