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Now, I’d never met Mike Ornstein before. I’d seen him around Dallas with Parcells. I just knew he did some stuff with Reebok, and he was handling Reggie’s marketing. I started with no presumptions about him either way.

Ornstein got right to the point.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “look. The Texans are gonna take Mario. Reggie does not want to play in New Orleans. He wants to be in a bigger market. This is not who you want to draft. You need to understand: This kid doesn’t want to come there.”

Ornstein had some crazy idea about a trade we might cobble together with the Jets and some other team. Somehow, he said, we’d be better off that way. He assured us we didn’t want a player who didn’t want to play for us.

I glanced at Mickey. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. I leaned closer to the speakerphone.

“Fuck you,” I said and hung up the phone.

Now, we were as surprised as anyone that we had a genuine crack at Reggie Bush. In all our predraft scenarios, that possibility had not been discussed much.

The weekend before the draft, Kenny Chesney was playing at the Cajundome in Lafayette. Beth and I, and Mickey and his fiancée, Melanie, drove out to see him. We talked draft possibilities there and back. Not a word about Reggie. On Wednesday, we drove to the Lower Ninth Ward for a Habitat for Humanity project. President Bush was there that day. “Who are you selecting?” he wanted to know. I told him we figured Houston was taking Reggie, and we still weren’t sure. Friday night, as the draft was getting started at Radio City Music Hall in New York, five of us went to dinner at Emeril’s.

That’s become an annual tradition for us before each college draft. Rick Reiprish, Rick Mueller, Russ Ball, Mickey and me—the college director, the pro director, the cap guy, the GM and the head coach. We weigh the players we’re looking at. We obsess over every imaginable choice. We line up our contingencies. But, really, the work has been done. The hay is in the barn.

As I sat down at the restaurant table, I knew something the others did not. Their BlackBerrys hadn’t lit up yet. Just before I’d come in, I’d gotten an early heads-up from a reliable NFL insider about Houston’s real intentions that night.

“Hey,” I said, as I pulled up my chair. “Texans aren’t takin’ Bush.”

“Aw, you’re nuts.” “You’re crazy.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m telling you, they’re not taking Bush,” I said.

The other four were all so sure of themselves, someone proposed a bet. Twenty dollars a man. I’d be out eighty dollars if Reggie went to Houston.

I knew this was the easiest eighty dollars I would ever make. I knew that, at that exact moment, Houston was in contract discussions with the Williams camp. But no one believed me until I got up to use the restroom and, I guess, the BlackBerrys began to buzz. I got back to the table. Sitting next to my water glass were four twenty-dollar bills.

That would cover my blackened redfish and wine.

We finished dinner and drove back to the Saints complex on Airline Drive. We were almost giddy from the possibility of Reggie as a Saint. Or was it that nice bottle of Caymus? Either way, we began to get our heads around the prospect of drafting Reggie Bush. What a great addition to the backfield! Reggie and popular Saints running back Deuce McAllister, a backfield one-two punch! Love him on special teams! And how excited the fans would be!

We parked our cars and headed up to Mickey’s office. We had our speakerphone call with Ornstein, our New York friend. A few minutes later, Mr. Benson came in. With the owner were his granddaughter, Rita Benson LeBlanc, and his grandson, Ryan LeBlanc. They were eager to analyze all the possibilities. There was some discussion of whether we should trade away the Reggie pick.

I remember saying very calmly, “If we don’t select this guy as the second pick of the draft, it’ll be the worst thing we’ve ever done as an organization.” By the end of the night, everyone was on board.

We had a huge tailgate party the next day in an open field near the facility on Airline Drive. Draft Day Fan Fest was sponsored by WWL Radio, the flagship station broadcasting Saints games, and the public was invited to come. There was a live band and free food. These were the hard-core Saints fans, a widely diverse mix of black and white, young and old, rich and poor and in between, a great cross-section of the region. In some cities the core NFL fan is a corporate suit with a hefty expense account. In New Orleans it’s some of them and a whole lot of families who come out for the beer and the food.

