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By Chelsea Brasted | NOLA.com
Before the Saints and the Cowboys kicked off in Arlington, Texas, I mulled over my choices for how to spend that fateful Thursday evening. It was the first game of the year that I’d be able to spend with friends or at a local bar, having spent every other Saints game working.
But there was something about Dallas that gave me pause. Sean Payton and the rest of the black and gold were riding high, cockily strutting into end zones as Drew Brees continued crushing records. My dad isn’t from New Orleans, but he raised me a Saints fan through some pretty tough years, so color me a little suspicious when things start looking good.
There was something about the juju that didn’t need messing with on Thursday, so I took one for the team and watched the Saints get handed an ugly loss in the same way I’d watched them fly high for weeks on end: At home, with just my dogs for company and not wearing any black and gold.
Turns out, however, that my fellow fans weren’t as careful.
As the Saints’ fate became clear last Thursday night, I saw tweets roll in about how someone, somewhere out there had messed with the superstitious ether that is being a football fan. ...
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