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Um...Who Dat!?

Dad graciously hosted the superbowl. Very interesting to see my parents so fervant about sports. Fervant about food, too, but that's not new. The fiance and I came with about four loads of laundry.

The first half of the game was quiet. We didn't say much as we ate hot wings and jambalaya. Step-mom was on the floor while fiance applied accupressure for her pregnant growing pains. In 3 months, I'll have another baby brother.

I was out back in the laundry room when I heard my dad screaming his head off. The Saints had just intercepted and turned the game around. In a way I was more relieved than excited.When I came in with our fresh load, I found our Who Dat shirts and we put them on. Dad already had his Reggie Bush jersey on.

I like being a football fan, but I don't really like football. It takes me awhile to get into a game. Being a Saints fan in New Orleans is like becoming part of a Sangha...and on game, there's not a place in town where you don't have a friend. This team spirit trancends race, class, religion- all for a bunch of grown men chasing each other around.

Even Zen teacher's aren't immune. At the end of our mundo session on Sunday, Robert (who has been known to disaper from temple functions in search of a TV for the Saints) intructed us to press our heads to the sky, our feet to the ground, and deep in our hara, root for 'dem saints.

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