“We’re getting Reggie,” they kept telling each other excitedly.

“Can you believe it? We’re getting Reggie.”

I’d met many Saints fans since I’d come to New Orleans, but mostly in ones and small groups. They were everything I’d been told they’d be, even in these post-Katrina days. Warm. Friendly. Completely without pretense. Utterly loyal to their team. They certainly hadn’t gotten much encouragement over the years, not in the form of victories anyway. But this was my first experience seeing them in a larger number. What energy and enthusiasm they had! These were the people, year after year, who’d chosen to believe when Saints officials said: “Wait till next year”—and then after another disappointing season, chose to believe again: “Wait till next year.”

This was the “Who Dat Nation” I’d been hearing about.

“Who dat?” they chanted.

“Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints? Who dat?”

Were we finally going to give them something to cheer about?

Their exuberance, their patience and their love for one another were impossible not to feel. You could not meet these people—stand around and talk with them—without marveling for at least a moment how full of life they were, even this soon after Katrina.

“We pulled a fast one on the Texans,” one man told me, quite conspiratorially.

When I protested that the Texans were skipping Reggie all on their own, he smiled at me and winked. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll be our little secret.”

These are the kinds of people I like to conspire with! Finally, they were getting a Saints draft worth their excitement.

Between the first and second picks, the Jets did call. But the offer they were dangling wasn’t remotely enough. Within a minute of his saying “No, thank you” to the Jets, our selection was made. And when word reached Fan Fest, the band stopped playing and people began to cheer.

Whether he wanted to or not, Reggie was coming to New Orleans!

Acting on his own, Drew called Reggie that afternoon. Coming from San Diego, Reggie knew exactly who Drew was, and this call was critical. It was classic Drew Brees. He was a real team leader before he’d ever put on a Saints uniform. The call helped ease Reggie’s disappointment about New Orleans.

The PGA Tour happened to be in town that same weekend. It was one of the first big events that had come to New Orleans after the storm. So the city was crowded for a change. Reggie and his agents flew in on a private jet. We were taking them to dinner back at Emeril’s. I know it sounds like we went to Emeril’s a lot. But you have to understand it was one of the only restaurants at that time we knew would be crowded. Lots of places weren’t open yet. Because of the golf weekend, the restaurant was especially packed.

On the limo ride from Airline Drive to the restaurant, I remember thinking to myself: This was the antithesis of what Parcells would do with a first-round pick. “Never fly your first-round pick in early,” he once said. “Never drive him around in a limo. And never, ever put him in the presidential suite at the five-star Loews.”

We walked into the restaurant—Mickey, Reggie, the two agents and me. The crowd recognized Reggie immediately. All of a sudden, people in the restaurant were chanting: “Reggie! Reggie! Reggie!”

It was an amazing moment. It reminded me of the Muhammad Ali chants in the week leading up to the Joe Frazier fight. I was really quite moved. So was Reggie. Even Mike Ornstein had a beaming look on his face. Nobody was saying “Fuck you” anymore. The scene in the restaurant was so perfect, it almost seemed planned.

Shortly after we were seated, a woman came over and handed her daughter’s cell phone number to Reggie’s agent. “Would you give this to him?” she asked.

“You set this up?” Reggie asked me.

I had to tell him: “Really? You think the last twenty-four hours were spent staging your arrival? We had a draft to worry about.”

And I wanted to make something clear: “This is the last limo ride,” I told him. “The last fancy dinner, the last presidential suite. Save your shampoo from the Loews. We have to play some football. You’re at the Airport Hilton next week.”

Mike Ornstein loved hearing that. This was his language. He understood the rude awakening that awaited college stars as they entered the NFL. He’d seen it before.

