I have kicked people out of my house for rooting against the Saints. No qualms. Get. out. You want to watch the game on my big screen TV and eat the buffet I serve every Sunday? You had better be here cheering for my team and if you dare wear an opponent's jersey or colors, you won't get through the door.
The only exception I make is to that New England Patriots fan I'm legally bound to by marriage.
I have recently been called "passionate, bordering fanatical." Yes, that's a quote.
During last year's Super Bowl, I had people throw blue and white cookies on my lawn because I wouldn't let them enter my house to enjoy the Cajun spread I had prepared, including multiple pitchers of Hurricanes.
I'm sorry, but you cannot enter my domain unless you are a Saint. I even had the balloons I ordered sent back because they dared to put Indianapolis Colts blue ribbons on them.
My husband is from Massachusetts. He is a sports nut, but even he has told me repeatedly that I am insane.
That's why it's so funny that for the past 12 years, my best friend is an Atlanta Falcons fan, as everyone knows I hate the Dirty Birds. Maybe it's because she is my best friend or maybe because she has enough dirt on me to ruin my life, but either way that's the way it is.
During one heated battle, we stayed on the phone for the entire game screaming at each other over plays. My son had to keep coming in shushing me because he couldn't hear his own TV, in his room, on a different floor of the house.
I had to leave the bed late one night because of the texting battle we were engaged in. Apparently, my husband actually thought he could sleep through Monday Night Football, New Orleans vs. Atlanta. I put the phone on vibrate; I don't see what the problem was.
The part that amazes even me is that we can calmly discuss the game afterward. Win or lose, we congratulate each other on a game well-played, discuss high and low points for each team, and talk about it like neither of us were fans.
We've attended games together wearing our respective colors. What is it about true friendship that can override the desire to punch the enemy in the face?
Now don't get me wrong, for the six days leading up to the game, it's all smack-talk, during the game it's a scream-fest, but when the final clock ticks down to zero, she is the only person in the world I could shake hands with if we lost and not rub it in if we win.
For the guy on the other side of her during the game: I'm not sorry I "accidentally" spilled my beer on you and for the one who dared to address me on the way out of the Dome: I hope that shirt was ruined.
To my neighbor, the Minnesota Vikings fan: Dude, I don't know what happened to your lawn.