I believe that every person – even a trivial and girly person like myself – is entitled to his or her Glorious Sports Moment.

Sunday’s winning game in the Saints’ otherwise losing streak harkens back to last fall’s season, which culminated in my own Glorious Sports Moment. I’m not at all in to football (or any sport), but I admittedly jumped on the fan bandwagon during that miracle season – mostly because it justified downing pitchers of Abita on Sunday afternoons at Bruno’s. I loved being a fairweather fan.

This is why one night I willfully tagged along with my friend to pick up her boyfriend, who was watching the pivotal playoff game against the Eagles at the Superdome. She put on her black and gold, I put on my T-shirt displaying a post-Katrina message of hope (“There’s NOLA Place Like Home”), and we were off.

We realized from the Silo cups and empty beer cans that covered the ground that the parties were long gone. The only celebration happening was a viewing party on Poydras Street, which seemed to be serving mainly the homeless contingent. We continued walking – until our miracle moment.

An intoxicated couple wobbled toward us, both wearing Saints regalia and slurring “Who Dat.” Drunk Man was a typical New Orleans character.

“I spent $400 on these tickets, and all he wants to do is go to the bar,” his wife said.

Then, out of drunken indiscretion, Drunk Man did something unexpected: he gave us their tickets. “Just see if you can get in.”

We had resigned to an evening of walking, but we now had a mission – we were getting into that game. We figured this pair of crumpled up tickets would grant us entrance, but it wasn’t that easy. Apparently, if you leave the Dome, you can’t go back in. We presented impassioned pleas to almost every Superdome employee, claiming we were misinformed about this no-exit policy – but no luck. Our $400 tickets for this monumental game were now useless, simply because we walked outside to smoke a cigarette (neither of us smoke).

Defeated, we sat on a bench and wallowed in our failure. But then we noticed workers removing the barricades that blocked the entrance. After a few backs turned, we seized the moment and walked briskly into the Dome just in time for the final touchdown.

It was my “Field of Dreams”-esque Glorious Sports Moment, complete with a big stadium, bright lights and cheering, face-painted fans. I would go back to my trite lifestyle of clothing and reality TV soon after, but in that moment I was a sports fan. It was a moment akin to the Saints’ winning streak – brief, uncharacteristic and slightly miraculous. It proved that everybody, even silly girls and historically awful football teams, are entitled to their Glorious Sports Moment.