Every Monday, I walk from my apartment toward the Burger King that sits on the corner of St. Charles and Euterpe. On my way, I wave to the homeless woman who lives on a plaid lawn chair on the corner and a giant light-brown doberman that slams his entire body against the fence and snarls at me every time I pass.
Then, before I catch the streetcar, I buy a copy of the Times-Picayune, where I read about the lastest exploits of the Saints: the record-breaking statistics, the video game-like ease with which they carve up defenses, the inevitable late-January showdown with the Packers in Green Bay.
Afterwards, as the streetcar chugs its way toward the CBD, I muse on some of the more philosophical questions that surround the team.
If Jimmy Graham was to lose half of his left-arm in a tragic motorcycle accident, could he still compete as an NFL tight end with one giant arm and its corresponding nub?
If Darren Sproles was stranded in the middle of an African savannah, coated in prime rib juice and surrounded by lions and tigers, would he be able to juke his way out?
Does the awe-inspiring, out-of-this-world ability of Drew Brees to play the quarterback position in the NFL partially stem from some sort of superhuman serum that is secreted through his birthmark.
For the record, I’m still deliberating on this question, but it appears other people aren’t.
Enter the WhoDatMark, a temporary tattoo that resembles Brees’s birthmark and is being hawked in mass by a local company made up of a few rabid Saints fans who have taken Brees worshiping to a new level.
The tattoo, which comes in black and gold, is being sold at local sporting good stores and is showing up on a wide variety of people, including yours truly, at the dome.
Not only does it get your closer to God Drew, but 9 cents from each tattoo sold is apparently donated to Brees’s charity.
I find it often hard to explain to people outside of New Orleans the level of fanaticism that exists for the Saints, but the fact that seemingly normal people plaster a replica of a fuzzy, brown facial birthmark on their cheeks each Sunday in solidarity with their quarterback is probably the best way to accurately qualify the essence of Brees’s impact on New Orleans.
At least those were my thoughts this Monday, as I rode to my office in a meditative silence, begrudgingly rubbing the last few bits of remaining temporary tattoo off my cheek, feeling suddenly mortal once again.
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