The Sunday Evening Post: Championship Round

The last game of the weekend, for the third weekend in a row, is the keeper.

And, maybe more than its two predecessors, this one, the best of the bunch, was a game of extremes. Saints 31, Vikings 28 (OT) just won’t do it justice.

Brett Favre was tenacious and gutty and brilliant -- until his astoundingly stupid interception. Adrian Peterson was miserable, fumbling seemingly every series -- and he ran for 122 yards and three touchdowns. Reggie Bush was a nincompoop, muffing a punt -- then he made sure to get the ball over a pylon for a touchdown. Tracy Porter was singed, and burned, and torched -- until he snuffed Favre’s shot at a blaze of glory.

The momentum in this NFC Championship Game sloshed from one side to the other time and again, all the calls breaking the Vikings’ way in the beginning and the Saints’ way at its end.

This was another unforgettable game, a drama-drenched instant classic that will defy the lists and rankings and remain merely seared into hearts and minds. It’s another soul-crushing loss for a franchise defined by them, and a singular moment of triumph for a team and a region that has had so few.

“This stadium was wet,” Sean Payton said. “It’s not wet anymore.” Might he be wrong? New Orleans is no longer under Katrina’s waters, but I guarantee there are tears falling. There are probably puddles of beer and sweat stains and mounds of melted ice mixed with Gatorade. Celebration is a wet thing, the good times rolling sloppily, messily, and joyously. Tonight, in New Orleans, they should roll like never before.

Soak Bourbon Street and the rest of the city with whatever you’re drinking tonight, Saints fans. This is your party.

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