The Other Payton

I noticed last year that a flock of crows had moved into the neighborhood. Every morning, a couple of noisy Jackdaws roost on the sloping roof across the street or straddle the power line which cuts through the horizon in front of my window. Monday was designated 'eating crow' day. Pass the 12 gauge, please. Humbled by the 'ballsy' play calling of Sean Payton, I had to bite my lip and sit and watch the Saints take it to the Colts. In the stands on Super Bowl Sunday fans from New Orleans were crying after the game. No one could have predicted this rush to glory. It is a script that defies reality, and makes a heathen like me think uh, maybe there is divine providence. This was one of those golden moments in the sports world; obliteration of collective pain...a blockbuster upload of endorphins; an athletic achievement which raised up the dead and swelled civic pride. They're partying on Bourbon St like it was 1994. To those of you who don't care or find sports boring, and missed this shimmering moment, well, it was bigger than 'The Who,' and it was magical. The other Peyton, (someone had to lose) #18 of the Colts, will brood all summer long. He won't forget Miami too. Best gazillion dollar commercial was the Betty White snickers spot. Betty White, generation blue rinse. Is there a hotter star now? SNL should be on their knees at her door cause they don't make them like Betty anymore.