It’s impossible for me to write about the Saints, without talking about my late grandfather, Paw Paw. I don’t think I’m alone in this. With the exception of the Saints fans who were born before 1967, I’m sure that most of the “Who Dats” of today got “it” (and by “it” I mean their love for the Saints) from somebody, whether it be a mother, father, grandparent or aunt or uncle.
In many ways – no, in every way, Paw Paw was the ultimate Saints fan. Whether it was via television, the radio or the few seasons when he had Saints season tickets, I don’t think he ever missed a Saints game.
Paw Paw was a gruff old dude; definitely old school – imagine a mixture of Lawrence Tierney and Marvel Comics, Ben “The Thing” Grimm; only wearing khaki pants, a wife-beater undershirt and his New Orleans Saints cap on game day; usually sipping a Dixie or Schlitz beer.
Paw Paw normally wasn’t a man of many words. He was a second generation immigrant from Germany and a retired bus driver for Public Service – the former identity of the New Orleans’ Regional Transit Authority. He retired, I think, some time before I was born. Throughout most of my life, he worked the 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. shift as a guard at a local ship yard. In hindsight, I think he took the second job more to escape my grandmother’s nagging than he did for money or because he was bored with retirement.
He was good with his hands. He built stuff, like boathouses, piers and railings around my grandparents’ house; which (prior to Hurricane Katrina – their house, along with just about every other single dwelling on the street, was swept away into the murky waters of Lake Pontchartrain) was located on what the locals affectionately referred to as Rat’s Nest Road; in honor of one of the areas primary denizens, besides humans - the nutria. He also painted, both house painting and water colors; and he used to hand-weave castanets – a craft, or a art depending how you look at it, which is virtually dead in this day and age.
But that was only when he wasn’t watching the Saints. Sundays were devoted to one thing and one thing only – watching the Saints; or at least listening to them on the radio during blacked out home games.
To say he actually underwent a complete psychological and physical transformation during game time is probably a stretch; but not by much. He did become more animated and definitely more vocal.
The man has been dead now for close to 20 years; but it’s his voice I hear the clearest, to this day when I watch the Saints play on Sundays.
“God dammit Archie!” he’d scream, and on Sundays no less.
Indeed, Sundays were sacred at Maw Maw and Paw Paw’s house, but it had little to do with religion.
“Archie are you even watching where you’re throwing the damned ball? The other guy was wide open in the end zone!”
“Hit him! Hit him! Hit that son of a bitch. Dammit defense, do something. You just let him walk into the God damned end zone!”
“Holding my ass, he wasn’t holding. That damned referee needs to have his head examined. Where do they get these bums?”
Each outburst would be punctuated by Paw Paw slamming his hand down furiously on the arm of his Lazy Boy (but never the arm where his cold beer sat). His eyes would glaze over and the veins would bulge furiously from his mostly bald head. His face would redden and on more than one occasion his glasses fogged up.
It was an endless litany; that scared most of the family out of the TV room and back into the kitchen. But not me. Oh no. There was something so wild and frenzied, and somewhat frightening to watch my grandfather hover near the brink of insanity each weekend. I loved it. We both did. It didn’t take me long to start hollering along with him, whether I understood what was actually happening or not.
The non-televised games were even better; because Paw Paw would set up shop right at the kitchen table with his old AM radio. There was something odd, alien and slightly militaristic about his old AM radio. It had flip-top of sorts which was emblazoned with a map of the world. On a good night you could pick up radio stations as far away as Cuba and Jamaica.
But to hunker down at the kitchen table with Paw Paw while he nursed a cold beer or a high ball while the Saints played was something special. With each good, or boneheaded play, the Saints made, Paw Paw would slap the kitchen table, forcing the glasses, beer cans and old-time nut holder to shudder and jump.
There were rules too, if you were watching the game with Paw Paw. One of the rules was no chitchatting while the game was in play. It was okay to cheer if the Saints scored. It was okay to scream if the refs made a bad call or if the other team intercepted the ball or recovered a fumble. But idle cross talk was not tolerated.
“Dammit Elsie, if you wanna chat go in the damn kitchen,” he’d tell my grandmother, or my mom if she was there.
However, my grandmother, who was obstinacy personified, would seldom budge. Instead, she’d usually ignore him and start right in with the questions. I think she did it just to irritate him sometimes.
“Who has the ball now?” she’d ask, goading him.
“Can’t you look at the line of scrimmage and see for yourself,” he’d retort.
“I don’t see why they have differentiate between a punt and a kick,” she’d say. “It’s all kicking. I don’t really even see why they call it football. They use their hands 90 percent of the time.”
In hindsight, this is probably where I got the running back-slash-rushing question from.
“SSSHH Elsie, I’m trying to hear,” he’d hiss at her.
He’d actually wait until commercial break to actually correct her, or attempt to answer her questions.
“That’s why you interrupted me, to ask me that?” he’d usually end up eventually saying. “That’s the stupidest damned question I’ve ever heard.”
Ruffled, especially if I were in the room, she straighten up briskly and retort, “Earl Hageni, you should be ashamed of yourself. You should set a better example for your grandson. There is no such thing as a stupid question,” she’d say indignantly.
Paw Paw’s reply?
“In football there is.”
Deep in the recesses of my heart, I knew he was right.