And Reggie’s arrival turned out to be a real shot in the arm for the whole franchise, whatever hesitation there might have been at first. Brees was here. Now Reggie too. It brought excitement. It would soon bring ticket sales. There would be tangible, financial benefits. The city was a third smaller than it had been before the storm, and for the first time in Saints history, season tickets would sell out.

That was saying something at a time like this.

I could see the growing excitement over Drew and Reggie—and feel it—everywhere I went. People saying, “Thank you.” People saying, “It’s looking good.” People saying, “I know we’ve said this before, Coach, but this could be the year.”

One night, Beth and I were at a concert at the New Orleans Arena. We were waiting in the beer line when a gentleman came up to me and said, “I’m not back at work yet. But I just went and got four season tickets—two for my brother and his wife, two for my wife and me. I’m out of a job, but I’m not worried. We can’t wait to see your team play.”

Now, what would make someone who wasn’t working spend a couple of thousand dollars for a package of football tickets? It had to be more than a love for football. It was a sense that the team was coming back. There was real momentum. And this was the most important part: Supporting this team was a way of supporting this city. That’s how intertwined they were.

I felt so grateful to that man and to thousands of others like him. This was early in the suffering for so many people. They were deep in recovery. Huge sacrifices were taking place. You knew the money for these season tickets didn’t come easily. You can’t take that lightly when you look at how someone chooses to spend entertainment dollars.

There are not many teams in any sport that can point to such a spike in support. And it came at an impossible time for the region.

It started with Drew Brees and Reggie Bush.

In the time since then, Mike Ornstein and I have become good friends. He has represented me in some of my business dealings. I’ve come to understand that he is not someone easily offended by casual language. Actually, those words are like “Good morning” to Mike. Just a regular conversation. No big deal. He told me later that he had passed along my speakerphone message to Reggie, softening it only a bit.

“These guys are gonna draft you,” he told his client. “Get over it.”

To his credit, despite whatever misgivings he might have had about New Orleans, Reggie was gracious from the start. I tried to be mindful, of course, about what had gone on, what was said in New York. Reggie was just twenty-one. He was a junior coming out of college. Those players at the top of the draft—they’re pulled in so many directions. I’m sure he felt disappointment at the uncertainty of New Orleans and playing for a first-year coach. Same as I felt disappointment about not going to Green Bay and Drew felt disappointment about missing the Miami sun.

All of us had reservations, and all of us were here.

There was some lingering concern about how Reggie and Deuce McAllister would complement each other, concern on both their parts, I think. I sat down with Deuce and told him Reggie’s arrival wasn’t going to impact his role negatively. I said, “Let me as the head coach figure out how to use you guys in a plan. Trust me. There will be plenty of snaps for both of you, plenty of offense for both backs—both uniquely different.”

Both the new guys, Reggie and Drew, immediately embedded themselves in the community. Even before they came to practice, they made themselves impossible not to like. They helped raise money for rebuilding groups. They turned up at media events. Both set up their own charitable foundations. And the team was gaining momentum too.

That first draft was very successful for us. It produced Roman Harper, Marques Colston, Jahri Evans—several key starters on our Super Bowl team.

More important, it showed me that my early intuition about our general manager, Mickey Loomis, was turning out to be right. He was exactly who I’d thought he was when I first interviewed with him. He was calm and organized and a good decision maker. He had none of the ego that is so prevalent in our league. He had a unique way of moving all parties to a good decision without grabbing credit. He was the quiet man in the corner who is somehow behind every good idea. He was just as excited as I was about Reggie and Drew.

In the next four years, this Payton-Loomis relationship was going to flourish.

THE NFL HAS STRICT
rules about how and when a team can practice in the off-season. There are calendars and dates, and even some special exceptions for a team that has a new head coach. From the moment we went to work in New Orleans, our attitude was “We have so much to do here. Let’s get started now.” We knew we’d be making extraordinary demands on the players. We knew—and they discovered quickly—that they had never worked so hard in their lives. We all knew that crafting this team into winners would be very, very difficult. We were talking about turning around an organization that for decades seemed to have tried not to win.