It’s time for the Saints to go marching in;
Singing My Mama’s Praise!

Payton’s Place
It’s time for the Saints to go marching in

It’s Payton’s place and time to win.
Sean’s Saints have earned their wings.
They’ve proved their faith through grit and grace.
They each deserve a ring.

The Big Easy fought so very hard
to stem Katrina’s scorn.
They improvised and played it cool
much like Pete Fountain’s horn.

When tackled they lined up again.
This town refused to punt.
They persevered converting downs
with blood, sweat, tears and grunts.

It seems to me that ravaged town’s
entitled to a win.
There’d be poetic justice
if “the Saints go marching in.”

Another Peyton will protest
and try to end their dream
(despite the fact his dad once lived
and played in New Orleans).

But Peyton’s protests will subside
come Sunday after dark.
His Colts won’t buck as in years past.
Their bite won’t match their bark.

* One of the reasons I’m pulling for the New Orleans Saints is because Sean Payton, their head coach, graduated from Naperville Central High School in Naperville, IL. That is where my two oldest daughters earned their diploma.

Singing My Mama’s Praise!
Why I love the mother-of-all bowl games

The football game of football games
will be played this weekend.
Gentlemen (and ladies)
start your junk food intake engines.
We’re on track for a memorable day.
Our hearts start to race just thinking about it.
It’s Super Bowl Sunday.

The Super Bowl is not
the granddaddy of all bowl games.
That title is already taken.
The Rose Bowl played each New Years Day
was so crowned decades ago.

But, the Super Bowl can claim
undisputed rights to being
the mother-of-all bowl games.
And what a mom she is.

Having set the family table
with a certain flair,
she guarantees us a feast for the eyes.
It’s a seven-course meal.
From pre-game appetizers
to post-game desserts.

But what Mama cooks up
is more than just football.
Mother knows best
when it comes to commercials.

Those Super Bowl ads are so funny
they can make us dads
laugh to the point of tears.
For crying out loud,
what those sixty-second spots yield
are often more fun
than the sixty minutes on the field.

Mother has a way
of getting our family and friends together
as we spend four hours
in front of the flat screen
rounding out our less-than-flat tummies
munching on our favorite snacks.

Six-packs of pop.
Buckets of beer.
Chips and dip.
Popcorn, peanuts, Crackerjacks.
But even if a brat is all I’ve got,
I’m singing my mama’s praise.