There’s a beauty in sports.

It’s better than any so called “reality” television show. Better than any flick where you’re rooting for the good guy to plow through seven bad guys who kidnapped his wife. On any given Sunday, football has either made me cry in disbelief (see Super Bowl XXXIV with the Titans and Rams) look dumbfounded at the turn of events (see Super Bowl XLII with the then undefeated New England Patriots and the New York Giants) or absolute joy (see Rose Bowl Game 2006 between Texas and USC).

Sunday entitled me to joy.

As much as I’ve been hanging out with my friends, various exes, co-workers from work and others, I always seem to find as much fun hanging with my dad opposed to hanging with others. Maybe because he sometimes understands my corny sense of humor and makes bets on the oddest things (Coakley vs. Brown in the Mass. Senate Race comes to mind) and that we’ve bet on such things as the Super Bowl with the Titans and Rams and I didn’t get to watch RAW the next night1.

Sunday we came together like any other particular Sunday in which the both of us were of and were treated to the respective championship games of the AFC and NFC. We already knew the Jets were dead in the water thanks to the fact that their defense wasn’t going to be scoring all their points and that even though Peyton Manning has a giant fucking head he is still quite possibly the best quarterback on the planet, if not ever. My dad’s odd sense of humor always seemed to creep up whenever Pierre Garcon made a play.

Example of an exchange between me and dad:

Me: Haiti!

Dad: That sure is one hungry fucking Haitian.

Me: Does he have to be all that?

Dad: Yeah, because if he was Ethiopian you wouldn’t hear anything about his ass.

Which by all accounts is actually true. Had that earthquake not claimed thousands of lives and compelled Rihanna to butcher a classic Bob Marley song, we wouldn’t be concerned with Garcon being Haitian or Jonathan Vilma from the Saints making a desperate plea for aid on various NFL outlets. That’s how fate seemingly worked to propel Garcon from being one of those unlikely wide receivers who made strides in a championship game to becoming one of the major stories period.

We knew everything about the Saints even though neither one of us were even born in the city. We watched as Katrina tore up the Superdome, washed away the Lower 9th Ward never to be seen again (at least not now) and the media coverage that was streamlined all over the place. When the Saints somehow pulled off the improbable of drafting Reggie Bush from Southern California in 2006, I immediately donned a fleur-de-lis in appeal for New Orleans.

Not because I liked Reggie Bush out of SC but I realize that the Saints were getting a freaking god send in terms of their terrible football team. That year, I watched the Saints morph into an offensive force behind the arm of Drew Brees, Bush’s playmaking and all their receivers and wondered – when would a Madden like offense finally break through?

It happened Sunday.

For the first time in quite a while, me and my dad were on the same page when it came to football. We loathe Brett Favre, not because of how much of a bitch he may be but how the media slurps his nuts like a thirsty horse would do water after being malnourished for a month. We like the Saints because of the city and how exciting their brand of football happens to be and if all these things come into play – we would have the proverbial game of the year.

Which we did end up having.

I wound up slightly hoarse after calling Saints touchdowns. I laughed when Brett Favre, Adrian Peterson, Percy Harvin & Bernard Berrian played “Hot Potato” with the football. I cringed when the Vikings continued to come back and my numerous tweets about the game almost made me seem like I hated New Orleans with all the Katrina-esque jokes I made.

But in the end, I wanted to cry for the Saints when Garrett Hartley (who I called “recession proof” a week ago) booted in that 40-yard field goal and the Superdome roared as loud as I can ever remember a televised football stadium cheering. I jumped for joy, slipped on my upstairs run twice and fell, the second of which almost making me hit my head against my dad’s desk.
I didn’t care.

I was caught up in the euphoria of the Saints win and so was my dad. He was happy, exhilarated because of the turn of events. He wanted to call the boys from N’Awlins dead in the water once Chester Taylor reeled off a 12-yard run late in the fourth quarter. So did I. The Saints weren’t stopping Favre unless they killed him (and if you look at the game again on NFL Network whenever they decide to replay it, he looked dead 4 times in that game alone). After the dumb 12-man in the huddle penalty, I joked that Favre would throw an interception in an attack on karma and fate.

And it happened.

When you feel right about something and it comes true, you tend to act like you own the world. So I laughed my ass off to the point where I almost doubled over in pain. Yes, a Favre pick had occurred but it still didn’t mean the game was over. Oh no, overtime.

The Saints got every break in the world. A few fourth down calls that should have maybe gone Minnesota’s way but didn’t. That line up field goal that was straight and true, that purple and gold mess was kicked to the side and something I had been wishing for the moment the Saints and Colts were still undefeated back in late 2009 was to happen.

A decent, maybe high scoring Super Bowl.

For the few moments I may get to remember with my father, Sunday shall be one of them because we believed we were in that dome watching that game along with 71,000 other people.

Because sport, is a beautiful thing.

1 The thing here is that this was the same night as the Royal Rumble and my love for The Rock to replace Hulk Hogan as my favorite wrestler was in full swing. Rock wound up winning the Rumble but set up a very awkward Wrestlemania that should have been Rock vs. Triple H one on one. Funny how things can always come back to wrestling.