To the poor, poor, suicidal fans of the Cleveland Cavaliers, down in New Orleans, we hear you. Not only do we hear you, but we feel you. We know your pain. We know that you didn’t choose the destiny of loving a team that doesn’t love you back. It was written.

No one knows that better than a die-hard Saints fan like me. Here is my story. (Cue “Law & Order” *Boom* Boom* sound…)

Down in New Orleans, 3 things will always hold true.
-Red beans for dinner is a must on Monday night.
-An encounter with a cockroach the size of a baby Pterodactyl is inevitable.
-And much like your family, you don’t pick your football team.

You see, passion for all things black and gold is as innate as that quick reflex we New Orleanians exhibit dodging poorly thrown beads on Mardi Gras day while watching tourists take one to the forehead. In its 42-year history, our team has only managed six playoff appearances and 2 playoff wins. Either we’re masochists or we Saints fans just can’t help ourselves.

But somewhere around age 12, my fandom crossed the line from obligatory to volitional, teetering on the edge of insatiable. My father broke down the history of our team in the only way that could truly impact a fashion-obsessed girlie girl with a passion for pink. He connected me to the emotion of a team and its fans struggling to overcome decades of disappointment, embarrassment, and plain old dumb luck. I no longer just cheered for the Saints, I felt for them. They became my Charlie Brown and I needed desperately for them to kick that football without falling.

Dad schooled me on the mystical magic of Tom Dempsey’s right foot, the awe-inspiring accuracy of Archie Manning’s Arm, and before long I was memorizing all the key members of the Dome Patrol. (Rickey Jackson, Sam Mills, Vaughn Johnson and Pat Swilling…oh yeah, I still got it.) I watched them win their first playoff game in a nail-biter against the Rams. Years later, on a perfect Monday night in 2006, I joined tens of thousands of screaming fans inside the Superdome to welcome home a team giving us New Orleanians a reason to celebrate in the midst of despair.

Despite the decades of depressing losses, infuriating twists of fate (I’ll never forgive John Carney for missing that extra point after the River City Relay), and embarrassing decisions (cough…Ricky Williams…cough), the Saints have been and always will be my team. Although I never hesitate to blame my dad for getting me hooked on “Who Dat”, I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side when our team finally makes that triumphant march into the Super Bowl. (Oh…and not just because he’ll be the one who keeps me from joining the rioters.)

So to those of you in Cleveland who haven’t yet found the strength to go back to work, go ahead, take Monday off. Nola Chick won’t tell. Hell, you deserve it. But after that, it’s time to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and do what we folks in New Orleans do to get over team disappointment: make voodoo dolls of your enemies and put a match to that special place where the sun don’t shine. Don’t believe me? How do you think Ron Mexico ended up with herpes…