Five days before the Saints' dramatic, 23-20 season-opening win at Carolina, Michael Lewis sat in his new home: a small room on the 14th floor of a San Antonio hotel. It was cluttered with what he had been able to grab before Katrina hit. Clothes were strewn on the floor. A stack of CDs claimed one corner, DVDs another. A loaf of white bread was crammed next to the TV. On the nightstand sat Lewis' playbook, buried under eight Renters Guide magazines.
Lewis, who grew up just a few punts away from the Saints' practice facility in Metairie, is the team's only native New Orleanian. His story is pure Big Easy legend. In 2000, he was driving a beer delivery truck and moonlighting as a waterbug kick returner in the Arena League, when a chance tryout with the Saints changed his life. Two years later, he's a Pro Bowler; a year after that he's named the Saints' Man of the Year for community service. He told us what it was like to watch his hometown disappear.
My sister got married the day before the storm hit. I gave her away. The church was in Kenner, west of the city, near where I grew up. Our whole family and most of the neighborhood were there. That's how we do it. Cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, grandparents, neighbors-everybody eating, dancing and carrying on. No one said a word about the hurricane all night. Then the reception wound down and news came in about the storm, and you could see everyone realize the same thing at the same time: it's coming right for us.
People started to leave right away. I got a phone call from the Saints telling me to get my family out of town and be prepared to evacuate with the team at noon the next day. I got everyone out except my grandparents, Willie D. and Eva Lewis. In our neighborhood, people call their place the White House. It's the center of everything. There are always people cooking in the kitchen, old men rocking on the porch, young guys fixing cars out back and everyone's kids playing in the living room. They're the rock of our family and the neighborhood. They weren't moving.
The team flew to San Jose to get ready for the Raiders, and I talked to my grandparents one more time before the storm hit. It was real windy in the background, and my grandpa said, "Don't worry. Concentrate on what you're doing." We had practice, and I remember running plays, but he and my grandma were all I thought about.
I went the next two days not knowing if they'd made it. That gnaws at you; each hour that goes by kills you a little bit. It's the kind of thing you really think will drive you crazy. I wondered what I'd do if they died. Finally, on Wednesday, I heard from them. A corner of their roof was torn off and they had some flooding, but they were okay.
Everyone on the team was glued to the TV. I always kept mine on, even at night so I could listen while I slept. I'd hear my wife, Danielle, crying, and I'd wake up and walk to the screen and stare. I can't shake those pictures. "My city," I repeated, "My city is underwater. My city is … gone."
At times, I felt proud of New Orleans. I do love the place. But when I saw the looters, I felt angry, and sad, too. I saw people on that overpass, or wading through water, suffering alone, and I felt for them, because I'd been there. You understand? I was one of them. That could have been me. It's been only five years since I drove a truck through those same streets, and past those same people. I could picture myself with them, a working stiff, 9-to-5 every day, trying to make ends meet. Doing everything right. And then you realize you're dying and no one is in that big a rush to save you. That was the look on their faces. Did you see it?
The water will dry. But that, that tore me up.
Guys didn't want to play the Raiders game. But the league made us. Afterward, the team got to San Antonio at 5:45 a.m. Then I left to fly home. A friend met me, Donte' Stallworth and Aaron Stecker in Baton Rouge and drove us to the facility. The car was silent the whole way, except for when we said, "Whoa" or "Oh, my god." There was such emptiness, like we'd landed on the wrong planet. Everything was something you'd never seen. Houses on their sides. Trees looking like they'd been replanted upside down. It was a ghost town. FEMA was using our facility, so there were trucks and helicopters and soldiers everywhere.
My house was fine. When I got to my grandparents' house, though, everything changed for me. They were surrounded by people. Some were cleaning, others were laughing and lifting their spirits. Others came over to me and said, "Don't worry, we got 'em, we'll take care of them. We'll make sure no one messes with them." My grandparents never said no to anyone, so when they needed it, people were there for them. That's New Orleans, people taking care of their own. That's why this city will come back. It's the people like my grandparents who make New Orleans, not the buildings.
Now I know it's gonna get worse before it gets better. No one is ready for what they'll find when the water's gone. No one. People with lost loved ones are suffering. We're all mourning that we don't have a place to call home. People are living in an I-don't-know world. Where will I live? I don't know. Where will I work? I don't know. Where will I put my family? I don't know. Where will my kids go to school? I don't know. Where will we practice or lift or watch film or get treatment? I don't know. Where will this team be playing next week, next month, next season? I don't know anything. And I'm exhausted by it.
When we got back to San Antonio after a few days off, some guys were thinking about their problems. But others said, "Don't talk about your hassles. Most people have nothing. We're sleeping in good beds. They're not." Honestly, playing is a relief for us.
But for a guy like me, it's about relief on a family level. Everyone back home needs me more than ever. I may be tired, confused, drained, but if I don't play my best, I could get cut. Then what would all those people do? Football is the easiest thing in the world. I got a roof to fix, you know?
After we started to visit the evacuee shelters, you didn't hear another word of complaint from us. People with their entire life in a garbage bag were lifting us up. They were begging us to put it together, to bring sunshine in the darkness. You can give with your wallet, but these people need more. Some hope. We have to be great.
Katrina left us no choice.