Free Home Team by Sean Payton Page B

called him the Rhythm King. He was one of those never-miss-a-day-of-work kind of guys. Eddie had been at Pat O’Brien’s sixty-seven years. With a tray of coins, a set of thimbles on his fingers and an infectious personality, he could keep up with both piano players and delight the whole room.
    I asked about Eddie, of course. Charlie Bateman, the manager, told me the sad tale. Eddie left work the afternoon before Katrina. His wife was coming to get him, he said. He’d be fine. His body showed up four months later in the St. Gabriel Parish morgue. He was among those who had drowned in the flood. His absence made the empty room seem even emptier.
    We carried on as Eddie always had. We talked and laughed and shook our heads. Joe Vitt was telling stories about the Seattle Seahawks, what Chuck Knox was really like in 1981. We caught everyone up on our families back home. We talked about this great adventure we were embarking on, even if it was a total question mark. We pretended not to miss the creature comforts we were missing.
    What a sight this crew was.
    A couple of the guys had on Irish Guinness caps. Terry Malone was wearing a leprechaun hat. George Henshaw was standing on a chair singing “Rocky Top” and demanding to hear the West Virginia fight song. Big Dan Dalrymple was complaining that the rubber band on his hat had just broken. What did he expect? His hat size is 7⅞. Somebody else’s head was down on the table. Dennis Allen, who had hoped to go to Tampa, had finally gotten over being hired by us. He had his little St. Patty’s Day hat on and wanted to hear the Aggie fight song from Texas A&M. A couple of the other guys were wearing Mardi Gras beads. Greg McMahon wanted to know where he could get a cigar rolled in the neighborhood. He took off around the corner and eventually missed the bus back to the hotel. He was our penguin who never made it to the next iceberg. He walked and then he got a ride and then he went to a police station and somehow eventually made it back to the hotel. But the beers kept coming. So did the hurricanes. And the night went late.
    At one point, I looked over at Joe Vitt. He didn’t crack a smile. Completely deadpan, he announced in a strong baritone: “After a long and exhaustive search, the New Orleans Saints have settled on their coaching staff.”

10
    GETTING DREW
    WE HAD A WHIRLWIND twenty-four hours planned for Drew and Brittany Brees.
    Finding the right quarterback, Mickey and I knew, would define the next chapter in the history of the Saints. Oh, and our careers might also be at stake.
    Parcells used to say: “It’s not like you can dial 1-800-GET-A-QUARTERBACK.” Some teams had been dialing that number for ten or fifteen years, and still nobody answered. Drew was the most promising idea Mickey and I had come up with. Now we had to get him on the line.
    In our short time together, this quick get-to-know-you visit, I wanted to get a personal feel for the injured San Diego quarterback. I wanted him to get a feel for us. So we toured the facility on Airline Drive. We sent Brittany to see the antiques stores and the funky shops on Magazine Street. After lunch I volunteered to drive our guests around to look at houses. I wanted Drew and especially Brittany to see that New Orleans wasn’t a total disaster zone. There were places they might actually like to live.
    I headed straight to the Northshore. That’s where Beth and I had bought a spec home from a builder. It’s an upscale suburban area across Lake Pontchartrain on the far side of the twenty-four-mile Causeway Bridge. Some people find the drive mind-numbing, but I didn’t really mind it. In hindsight, the Northshore was probably not the place for Drew and Brittany. Uptown was more their style. But I remembered how Beth reacted the day our Realtor first drove her across the lake. “That’s easy,” she informed me. “I know where we’re living.” I was thinking the Northshore would seem safe and nonthreatening to